In truth, I heard that, even as she spoke. Three times three it struck out, followed by the sharp, quick strokes.
“That’s the passing-bell!” exclaimed Cattledon, coming quickly from the hall with the little packet in her hand. “Who can be dead? It hardly rings out once in a year.”
For, it appeared, the bell at St. Matthew’s did not in general toll for the dead: was not expected to do so. Our bell at Church Dykely rang for any one who could pay for it.
Waiting there on the steps, we saw Mr. Lake coming from the direction of the church. Miss Deveen walked down the broad path of her small front-garden, and stood at the gate to wait for him.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Oh, it is a grievous thing!” he cried, in answer, his gentle face pale, his blue eyes suppressing their tears. “It is no other than my dear Rector; my many years’ friend!”
“The Rector!” gasped Miss Deveen.
“Indeed it is. The complaint he suffered from has increased its symptoms lately, but no one thought of attaching to them the slightest danger. At two o’clock to-day he sent for me, saying he felt very ill. I found him so when I got there; ill, and troubled. He had taken a turn for the worse; and death—death,” added Mr. Lake, pausing to command his voice, “was coming on rapidly.”
Miss Deveen had turned as white as her point-lace collar.