The twilight fell, and faded; and the summer night came brightly.  As the first carefully shaded light was kindled in the sick-room, the physician, who had been summoned from Bristol, arrived to consult with the medical attendant of the family.  He could give no comfort:  he could only say, “We must try, and hope.  The shock which struck her, when she overheard the news of her husband’s death, has prostrated her strength at the time when she needed it most.  No effort to preserve her shall be neglected.  I will stay here for the night.”

He opened one of the windows to admit more air as he spoke.  The view overlooked the drive in front of the house and the road outside.  Little groups of people were standing before the lodge-gates, looking in.  “If those persons make any noise,” said the doctor, “they must be warned away.”  There was no need to warn them:  they were only the laborers who had worked on the dead man’s property, and here and there some women and children from the village.  They were all thinking of him—­some talking of him—­and it quickened their sluggish minds to look at his house.  The gentlefolks thereabouts were mostly kind to them (the men said), but none like him.  The women whispered to each other of his comforting ways when he came into their cottages.  “He was a cheerful man, poor soul; and thoughtful of us, too:  he never came in and stared at meal-times; the rest of ’em help us, and scold us—­all he ever said was, better luck next time.”  So they stood and talked of him, and looked at his house and grounds and moved off clumsily by twos and threes, with the dim sense that the sight of his pleasant face would never comfort them again.  The dullest head among them knew, that night, that the hard ways of poverty would be all the harder to walk on, now he was gone.

A little later, news was brought to the bed-chamber door that old Mr. Clare had come alone to the house, and was waiting in the hall below, to hear what the physician said.  Miss Garth was not able to go down to him herself:  she sent a message.  He said to the servant, “I’ll come and ask again, in two hours’ time”—­and went out slowly.  Unlike other men in all things else, the sudden death of his old friend had produced no discernible change in him.  The feeling implied in the errand of inquiry that had brought him to the house was the one betrayal of human sympathy which escaped the rugged, impenetrable old man.

He came again, when the two hours had expired; and this time Miss Garth saw him.

They shook hands in silence.  She waited; she nerved herself to hear him speak of his lost friend.  No:  he never mentioned the dreadful accident, he never alluded to the dreadful death.  He said these words, “Is she better, or worse?” and said no more.  Was the tribute of his grief for the husband sternly suppressed under the expression of his anxiety for the wife?  The nature of the man, unpliably antagonistic to the world and the world’s customs, might justify some such interpretation of his conduct as this.  He repeated his question, “Is she better, or worse?”