They were now very near the houses, and the sound to which Mr. Santley called her attention was the voice of a man crying out in great pain.
“What can it be?” asked Mrs. Haldane, with a look of alarm.
“It is the poor fellow we are going to see. He was knocked down and run over by a cart about two years ago. His spine has been injured, and the doctors can do nothing for him. He is quite helpless, and has been bedridden all that time.”
“Poor creature! what a dreadful thing it must be to suffer like that!”
“Sometimes for weeks together he feels no pain. Then he is suddenly seized by the most fearful torture, and you can hear his cries for a great distance.”
As they approached the cottage the man’s voice grew louder, and they could distinguish his words: “Oh, what shall I do? Oh, who’ll tell me what to do?”
Mrs. Haldane shuddered. In that green, peaceful, picturesque spot that persistent reiteration of the man’s agony was horrible.
“Will you come in?” asked the vicar doubtfully.
His companion signed her assent, and Mr. Santley knocked gently at the door. In a few seconds some one was heard coming down the staircase, and a little gray-haired, gray-faced woman, dressed in black, came to the door and curtsied to her visitors.
“Mansfield is very bad again to-day?” said the vicar.