And the doctor and the child were swallowed up in the night.
When William King came out of that house of confusion and death, he
found her huddled against the gate-post, haggard, drenched with dew,
waiting for him. He started, with a distressed word, and lifted her in
his arms. "Oh, you ought not to be here; I thought you had gone home
long ago!"
"Dead?"
"Yes."
"He--shot-"Yes. Poor boy; poor, foolish, crazy boy! But it wasn't your fault.
Oh, my poor child!"
She shivered away from him, then without a word turned towards Old
Chester. The doctor walked at her side. It was nearly three, and very
dark. No one saw them as they went through the sleeping streets; at
William's house she stopped, with a silent gesture of dismissal.
"I am going to take you home," he said gently. And a few minutes later
he began to tell her about it. "He was dead when I got there. They
think it was an accident; and it is best they should. I am afraid I'll
have to explain to my wife, because she saw your apprehension. But
nobody else need know. Except--I must tell Dr. Lavendar, of course;
but not until after the funeral. There is no use complicating things.
But other people can just think it was an accident. It was, in one
way. He was insane. Everybody is, who does--that. Poor Samuel! Poor
Mrs. Wright! I could not leave them; but I thought you had gone home,
or I would have come. Mrs. Richie, promise me one thing: promise me
not to feel it was your fault."
She dropped her face in her hands. "Not my fault! ... I killed him."