The surgeon carried Midwinter to the sofa, and ordered the windows to be opened. “It is a fainting fit,” he said; “nothing more.”
At that answer her strength failed her for the first time. She drew a deep breath of relief, and leaned on the chimney-piece for support. Mr. Bashwood was the only person present who noticed that she was overcome. He led her to the opposite end of the room, where there was an easy-chair, leaving the landlady to hand the restoratives to the surgeon as they were wanted.
“Are you going to wait here till he recovers?” whispered the steward, looking toward the sofa, and trembling as he looked.
The question forced her to a sense of her position—to a knowledge of the merciless necessities which that position now forced her to confront. With a heavy sigh she looked toward the sofa, considered with herself for a moment, and answered Mr. Bashwood’s inquiry by a question on her side.
“Is the cab that brought you here from the railway still at the door?”
“Yes.”
“Drive at once to the gates of the Sanitarium, and wait there till I join you.”
Mr. Bashwood hesitated. She lifted her eyes to his, and, with a look, sent him out of the room.
“The gentleman is coming to, ma’am,” said the landlady, as the steward closed the door. “He has just breathed again.”
She bowed in mute reply, rose, and considered with herself once more—looked toward the sofa for the second time—then passed through the folding-doors into her own room.