“Yes, sir; a bad fall,” the man replied.
“She is alive?”
“Thank God, sir, it’s not so bad as that.”
He went on to explain that the horse had breasted a fence and rolled over, inflicting grave injuries upon its rider. The accident had occurred not three miles away. Mrs. Clarendon had first been removed to a cottage, then brought home by carriage as soon as she recovered consciousness. Mrs. Stratton was with her. The doctor had just arrived, and another from London had been telegraphed for.
“I think I’ll go in and hear the doctor’s report,” Mr. Vissian said.
“May I wait for you at the rectory?” asked Kingcote.
“Yes; but I beg of you, not a word to my wife; unless, of course, some one has spread the news; not a word else, Kingcote. You don’t know the effect it will have upon her. I beg you to be cautious.”
Kingcote retraced his steps through the rain. Overtaking the porter, he got such further details as the man could furnish. Then he went on to the rectory. Mrs. Vissian had heard nothing. He entered the study and awaited the rector’s arrival.
The three sat together through the evening. Even in its modified form, the news was bad enough. Mr. Vissian softened it a little in telling his wife. She, good-hearted creature, shed many tears. Percy, when he heard what had happened, said nothing; but his imagination evidently became very busy; he sat on the hearth-rug before the fire, till at length a question shaped itself.
“Has Mrs. Clarendon hurt her face?” he asked.