I had spoken with my eyes upon the garden outside the window, but now I looked at her, to see that she was trembling in every limb,—trembling so that I thought she would fall. I hastened to her. “The roses,” she said,—“the roses are too heavy. Oh, I am tired—and the room goes round.”
I caught her as she fell, and laid her gently upon the floor. There was water on the table, and I dashed some in her face and moistened her lips; then turned to the door to get woman's help, and ran against Diccon.
“I got that bag of bones here at last, sir,” he began. “If ever I”—His eyes traveled past me, and he broke off.
“Don't stand there staring,” I ordered. “Go bring the first woman you meet.”
“Is she dead?” he asked under his breath. “Have you killed her?”
“Killed her, fool!” I cried. “Have you never seen a woman swoon?”
“She looks like death,” he muttered. “I thought”—
“You thought!” I exclaimed. “You have too many thoughts. Begone, and call for help!”
“Here is Angela,” he said sullenly and without offering to move, as, light of foot, soft of voice, ox-eyed and docile, the black woman entered the room. When I saw her upon her knees beside the motionless figure, the head pillowed on her arm, her hand busy with the fastenings about throat and bosom, her dark face as womanly tender as any English mother's bending over her nursling; and when I saw my wife, with a little moan, creep further into the encircling arms, I was satisfied.
“Come away!” I said, and, followed by Diccon, went out and shut the door.