Kitabı oxu: «Hathercourt», səhifə 15

Chapter Eighteen
What Happened in the Primrose Lane

 
“Wee mortal wights whose lives and fortunes bee
To common accidents still open layd,
Are bownd with commun bond of frailtee
To succour wretched wights…”
 

Faery Queen.

It was within a few days of Lilian’s going. The bustle of preparation – of “doing up” the two white muslin evening dresses, the joint property of herself and Mary, but which Mary insisted on resigning to her sister; of “turning” the black silk skirt which had already done good service; and – most important of all – the cutting out and making the one new dress which the family finances had been able to afford – all was over. Everything was ready, and only not packed because it was a pity to crush the garments prematurely. Lilias’s temporary excitement, now that there was nothing more to do, was already on the wane. She was gentleness and sweetness itself, but with a look in her eyes that Mary did not like to see, and a clingingness in her manner which made both mother and sister wish that the day for her going were actually come and the parting, such as it was, fairly over.

It was a lovely afternoon – spring was really coming, or thinking of it anyway.

“The birds are talking about their new houses, aren’t they, Mary?” said little Francie, as she trotted along beside her sister. They had walked part of the way to Withenden with Lilias and Josey, who were bent on an expedition to the one village shop in quest of some wool for their father’s next winter socks, the knitting of which was to be Lilias’s “fancy work” while away from home. Mary had been glad when the idea struck Lilias, as her practical belief in the efficacy of a good long walk for low spirits of every kind was great.

“I wish I could go with you,” she had said to Lily, “but some one must take Francie out, and Alexa and Josey always get into scrapes unless one of us is with them. You had better take Josey, she is always ready for a long walk, and Alexa may potter about the garden with mother, just what she likes.”

“Very well,” said Lilias, “but you and Francie might come part of the way with us. Josey is considerably more agreeable out of doors than in the house, but two hours and a half of her, unalloyed, is about as much as I can stand. I am tired, Mary, horribly tired – ‘not in my feet,’ as Francie says, but in my own self; and oh, I’m so sorry to have been such a plague to you all this time – it makes me feel as if I couldn’t go away.”

Her voice was dangerously tremulous, and of all things Mary dreaded a break-down, now at the last.

“Now, Lilias,” she said, in what Lilias sometimes called her “make-up-your-mind-to-it” tone, “you are not to begin talking rubbish. Do you hear, child? If you want to please me, there’s just one thing to do – go away with Mrs Greville and try to enjoy yourself. This will be the most unselfish thing you can do; and even if you feel at first as if you couldn’t enjoy yourself, it will come – you’ll see if it doesn’t. Now let us set off at once, or you and Josey will not be back by tea-time.”

They skirted the Balner woods in going, but coming home, Mary, not being pressed for time, yielded to Francie’s entreaty that they might choose the primrose lane, thereby saving herself a good deal of future discussion, as nothing but “ocular demonstration” would convince the child that there might not be a few primroses out, “just two or three, perhaps, as it was such a werry fine day.”

“But it is six weeks from now, at least, before they ever come out, Francie, dear,” said Mary, for the twentieth time; “they are not like little boys and girls, you see, who are there in the house all ready to come out the minute the sun shines and the fine weather comes. The primroses have all their growing to do first, and they need the sun and the spring rain to help them to grow, every year.”

“But is them never the same primroses?” said Francie, in some perplexity. “Is them new every year – never the same?”

“No,” said Mary, “they are never the same.”

But as she said the words their sound struck her. “Never the same,” nay, indeed, say rather, “ever the same,” she thought. ”‘Pale primroses,’ as pretty Perdita called them three hundred years ago! They must have looked up in our great-great-great-grandmothers’ faces just as they do in ours now – just as they will, centuries hence, smile at the Francies that will be looking for them then. What a strange world it is! Ever the same and never the same, over and over again.”

“What are you thinking about, Mary? Tell me,” said Francie.

