“No fear of that. My Dobbin can go much faster than their big horses. But I see you don’t want me, so good-bye.”
She turned her pony’s head as she spoke, jumped the ditch at the side of the road, and flew after them along the grass like a swallow. I likewise roused my horse and went off at a hard trot, with the vain impulse so to shake off the tormenting thoughts that crowded on me like gadflies. But this day was to be one of more trial still.
As I turned a corner, almost into the street of the village, Tom Weir was at my side. He had evidently been watching for me. His face was so pale, that I saw in a moment something had happened.
“What is the matter, Tom?” I asked, in some alarm.
He did not reply for a moment, but kept unconsciously stroking my horse’s neck, and staring at me “with wide blue eyes.”
“Come, Tom,” I repeated, “tell me what is the matter.”
I could see his bare throat knot and relax, like the motion of a serpent, before he could utter the words.
“Kate has killed her little boy, sir.”
He followed them with a stifled cry—almost a scream, and hid his face in his hands.
“God forbid!” I exclaimed, and struck my heels in my horse’s sides, nearly overturning poor Tom in my haste.