“Oh, sir, sir, she’s not dead, not drowned!” screamed Alice.
“She is not drowned. She struck her head and the back of her neck against the side. It was all over before she touched the bottom.”
He added a few technical words to explain his meaning, and Arthur understood and knew that it was true.
“Yes, she is dead,” he said, and the tone was as quiet, far quieter than the doctor’s own. He stood up, put Hugh aside, and took her in his arms again.
“Will you get into that boat, Alice?” he said, pointing to one moored at the side.
Awe-struck and sobbing, Alice obeyed.
“Sit down in the stern,” he said.
And then he laid Mysie down with her head once more on Alice’s lap, unmoored the boat, and, with quick, vigorous strokes, rowed down towards Redhurst; rowed past the meadows and the copses, as once before he had rowed his love in the same bright evening sunlight, under the same blue sky, and had talked of the future. Now the boat went on, the girl’s long fair hair dancing and waving, but her face all white and tear-stained; Arthur bare-headed, his eyes fixed far away and his lips set; and the white motionless figure, with Alice’s little handkerchief over the face, between them. Those who followed them on the bank said that it was the most awful sight their eyes had ever seen—all the more awful in that it was in a way picturesque and beautiful.
Arthur stopped at the landing. He fastened up the boat and once more lifted up his burden.
“Mr Arthur, you’ll want help,” cried Wood.