“Nothing you would understand, dear,” Mary was saying, when the child interrupted her.

“Mary,” she said, “I hear such a funny noise, don’t you? It’s like something going very fast – oh! Mary, couldn’t it be one of the wild bulls running after us?”

Francie grew white with fear. Mary, hastily assuring her it could not be a wild bull, stood still to listen. Yes, Francie was right – there certainly was a sound to be heard of something rapidly nearing them, and the sound somehow made Mary’s heart beat faster.

“It can only be a horse,” she said; “I dare say its nothing wrong.”

But her face and actions belied her words. There was a gate close by the spot where they stood. Mary unlatched it, and drew Francie within its shelter. Not a minute too soon – the rushing, tearing sound grew nearer and nearer, but a turn in the lane hid the cause of it till close upon them.

Then – “Oh! Mary,” cried Francie, “it’s a horse that’s runned away – and look, Mary, there’s a lady on it. Oh! I’m sure she will be tumbled off,” and Francie burst out sobbing with mingled fear, pity, and excitement.

It was too true – though it all seemed to Mary to pass in an instantaneous flash – the horse dashed past the gate – how glad Mary afterwards felt that she had placed herself and her little sister too far out of sight for their presence to have been the cause of what happened – flew down the lane till an open gate and a cart just coming out of a field seemed to bring its terror to a climax. It swerved suddenly, how or why exactly no one could tell, and the slight, swaying figure in the saddle was seen to fall – heavily, lifelessly to the ground – but, thank Heaven, thought Mary, clear of the stirrup. There was not added to the spectacle, terrible enough as it was, the unspeakable horror of a prostrate figure dragged along the ground – of a fair face battered beyond recognition upon the stones.

No one seemed to be at hand to give any assistance – the horse continued for a while his headlong course down the lane; then, after the manner of its kind, having done all the mischief it could, stopped short, and in a few minutes was quietly nibbling the grass as if nothing had happened.

But Mary gave little attention to the horse, her whole thoughts flew to the motionless figure lying there in a dark heap, where it had been thrown – so still, so dreadfully still – that was all that Mary could distinguish, as, overcoming the first natural but selfish instinct which would have made her shrink away from a sight possibly of horror, certainly of sadness, she ran down the lane, closely followed by little Francie, who would not be left behind.

“Is the poor lady killed, Mary, does you think?” she said, when her sister had stooped to examine the face half hidden by the long habit skirt which had dropped over it in the fall.

“Run back, Francie. Stay over there by the gate, and be sure to tell me if you see any one coming. No, I don’t think she’s killed, but she’s very badly hurt, I fear,” said Mary, “and, oh, Francie, I know who she is. She’s that pretty lady that came to church that Sunday – do you remember? Mr Cheviott’s sister,” she murmured to herself. “How strange!”

Francie had already run off to her post of observation. Mary, afraid though she was of further complicating the unknown injury by anything she might ignorantly do to help poor Alys, yet could not bear to see the fair head lying on the careless ground. Slowly and cautiously she raised it on to her own knee, supporting the girl’s shoulder with one arm, while with the other she tenderly wiped away the dust and grass stains disfiguring the pallid cheek. The girl’s eyes were closed, to all appearances she was still perfectly unconscious, but in the moving, carefully though it was done, a slight spasm of pain contracted her features for a moment. Mary shivered at the sight.

“It may be her spine that is injured,” she thought to herself, “her arms are not broken, and I don’t think her head is hurt. Oh dear, oh dear, if only some one would come! If I had some water, or some eau de cologne, or anything – I don’t think I shall ever again laugh at Alexa for carrying about a scent-bottle in her pocket. Francie,” she called, softly. Francie was beside her in a moment.

“Nobody’s coming,” she whispered. “Oh, Mary, couldn’t I run home and fetch somebody? The horse wouldn’t run after me, would it?” with a little shudder of fright.

