"What is the matter with him, Hewitt? Do you know?"
"It was one of those dreadful fainting-fits, sir. But they could not get him out of it, and for some time thought he was really dead. Mrs. Grey was nearly beside herself, Ann said, and insisted on having a doctor. He is better now, sir," added Hewitt, "and I think there's no need for you to go over unless you particularly wish. I went strolling about the road, thinking I might hear or see something more, and when Ann Hopley came to the gate to answer a ring, she told me he was quite himself again but still in bed. It was the pain made him faint."
"I cannot think what the pain is," murmured Karl. "Has the doctor been?"
"I don't think he has yet, Sir Karl."
Karl lifted his hat to rub his aching brow. He saw his wife sitting under one of the trees, and went forward to join her. The wan, weary look on her face, growing more wan, more weary, day by day, struck on him particularly in the waning light of the afternoon.
"Do you do well to sit here, Lucy?" he asked, as he flung himself beside her, in utter weariness.
"Why should I not sit here?"
"I fancy the dew must be already rising."
"It will not hurt me. And if it did--what would it matter?"
The half reproaching, half indifferent accent in which it was uttered, served to try him. He knew what the words implied--that existence had, through him, become a burden to her. His nerves were strung already to their utmost tension; the trouble at his heart was pressing him sore.