“No,” said Arthur, “she is very light. Go first, Mr Dickenson, and tell them.”
But, as he said “and tell them,” a sort of quiver came over his face, and he faltered for a moment.
“Keep close to him,” said the doctor, “I’ll go on. But where’s Mr Crichton?”
“He may have gone ahead, sir, to break the news first.”
This seemed very probable; but, in case it had not been so, Mr Dickenson hastened on across the meadow, up the shrubbery, and into the garden. No messenger of evil tidings could have forestalled him in his cruel task of breaking up that happy summer peace. Mr Crichton sat restfully on the terrace, watching for the arrival of Mr and Mrs Harcourt. James, on the step below her, was smoking, stroking his long, brown beard, and discoursing dreamily. Frederica, in her white muslin and red ribbons, was teasing Snap. Mysie’s doves, at a safe distance from Snap, were cooing on the grass; the great peacock strutting along in the background.
“Mr James Crichton!” said Mr Dickenson, stopping short of the terrace, with a glance that brought James to his side in a moment.
“What’s the matter?”
“Mr James, Miss Crofton has met with an accident. She has fallen into the water, and Mr Arthur is bringing her home. You had better get the ladies into the house.”
But, as he spoke, up from the sunny meadows came Arthur, with Mysie in his arms, closely followed by Alice Wood, now sobbing and clinging to her father’s coat. James gave one look, and saw that Mysie’s face was covered.
“Mamma! there’s an accident! Come in. Come in.” But Mrs Crichton had started up with a shriek and rushed down the path.