Volume I Part 12 (2/2)
”He's lame, sir, can't move!” the man replied, and I remembered that it was so.
”Put a saddle on one of the carriage horses--anything so long as there's no delay.”
”They're out, sir! Gone to the station. There's nothing in the stable--only the mare; and to gallop her to Oakley over the ground as it is to-night, will pretty well do for her chance to-morrow--to say nothing of the twelve miles back again. The carriage will be home in less than an hour, sir,” the man remonstrated.
”It may be, you don't know, the trains are so horridly unpunctual.
Saddle the mare, Jarvis, as quickly as you can--every minute may be of the utmost value!” As Bertie spoke the _faintest_ look of regret showed itself on his face for a second; for of course he knew that such a journey would very materially affect, if it did not entirely destroy, the mare's chance.
Jarvis, who I think had been speculating, very reluctantly took down the saddle and bridle from their pegs, but I s.n.a.t.c.hed them from his arms, and a.s.sisted by Bertie, was leading her out of the stable in a very few seconds.
”Hurry on! Never mind the mare--good thing she's in condition,” said Bertie, who only thought now of his sister. ”I'll go and see the girl.”
”I can cut across the fields, can't I, by the cross roads?” I asked, settling in the saddle.
”No! no! Keep to the highway; it's safer at night. Go on!” I heard him call as I went at a gallop down the cruelly hard road.
The ground rang under the mare's feet, and in spite of all my anxiety for Nellie I could not help feeling one pang of regret for Little Lady, whose free, bounding action, augured well for what her chances would have been on the morrow--chances which I felt were rapidly dying out; for if this journey didn't lame her nothing would. Stones had just been put down as a matter of course; but there was no time for picking the way, and taking tight hold of her head we sped on.
About a mile from the Lodge I came to the crossroads. Before me was a long vista of stone--regular rocks, so imperfectly were they broken: to the right was the smoother and softer pathway over the fields--perfect going in comparison to the road. Just over this fence, a hedge, and with hardly another jump I should come again into the highway, saving quite two miles by the cut. Bertie had said ”Don't,” but probably he had spoken thoughtlessly, and it was evidently the best thing to do, for the time I saved might be of the greatest value to poor little suffering Nellie! I pulled up, and drew the mare back to the opposite hedge. She knew her work thoroughly. Three bounds took her across the road: she rose--the next moment I was on my back, shot some distance into the field, and she was struggling up from the ground. There had been a post and rail whose existence I had not suspected, placed some six feet from the hedge on the landing side. She sprang up, no legs were broken; and I, a good deal shaken and confused, rose to my feet, wondering what to do next. I had not had time to collect my thoughts when I heard the rattle of a trap on the road; it speedily approached, and the moonlight revealed the jolly features of old Tom Heathfield, a friendly farmer.
”Accident, sir?” he asked, pulling up. ”What! Mr Vaughan!” as he caught sight of my face. ”What's the---- why! that ain't the mare, sure-_lie_?”
All the neighbourhood was in a ferment of excitement about the races, and the sight of Little Lady in such a place at such a time struck horror to the honest old farmer.
”Yes, it is--I'm sorry to say. Miss Peyton has met with an accident. I was going for the doctor, and unfortunately there was nothing else in the stable.”
”You was going to Oakley, I s'pose, sir? It'll be ruination to the mare. Miss Peyton hurt herself! I'll bowl over, sir; it won't take long; this little horse o' mine can trot a good 'un; and I can bring the doctor with me. The fences, there, is mended with wire. You'd cut the mare to pieces.”
”I can't say how obliged to you I am----”
”Glad of the opportunity of obliging Miss Peyton, sir; she's a real lady!” He was just starting when he checked himself. ”There's a little public house about a hundred yards further on; if you don't mind waiting there I'll send Smithers to look at the mare. I pa.s.s his house.
All right, sir.”
His rough little cob started off at a pace for which I had not given it credit; and I slowly followed, leading the mare towards the glimmering light which Heathfield had pointed out. My charge stepped out well, and I didn't think that there was anything wrong, though glad, of course, to have a professional opinion.
A man was hanging about the entrance to the public-house, and with his a.s.sistance the mare was bestowed in a kind of shed, half cow-house, half stable; and as the inside of the establishment did not look by any means inviting, I lit a cigar and lounged about outside, awaiting the advent of Smithers.
He didn't arrive; and in the course of wandering to and fro I found myself against a window. Restlessly I was just moving away when a voice inside the room repeated the name of _Blankney_. I started, and turning round, looked in.
It was a small apartment, with a sanded floor, and two persons were seated on chairs before the fire conversing earnestly. One of them was a middle-aged man, clad in a brown great-coat with a profusion of fur-collar and cuffs which it would scarcely be libel to term ”mangy.”
He was the owner of an unwholesome-looking face, decorated as to the chin with a straggling crop of bristles which he would have probably termed an imperial.
”Wust year I ever 'ad!” he exclaimed (and a broken pane in the window enabled me to hear distinctly). ”The Two Thousand 'orse didn't run; got in deep over the Derby; Hascot was hawful; and though I had a moral for the Leger, it went down.”
His own morals, judging from his appearance and conversation, appeared to have followed the example of that for the Leger.
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