Mrs. Charmond's little feet were covered with mud; she was quite

unconscious of her appearance now. "I have heard such a dreadful

report," she went on; "I came to ascertain the truth of it. Is

he--killed?"

"She won't tell us--he's dying--he's in that room!" burst out Suke,

regardless of consequences, as she heard the distant movements of Mrs.

Melbury and Grammer in the bedroom at the end of the passage.

"Where?" said Mrs. Charmond; and on Suke pointing out the direction,

she made as if to go thither.

Grace barred the way. "He is not there," she said. "I have not seen

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him any more than you. I have heard a report only--not so bad as you

think. It must have been exaggerated to you."

"Please do not conceal anything--let me know all!" said Felice,

doubtingly.

"You shall know all I know--you have a perfect right to know--who can

have a better than either of you?" said Grace, with a delicate sting

which was lost upon Felice Charmond now. "I repeat, I have only heard

a less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and how

little, I cannot say. I pray God that it means not much--in common

humanity. You probably pray the same--for other reasons."

She regarded them both there in the dim light a while.

They stood dumb in their trouble, not stinging back at her; not heeding

her mood. A tenderness spread over Grace like a dew. It was well,

very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife's

regulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, for

losing their hearts to her husband. But life, what was it, and who was

she? She had, like the singer of the psalm of Asaph, been plagued and

chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in

order to please herself--the individual--"offend against the

generation," as he would not?

"He is dying, perhaps," blubbered Suke Damson, putting her apron to her

eyes.

In their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of

heart, all for a man who had wronged them--had never really behaved

towards either of them anyhow but selfishly. Neither one but would

have wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. The tears

which his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes

surged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women. She turned to

the balustrade, bent herself upon it, and wept.

Thereupon Felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and

letting the tears run down silently. While these three poor women

stood together thus, pitying another though most to be pitied

themselves, the pacing of a horse or horses became audible in the

court, and in a moment Melbury's voice was heard calling to his

stableman. Grace at once started up, ran down the stairs and out into

the quadrangle as her father crossed it towards the door. "Father,

what is the matter with him?" she cried.




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