“Hear, O Lord,” Phemie added, and her tears fell hot and fast. “Hear and pity, and enable him to bear this trouble Thou hast laid upon him.”
“Who will tell Basil?” she marvelled, as she rose from the ground—“who?” And she wished her uncle were with her, feeling that he perhaps might have been the best bearer of bad tidings possible to find under the circumstances.
“I can telegraph for him at any rate,” she considered, and the idea gave her immediate relief.
He would advise and assist. There were a dozen things he could see to, and his presence would be a restraint—a man’s presence always was.
Phemie decided to send for him, and half-an-hour afterwards one of the Marshland servants was galloping to Disley in order to despatch her telegram.
He had not been gone ten minutes, however, before Georgina spoke.
“Is it true?” she said, faintly; and Phemie answered, “It is true.”
“He is dead, then?” and Mrs. Stondon replied, “Everything that could be done was done; but he never moved after the horse kicked him.”
There ensued a silence; then the wife uttered her husband’s name.
“Shall I write to him?” asked Phemie. “I have not done so till I heard what your wishes were.”