Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“Let him alone, mother, do,” cried Katie, wringing her hands. “The Duke, he’s drowned himself,” presently gasped the Messenger. Blank verse, yes, so far as it went; but delivered without the slightest regard for rhythm, and composed in stark defiance of those laws which should regulate the breaking of bad news. You, please remember, were carefully prepared by me against the shock of the Duke’s death; and yet I hear you still mumbling that I didn’t let the actual fact be told you by a Messenger. Come, do you really think your grievance against me is for a moment comparable with that of Mrs. and Miss Batch against Clarence? Did you feel faint at any moment in the foregoing chapter? No. But Katie, at Clarence’s first words, fainted outright. Think a little more about this poor girl senseless on the floor, and a little less about your own paltry discomfort. Mrs. Batch herself did not faint, but she was too much overwhelmed to notice that her daughter had done so. “No! Mercy on us! Speak, boy, can’t you?” “The river,” gasped Clarence. “Threw himself in. On purpose. I was on the towing-path. Saw him do it.” Mrs. Batch gave a low moan. “Katie’s fainted,” added the Messenger, not without a touch of personal pride. “Saw him do it,” Mrs. Batch repeated dully. “Katie,” she said, in the same voice, “get up this instant.” But Katie did not hear her. The mother was loth to have been outdone in sensibility by the daughter, and it was with some temper that she hastened to make the necessary ministrations.