No one in Waynflete but Constancy could have uttered that call, and Florella answered it with another, then flew down the path towards the bridge, just as a man ran down the field from the opposite side. She saw this man plunge into the water, and fight his way towards the ruin of the bridge. Then in the dusk she saw him reach another figure staggering under a weight. Slowly and with difficulty they reached the shore, and laid their heavy burden down.
“Eh!” cried the new-comer; “Eh—Lord a’ mercy on us. Eh! It’s Mr Guy, drooned dead!”
Then Florella knew of what she had been afraid.
She could never clearly recall what next happened. The news of the catastrophe suddenly spread, so that, as it seemed, a crowd came up. Constancy’s clear voice, self-possessed and resolute, sounded through the confusion.
“He had better be carried to the Hall; it is much nearer than the Vicarage, and I will run on and make ready.”
Rougher tones close by, as some one shook poor Jem by the shoulder.
“Coom, man, coom; coom till mither. Nay, tha bain’t droonded yet.”
Then Constancy again, as she went away.
“Flo, you had better run on first, and prepare the poor old woman.”
They had lifted Guy up, and were carrying him away, and the fleet-footed Constancy was far ahead, before her words had penetrated Florella’s brain. Then she climbed up the hill to the cottage, where she found neighbours gathering, and close behind her came Jem, hauled along by a friend, dripping and scared, but alive, and able to swallow, as a friendly neighbour poured hot drink down his throat.