“I daren’t go in and tell my wife,” went on Mr. Vissian, in a hoarse whisper. “I must go up to the house at once.”
“I must come with you.”
“Do, that’s a good fellow. Let me—let me lean on your arm. Pooh! I must have more self-control than this. It came like a stunning blow on the head; I all—all but dropped!”
Tears were streaming down his cheeks his voice choked. Kingcote felt his arm quiver.
“I can’t believe it! I wont believe it!” the rector pursued, crying like a child at last. “An accident, but not killed—great Heaven, no! I never had such a ghastly shock in my life. One moment, Kingcote; I am ashamed to pass the lodge like this. I never thought I should be so weak. But if it were my own wife I scarcely could feel it more. I pray to Almighty God that it may be a mistake!”
The lodge was vacant.
“They’re up at the house,” said Mr.. Vissian, under his breath. “Oh, that looks bad! That dear, dear lady—it cannot be, Kingcote!”
Kingcote walked on in perfect silence, his looks on the ground, no muscle of his face moving. He did not seem to hear his companion’s talk. It was just beginning to rain; drops pattered on the dead leaves which lay about the grass. Kingcote heard the sound; he could never afterwards hear it without the return of this hour in terrible vividness. The air seemed stifling; perspiration came out on him as he walked. At length the rector had ceased to speak. The drive grew moist, and rain splashed upon it; on the dead leaves the rain still pattered.
As they were entering the garden they met the porter on his way back to the lodge.
“What has happened?” Mr. Vissian asked, catching his arm and waiting with dread for an answer. “An accident; a bad accident?”