"Falser than all fancy fathoms,
Falser than all songs have sung,"
was the thought in his heart as he looked down on the pale and lifeless face.
People crowded around, with advice and restoratives, and as she came back slowly to life they asked her what had caused her to faint. Was she ill, were the flowers too overpowering, were the rooms too warm?
"I struck my head against the jardiniere and fell," was all she would say as she hid her pale face in her hands to shut out the sight of the cold, calm eyes that looked down upon her with veiled scorn.
Colonel Carlyle revived sufficiently to lead her away to her room, and people told each other that an accident had happened to Mrs. Carlyle. She had struck her head against the jardiniere of flowers and fainted from the pain.
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
Colonel Carlyle would fain have lingered in Bonnibel's apartment and asked for some explanation of her fainting spell, which he was convinced was the result of her meeting with the artist, although her simple assertion of striking her head against the jardiniere had deceived all others except himself, as it might have deceived him but for the warning of the masked sibyl.
But it was quite true that she had hurt her head, and when the faithful Lucy parted the thick locks and began to dress the slight wound, her young mistress turned so ghastly pale and closed her eyes so wearily that the jealous old man saw that it was no fitting time for recrimination, and went away to attend to his guests, half-resolved to have it out with the artist himself.
But calmer thoughts stepped in and forbade this indulgence of his spleen. After all, what could he say to the young man? What did he know wherewith to accuse him? His anonymous informant had only said that his wife and the artist had been former lovers. What, then? How the gay world would have laughed if he picked a quarrel with the lion of the hour on such a charge as that.