“You good little girl,” said Mary, approvingly. “No, dear, I don’t think you could run home. It is too far for you to go alone. But let me see – there must be some cottage or farm-house close to – Hilyar’s cottages are quite half a mile off – ”

“Captain Bebberly lived near here, ’afore he wented away,” suggested Francie. “I came this way to his house once.”

“Of course,” exclaimed Mary, in a tone of relief, “the back way to the Edge Farm cannot be a quarter of a mile off. Look, Francie, dear, run back to the lane, and run on about as far as you can see from this gate. Then you’ll see another gate on your left – the other side from this – that gate will take you into a field which you must cross, and go through a stile, and then you’ll see Captain Beverley’s,” – even now she seemed to shrink a little from pronouncing the name – “Captain Beverley’s house. Go in and tell the first person you meet to come as quick as he can, and bring some water. Tell him it is Miss Cheviott that is hurt, and tell him where we are. Quick, darling, as quick as ever you can.”

Francie lingered for one instant.

“There won’t be none dogs, will there, Mary?” she said, her voice trembling a little.

“I think not,” said Mary. “And if there are, Francie, you must ask God not to let them hurt you. That’s what being brave means, dear.”

She said it, feeling that all her own nerve and bravery were being called for. If only she could have run across the fields with Francie – but to sit here, able to do nothing, watching the terrible stillness of the girl’s face —

It seemed hours before there came any change. At last a faint, gasping sigh reached Mary’s ears – a slight, very slight quiver ran through the form she held so tenderly, and Alys Cheviott opened her eyes – opened them, alas! but to close them again with a quick consciousness of pain.

“My back,” she whispered – “oh, my back! what have I done to it? Oh!”

Then she lay quiet for a minute or two, Mary not daring to move or speak – scarcely to breathe, till again Miss Cheviott opened her eyes.

“Where am I?” she said. “What has happened? Who is holding me? Laurence, is it you? I cannot move; it hurts me so. Where is Gypsy?”

“Gypsy is eating grass very comfortably in the lane,” said Mary, trying to speak in a cheerful, matter-of-fact tone. “It is I that am holding you, Miss Cheviott – I, Mary Western. Gypsy was very naughty; she threw you off, and I was just a little way behind and saw you.”

“Gypsy threw me off,” repeated Alys, slowly. “Oh, yes, I remember; she ran away.” A little shudder ran through her. “It is my own fault. Laurence said she was too fresh for me to-day. And you are Miss Western – how strange!”

“Mary Western,” the girl corrected.

“Yes, I know; I know your voice. How strange it should be you! I am very thankful. How long might I not have lain here without any one knowing? But my back – oh! Mary, what can I have done to my back?”

“I hope it is only strained, or bruised, perhaps,” said Mary, very gently, touched by Miss Cheviott’s unconscious use of her first name. “I have sent to the farm – Edge Farm – your cousin’s house, you know, for help; we are close to it.”

“Oh, yes, I know. I wanted to see it, and I thought a long ride would take it out of Gypsy. Poor Arthur, how sorry he will be if I am badly hurt!”

Something in her words struck Mary. Could it be true, then, that Captain Beverley was engaged to this girl? But what a time for such speculations! Mary checked herself, with a feeling almost of horror.

“What can have become of Thwaites? My groom, I mean,” said Alys, suddenly. “He was close behind me when Gypsy started off.”

“He must have taken a wrong turn,” said Mary. “Most likely he dared not follow too close, and must have lost sight of you. I wish some one would come. Do you think I could hold you more easily anyhow?”

“Oh, no; no, thank you, I mean,” said Alys, nervously. “Don’t move; that’s the only thing you can do for me. Don’t move the very least, please. Miss Western.”

“I won’t, dear, not the very least,” said Mary, soothingly. “And she is seven miles from home,” she added to herself, in consternation.

Alys’s eyes closed again, and she grew so white that Mary feared she was going to faint.

