He crossed the room, pulled up the blind, and looked out. A solemn white face was gazing upwards from the road, expectantly straining to catch the first glimpse of a person within the panes. It was the face of a Knapwater man sitting on horseback.
Owen saw his errand. There is an unmistakable look in the face of every man who brings tidings of death. Graye opened the window.
‘Miss Aldclyffe....’ said the messenger, and paused.
‘Ah—dead?’
‘Yes—she is dead.’
‘When did she die?’
‘At ten minutes past four, after another effusion. She knew best, you see, sir. I started directly, by the rector’s orders.’
SEQUEL
Fifteen months have passed, and we are brought on to Midsummer Night, 1867.