“How did you hear about it?”
“Through Parker, a fellow in our regiment whose brother is attaché at Berlin; the story made a sensation there, but no one knew of it until De Winton had left.”
The speakers passed on to the end of the veranda, and Franceline could catch nothing more until they drew near again. Lord Roxham was speaking.
“Poor fellow! It’s tremendously hard on him, and I believe there is no redress; nothing to make out a case for divorce.”
“I fancy not; but even if there were it would not be available, since he’s a Romanist.”
“Ah! to be sure; I forgot that; but what a mystification the whole business is! I’ve known De Winton since we were both boys—we were Eton chums, you know—but he never breathed a word of it to me. Yet he’s not a close fellow; quite the contrary. And who the deuce is the woman? Where did he come across her?”
They passed out of hearing again, and when they returned the tramping of horses and the crunching of wheels overtopped their voices. The sounds all died away; Lady Anwyll had come in, and gone to her room—every one was waiting in the drawing-room, but Franceline did not appear. Her hostess, thinking she had not heard the dinner-bell, sent for her. Presently the maid came rushing down the stairs and into the forbidden precincts of the drawing-room with a scared face.
“Please, my lady, she’s in a dead faint! I found her all in a heap on the floor, ready dressed. I lifted her on to the bed, but she don’t move!”
An exclamation burst simultaneously from the three listeners. In a moment they were all in Franceline’s room; there she lay stretched on the bed, as the woman had said, white and still as death, one hand hanging, and her hair, that had been loosened in the fall, dropping on her shoulder. The usual restoratives were applied, and in about a quarter of an hour she gave signs of awakening—the veined lids quivered, the mouth twitched convulsively, and a short sigh escaped her. Lady Anwyll signed to her son and Lord Roxham to withdraw; they had scarcely left the room when Franceline opened her eyes and stared about her with the blank gaze of returning consciousness. She swallowed some wine at Lady Anwyll’s request, but soon put the glass away with a gesture of disgust. In answer to her hostess’ anxious entreaties to say where she suffered, and why she had swooned, the young girl could only say she had felt tired and weary, and that she longed to be left alone and go to sleep. Lady Anwyll agreed that sleep would be the best restorative, and insisted on staying till she saw her settled in bed; then she kissed her, and promising to come soon and see if she was asleep, she left the room with a noiseless step.
“What is it? Is there anything much amiss, mother?” was the captain’s exclamation. Lord Roxham was equally concerned.