"Clear of the——?"
"Yes, thank God—but she came down with an awful—an awful thud. I ran up as quick as I could. She was unconscious. A couple of labourers helped me to take her home, and I got Mumples; and on my way here I stopped at Gardiner's and sent him there, and came on to tell you."
By now they were getting into the dog-cart.
"Do you know at all how bad it is?" asked Grantley.
"Not the least. How should I?"
"Well, we must get home as quick as we can."
Grantley did not speak again the whole way. His mind had been full of plans that morning. His position as a man of land at Milldean was opening new prospects to him. He had agreed to come forward for election as a county alderman; he had been sounded as to contesting the seat for the Division. He had been very full of these notions, and had meant to spend two or three quiet days in reviewing and considering them. This sudden shock was hard to face and realise. It was difficult, too, to conceive of anything being wrong with Sibylla—always so fine an embodiment of physical health and vigour. He felt very helpless and in terrible distress; it turned him sick to think of the "awful thud" that Jeremy described. What would that mean? What was the least it might, the most it could, mean?
"You don't blame me?" Jeremy asked as they came near home.
"You advised her not to ride the beast: what more could you do? You couldn't stop her by force."
He spoke rather bitterly, as though sorrow and fear had not banished anger when he thought of his wife and her wilfulness.