"If," I began again--"the thing is--can we _possibly_ get Moore home
without any one knowing about it? About how it happened, I mean? You
don't know how perfectly horrible it would be for Mr Wynyard to know.
He is very, very particular, and he would make no allowances or
excuses." Here I unconsciously clasped my hands in entreaty. "If we
were at home," I went on, "I would tell father and mamma all about it.
Don't think I want to conceal it from them. But as visitors--and Moore
is sure to be laid up here for some time."
"I see," said our friend thoughtfully. "It would be rather horrid for
you. But--can you propose anything?"
"Mr Wynyard and his daughter are away," I replied. "We can't hide the
_accident_ of course, but if we could hide that it was _here_. Oh, if
we could!"
Moore echoed what I said. In his anxiety he sat up, almost forgetting
the pain.
"If you could get me outside the wall," he said, "and then Reggie could
fetch some one--there are cottages not far off--or I wouldn't even mind
waiting while you went home," he added, turning to me.
"No, no," said the stranger, "that would never do. There must be no
avoidable delay." He stopped a moment. "I think I have it!" he
exclaimed, "and here comes Mr Grey. For his sake, too, it is best to
avoid any gossip, as he is so sensitive. I will go and speak to him for
a moment;" and he was moving away, when he turned towards me again.
"Don't misunderstand him or them," he said quickly. "They are the
kindest-hearted people in the world."
Then for two or three minutes Moore and I were left alone.
"I wonder what they are going to do," I said anxiously, for I saw that
the two were talking together eagerly. "O Moore, I shall never, never
for--"
"Forgive me?" said the boy, trying to smile, though he winced with pain
as he did so. "Well, I suppose I must bear it."
"Nonsense?" I replied indignantly. "I was only going to say that I
shall never forget this evening, not if I live to be a hundred. But I
would not be so mean and cruel as to talk of never forgiving, when you
are already so punished."
By this time Mr Grey and the stranger were close to us, the former
looking, if possible, more gloomy and harassed than usual; by which term
must be understood, so far as I am concerned, the expression of his face
in church! His companion was still talking quickly, but I only heard
the elder man's reply.
"Well, yes," were his words. "I suppose it is the best thing to do.
The servants would make a wild story of it. The flyman--"--and here I
think I detected a grim smile--"would probably give out that we set
man-traps along the wall."
"We have thought of a plan, Miss--" began the young man, then stopped
suddenly, realising that he had not heard our name. "We have thought of
a plan which will obviate all that you are afraid of."
"The only objection to it," interrupted Mr Grey, turning to him, "being
that _you_ will lose your train."
"That is really of no consequence," was the reply. "I can wire to my
people from the station when to expect me."
Mr Grey's interruption annoyed me. I was all on tenter-hooks to hear
the "plan," and I could see that the stranger sympathised with my
impatience.
"It is this," he explained. "A fly is now waiting for me to take me to
the station. Mr Grey and I will carry your brother outside, as
carefully as possible. He must be carried somewhere, and a little bit
down the road will be scarcely farther than back to the house. Then, as
I pass in the fly, you must call out to me for help. I shall stop, and
between us we will lift him in, and I will take you both home--to the
Manor-house, I think you called it? So the driver will have nothing to
tell except that his fare behaved with ordinary humanity," and here he
smiled, nor was _his_ smile a grim one. "And on the way," he went on,
"you must give me the doctor's address if you know it, so that I may
send him as I pass through the village."
"There is no doctor in the village," said Mr Grey, "but you can save
time nevertheless, as his house is close to the railway station."
"Thank you, oh! thank you so much," Moore and I exclaimed together, but
that was all we had time for, for by now the two men were busied in
lifting my brother, with the least possible jar to the poor foot,
preparatory to carrying him outside. They were both strong men, and
their gentleness and deftness, especially perhaps as regarded Mr Grey,
struck me with admiration.
I followed the little cortege meekly enough to the fateful door in the
wall. Here they halted, Mr Grey requesting me to unlock it with a key
which he had handed to me before lifting Moore off the ground. Then we
all passed through.
"Close it, if you please," said our host, for such he was, however
unwillingly. "Draw it to, that is to say, and leave the key in the
lock. It cannot shut itself."