“What shall I do?” she thought, almost in despair, when, to her indescribable relief, a sound of approaching footsteps made itself heard. She dared not even turn her head to see whose they were, but soon the new-comers stood before her. They were two men from the farm, one, the bailiff, the choice of whom had led to Arthur’s first introduction at the Rectory, a kindly middle-aged man, who looked down on the sad little group before him with fatherly concern.

“Shall I try to lift the young lady, do you think, miss?” he whispered to Mary, but Alys caught the words.

“No, no,” she moaned, “don’t move me. Whatever you do, don’t move me.”

It seemed to Mary that her head was beginning to wander. She glanced up at the bailiff in perplexity.

“She must be moved, miss,” he replied, with decision, in answer to her unspoken question, “and the longer we wait the fainter-like she’ll get. Not to speak of catching rheumatics from the damp, which would be making a bad job a worser, for sure.”

Mary bent her face over Alys’s.

“Dear Miss Cheviott – Alys,” she whispered, “I fear we must move you.”

Alys shivered, but resisted no longer.

“Hold my hand, then – all the way,” she murmured, without opening her eyes.

“I can carry her quite as easy as on a shutter, and it’s less moving in the end. My missus’ll have the downstairs bed all ready,” said the bailiff, encouragingly. “But first, miss, we brought a drop of brandy, as the Captain left, and some water. Will you please try for to get her to swallow a spoonful before we move her, poor lamb?”

With some difficulty Mary succeeded. Then came the lifting her, a terrible business, notwithstanding the infinite tenderness of the stalwart bailiff. And all along the lane, many times Mary would have thought her unconscious of all that was passing, but for the convulsive pressure of the little hand that clung to hers so helplessly.

Half way up the lane the sad little cortège was reinforced by Francie, still out of breath, and with great pity shining out of her big blue eyes, and further on still by. Thwaites, leading his own horse and naughty Gypsy, now perfectly subdued and serene.

“He must go for a doctor,” said Mary, at once, when she caught sight of him. “Tell him so,” she added, turning to the young farm servant who had accompanied the bailiff. “Let me see – yes, Mr Brandreth at Withenden is the nearest.”

“That’s him as we always have at the Hall,” said Thwaites, catching the words; and apparently thankful to be told what to do, he gave over Gypsy to the young man’s charge, and mounting his own horse, was off in a moment.

The “down-stairs bed” was ready, and clean and comfortable enough to make Mary rejoice that the accident had not happened in a still more isolated part of the country.

“You are very brave,” she whispered, when at last the agony of the movement was over, and Alys, with death-white cheeks and quivering lips, was laid in the easiest position their ignorance could achieve.

A faint smile flickered over the poor girl’s face.

“Am I?” she whispered. “I am so glad. Please tell Laurence – and – Mary, kiss me, please. Somehow I have always wanted to love you both – her too – she is so pretty,” she murmured, softly. “And fancy my being in Arthur’s house like this.”

Then for a while she lay silent, and Mary’s thoughts turned to her own position. What should she do? She was most anxious to get home as soon as possible; it was already past Francie’s tea-time, and before long her mother would be getting alarmed. Besides, how more than disagreeable it would be for her to meet Mr Cheviott again! How could she tell how he might look upon her presence beside his sister, and what she had done to help poor Alys?

She got up from her seat by the bed-side, and with soft steps moved towards the door. But, faint as it was, the sound roused Alys.

“Where are you going, Miss Western?” she said. – “Oh, you are not going away from me are you? You will not leave me alone here – oh, do at least wait till the doctor comes, and hear what he says.”

Mary felt that it would be barbarous to refuse.

“No,” she replied, “I won’t go away if you would like me to stay; I will only just send a note to my mother to tell her where I am, otherwise she will wonder what has become of us. I will get Mrs Wills to send a man with my little sister and the note to mamma.”

“Oh, yes, your little sister – I remember seeing her standing by,” said Alys, dreamily; “I am so sorry to trouble you so. How good you are! Please come and sit beside me. Couldn’t Mrs Wills get you some tea?”

