The old horse followed tranquilly
enough, but as he had done nothing to deserve his misfortune, neither
did he feel any gratitude towards his deliverer. He drank his fill, and
fell to grazing. The Rector experienced a sense of disillusionment,
and drove the peg again into the softer earth under the willows; then
raising himself, he looked hard at the old horse.
The animal continued to graze. The Rector took out his handkerchief,
wiped the perspiration from his brow, and frowned. He hated ingratitude
in man or beast.
Suddenly he realised that he was very tired.
"It must be over by now," he said to himself, and hastened on in the
heat across the fields.
The Rectory door was open. Passing into the study, he sat down a moment
to collect his thoughts. People were moving above; he heard a long
moaning sound that filled his heart with terror.
He got up and rushed to the bell, but did not ring it, and ran upstairs
instead. Outside his wife's room he met his children's old nurse. She
was standing on the mat, with her hands to her ears, and the tears were
rolling down her face.
"Oh, sir!" she said--"oh, sir!"
The Rector glared.
"Woman!" he cried--"woman!"
He covered his ears and rushed downstairs again. There was a lady in the
hall. It was Mrs. Pendyce, and he ran to her, as a hurt child runs to
its mother.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228