"We shall make a Pagan of you yet, old fellow. Good-bye, good-bye." And Griff, with many final handshakes, was off across the moor to Gorsthwaite, running hard in his anxiety to hear the latest news of Kate.
The doctor was coming down the stairs as Griff opened the front door.
"Well?" he cried, forgetting altogether, in his eagerness, to regulate his voice properly.
The old doctor had been present at such scenes often enough, but he had never felt an equal desire to turn tail and give necessity the slip. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose; then he fidgeted with the buttons of his rough tweed coat—thinking all the while that it would have been a trifle easier in the telling if he had had the pluck to give Griff a plainer hint months ago. Finally, he looked up with a kind of desperation in his eyes.
"Your wife is dead," he answered, in a harsh, grating voice.
Griff put his hand to his forehead and stood there for a moment; the blood rushed to his face, and ebbed away again, as quickly as if some one had struck him.
"Wait a moment, doctor," he said, after a while; "do you know just what that means? You ought to be very sure——"
"She is dead, Griff; I'm not going to lie to you."
Not a word said Griff, but set his feet on the stairs, and began to mount them slowly. The doctor followed, put a hand on his shoulder, and led him down again to the hall.
"Not just yet, lad. When people die in great pain, it is not good to—can you understand me?—I want you to say good-bye to a calm face, Griff."