“Would you like some?” said Mary, eagerly catching at anything to break the weary suspense of waiting for the doctor’s arrival.

“I am very thirsty – yes, I think I should,” said Alys, faintly; so Mary hurried off to write her note, and bespeak some tea, though when ready, it was hard work to get Alys to swallow it. She seemed to shrink from the slightest movement with increasing and indescribable terror.

“It will be impossible to move her to Romary,” thought Mary with dismay. “What will be done? I wonder if the groom will have the sense to fetch Mr Cheviott as well as the doctor? I almost wish he would come now – it seems such a responsibility. And if only the doctor would come!”

After all, Dr Brandreth came much sooner than could reasonably have been expected, long as the hour and a half or so of waiting seemed to Mary, for Thwaites met him on the way to Withenden. Mary had just gone, at the doctor’s request, to borrow a pair of scissors from Mrs Wills, to cut off poor Alys’s riding habit, so as to save her all possible suffering, when, passing the open front door on her return, the sound of wheels suddenly stopping at the gate made her pause. Yes, it was Mr Cheviott. Mary hesitated. What should she do? She had no time to decide. Mr Cheviott was at the door before she had thoroughly taken in his arrival.

Whether he was prepared to find her there or not, she could not tell. His face certainly expressed no surprise, but then, again, it expressed nothing, and her first quick instinct of pity and concern for the terrible anxiety he must be enduring died suddenly away. Never had she seen his face harder or colder – “more insolently arrogant,” she said to herself, “as if he were indignant that accidents should happen to any one belonging to him as well as to other poor human beings.”

Her indignation calmed her trepidation, and she stood her ground coolly. Mr Cheviott raised his hat. Mary bowed.

“May I ask – ” he began. “I suppose,” he went on, “it is here Miss Cheviott is?”

“Yes,” said Mary, but not moving aside so as to let him pass. “She is here. The doctor is with her?”

“But I can go in?” he exclaimed, with unmistakable eagerness and anxiety in his tone now. “She is surely not very seriously injured – not – not – ”

His lips grew white, and then instantly a dark red flush rose to his brow, as if ashamed of any signs of agitation. Mary was somewhat mollified.

“I think,” she said, gently, “I had better tell her first that you have come, to prevent her being startled. She is quite conscious,” she added, “and I hope it is nothing very serious, but the doctor has not said anything yet. There are no bones broken – it is her back she complains of.”

“Her back,” repeated Mr Cheviott, the red flush fading away to a sallow whiteness – “her back! Good God, I trust not!”

“It may be only severely bruised,” said Mary, finding herself, despite her determination, already assuming the rôle of comforter. “I will tell her you are here if you will wait a moment.” And when, in a minute or two, Mr Cheviott was summoned to his sister, to his astonishment it was to find her supported in Mary’s arms, while Dr Brandreth was skilfully disentangling the wisps of muddy cloth from the poor girl’s form.

“That will do – beautifully,” he was saying. “Now, Miss Mary, lift her the least atom on the right side —that won’t hurt you, my dear. Good-day, Mr Cheviott,” for the first time noticing his presence. “A nice piece of work this, isn’t it? Still not so bad as it might have been, by a long way.”

“Laurence,” said Alys, faintly, “it was all my own fault. You said Gypsy was too fresh.”

“Hush, my darling. Never say any more about that part of it,” said Mr Cheviott, in tones that Mary could scarcely have believed were his.

“Kiss me, and say you forgive me, then, and I won’t,” entreated Alys.

He could not refuse, even though in stooping to kiss her he could not avoid his head’s brushing the sleeve of Mary’s dress. But motionless as she sat, he was conscious, through the thick grey tweed, of a sort of thrill of shrinking – an instinctive withdrawal from his slightest touch.

“How that girl must hate me,” he could not help thinking, even then.

“She has been so good and kind,” whispered Alys. “Laurence, you will thank her, won’t you?”