“If so, they will be too late; he will not last the night.”
“I will fetch them,” said Mr Armstrong quietly.
“Good fellow! you are having a night of it. I shall remain here; so you can take whichever of my horses you like. The mare will go best.”
“Thanks!” said the tutor, pulling himself together for this new task.
Before he quitted the room, he stepped up to the couch and bent for a moment over the helpless form of his employer. There was no recognition in the glazed eyes, and the hand, which he just touched with his own, was nerveless and dead already.
With a silent nod to the doctor Mr Armstrong left the room, and was presently once more ploughing on horseback through the deep snow.
It was well this man was a man of iron and master of himself, or he might have flagged under this new effort, with the distressing prospect awaiting him at his journey’s end.
As it was, he urged doggedly forward, forgetful of the existence of such an individual as Frank Armstrong, and dwelling only on the dying man behind and the mourners ahead.
The clock was chiming one in Castleridge Church when at length he reined up his spent horse at the stable entrance to the Grange. Here for a weary quarter of an hour he rang, called, and whistled before the glimmer of a lantern gave promise of an answer.
To the stable-boy’s not altogether polite inquiry, Mr Armstrong replied, “Mr Ingleton of Maxfield is ill. Call Robbins, and tell him to put the horses in immediately, to take his mistress and Mr Roger home; and get some one in the house to call them. Don’t delay an instant.”