“T’ owd gen’leman’d a thrawed me in t’ watter, but Mr Guy thrawed ’un in instead, and t’ brig smashed,” was his story.
“Eh, eh!” said Peggy; “he’s got ’is death, and Mr Guy, too. Eh! they can baith lig in t’ new kirkyard, and me alongside on ’em.”
There was nothing for Florella to do, and she fled from this grotesque presentment of the mystic horror that haunted her. As she came up to the Hall, the doctor tore past her in his gig, having happily been caught close at hand. Guy had been carried upstairs, and Mrs John Palmer, flurried, but full of kindness, was saying—
“Oh yes, Cosy; yes, you were quite right, my dear. So much more appropriate that he should die under this roof.”
Florella came in, and sat down in the lamp-lit drawing-room.
“Is he dead?” she said, in a slow, dull voice.
“They don’t know,” said Constancy. “We’d better see that they have plenty of hot blankets, and what’s wanted.”
She went off to the kitchen; but Florella sat, stupid and helpless, it seemed to her, for hours.
Then there were voices in the hall, and then the sound of the gig driving off at full speed. Still Florella never moved, till Mrs Palmer came in.
“The vicar’s gone in the gig to get dry things for Godfrey; he won’t leave his brother.”