Mr Crampton turned to the doctor, and muttered in a croaking voice, ‘Tell him.’
‘I have the misfortune to be the bearer of very bad news to Mr and Mrs Crampton, sir,’ said Dr M‘Coll, in obedience to his instructions. ‘Their daughter, Mrs Walcheren, met with a terrible accident on the Dover cliffs yesterday afternoon, and is, in fact—has not recovered the injuries inflicted—is lying at this moment—dead!’
Henry Hindes’ face went crimson instead of pale.
‘Dead, sir!’ he ejaculated slowly, as if he were choosing his words, ‘are you sure she is dead? An accident? How can you tell it was an accident? Might not someone have done it on purpose—have pushed her over?’
Then he paused, as if he thought he had been talking too fast, and repeated his first question: ‘But are you sure that she will not recover? She is very young, you know,’ after which, perceiving the grief of all around him, he broke down, exclaiming, ‘Oh! Jenny dead! Impossible! Impossible! Why, I went to see her only yesterday! She can’t be dead! my dear, dear friend!’ seizing old Crampton’s hand; ‘don’t give way! It is impossible!’
‘You are only buoying this gentleman up with false hopes, sir,’ said Dr M‘Coll. ‘There is no doubt of the truth of the news, distressing as it may be, and I am commissioned by Mr Walcheren to break it to all whom it may concern. As to your suggestion that it may be due to foul play, there is nothing whatever to point to it, but it will cause the subject of the inquiry at the inquest to-morrow. Your presence will, of course, be necessary, also Mr Crampton’s. I understand, as you say yourself, that you went down to Dover yesterday to see the unfortunate lady, so that your testimony may be valuable to the coroner, and the marriage having been, I am told, a little irregular, there is the more necessity that everything should be made perfectly clear.’
‘An inquest!’ stammered Hindes. ‘But surely there is no need of our undergoing such a painful ordeal? Why, it will nearly kill Mr Crampton. My dear friend, you must not think of attending it.’
‘Not go?’ cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from the lethargy into which he had temporarily fallen. ‘What are you saying, Hindes? Of course we must go. Don’t you see how this has come about? That villain has murdered her; he stole her from me first, and then he killed her. Who else would have pushed her over the cliff? My poor butchered lamb! my pretty Jenny! my beautiful, innocent daughter! Oh! but we will be avenged on him, never fear; we’ll see him brought to justice and give a hand to set him swinging. My poor child! my murdered darling! I can see how the whole damnable trick was done!’
‘You must not heed what he says,’ whispered the doctor to Henry Hindes, ‘the shock has been too much for him, though I broke it as gently as I could. You must get him to bed and give him a sleeping draught, but don’t listen to any nonsense he may talk. There never was a clearer case of misadventure. The poor girl went out on the cliffs alone and fell over them. The coroner can bring in no other verdict.’
‘But why, then, need we attend?’ asked Hindes, with quivering lips; ‘it will be a fearful trial for all of us. What do we need more than your assurance of the calamity that has befallen?’