I did as I was bid, and we proceeded down the road till we had reached
an unsuspicious distance from the entrance in the wall, sufficiently
near the corner which the fly must pass on its way to the station, for
it to be easy to attract the driver's attention without any appearance
of collusion. Then they placed Moore in as easy a position as possible;
happily the excitement of all that had passed, aided by the stimulus of
the brandy and water which Mr Grey had brought with him in a flask, had
quite revived the patient, and he declared that the pain was much less
severe.
"I am sorry to leave you," said the older man, as he lifted his hat in
farewell, "but--considering everything, primarily of course your own
wishes--it cannot be helped."
"And it will only be for a very few minutes that you will be alone,"
added the younger one.
"I do not mind in the least," I replied. "I only wish, O Mr Grey,"--
involuntarily almost the name escaped me, and at its sound he stopped
and half moved--"will you not allow us to apologise to you--we shall
probably not have another opportunity of doing so--for our
unwarrantable, our impertinent--" (at this word I felt, rather than saw,
that Moore grew red) "intrusion? I do not know how to express what I
feel, nor how to thank you for your kindness."
"My dear young lady," replied the hermit, "pray do not take the matter
so much to heart. Mr--my friend here, has explained it to me. I
cannot see that you personally have anything whatever to reproach
yourself with, and as for your brother--why," and for the first time the
cold, almost hard, voice softened, "I know well the love of adventure
and--and--" he seemed at a loss to find a word, evidently unwilling to
supply so hurting a one as "curiosity"--"and all that sort of thing of
young folk. You may rely on us to keep this affair to ourselves, and I
trust the doctor's report will relieve your anxiety."
Then, for the second time, he lifted his hat, and in another moment both
he and his companion had disappeared.
"Moore," I said, as soon as I was sure that the two were well out of
hearing, "Moore, they--he--that poor man has been very, very good about
it."
"Yes," he agreed, meekly enough at first, "he has. All the same,
Reggie, I don't see that you need have spoken of what I did--it was only
a bit of a lark after all--as `impertinent'."
"I did not apply it only to _you_," I replied. "I said _our_. And you
needn't suppose I don't blame myself. I do, bitterly, and I shall do so
as long as I live, for having tried to pry into these poor people's
secret--above all, for having put it into your head to do so." Here
Moore grunted, but he did not attempt any further defence. "You don't
know how I hated being told I was not to blame at all, and not being
able to confess that I was."
"Why weren't you able?" Moore asked.
"Because of course it would only have made it far worse for the Greys to
hear how, after all these years, they are still talked over. And
besides that, I should have had to bring in poor Isabel! But for _her_,
I shouldn't have so much minded telling the other man how inquisitive I
had been--only after all, there was really no time to explain."
[Illustration: "'I must run to meet it,' I exclaimed."]
"You can tell him in the fly, if you like," said Moore. I was not sure
if he said it to tease me or if he were in earnest. I preferred to
think the former, especially as it showed that he could not be in any
very great suffering if he were equal to teasing!
"I wish the fly would come," was the only reply I condescended to make.
"So do I," began Moore, and his rather plaintive tone made me very sorry
for him again.
"Is your foot--" I was just going to ask, when the welcome sound of
approaching wheels caught my ears. Our unknown friend had lost no time!
"Here it is," I exclaimed, "I must run to meet it, Moore."
I was not a moment too soon. The man was driving quickly, and I
inferred that the stranger had not ventured to prevent his doing so, as
he doubtless was in hopes of still catching the train he had been
ordered for. And the reception of my first call was not encouraging.
"Stop, please," I cried. "Do stop for a moment."
"Can't," was the reply; "I'm bound to catch the London express. You
must send your order to the inn."
"It's not an order," I replied. "Some one, my brother, has had an
accident, and is lying on the road," and I pointed towards the spot.
"You must stop in common humanity. We are staying at the Manor-house,
Mr Wynyard's."
By this time the man had probably found out that I was a lady--possibly
even recognised me, as the Scart Bridge flys were sometimes used by the
Wynyards for station-work. And in spite of his protest, he had
slackened speed a little. This gave the occupant of the vehicle time to
put his head out and ask questions--to the driver's disgust no doubt,
little suspecting that his hirer, the principal in the matter of
catching the express, had no expectation whatever of doing so.
"What's the matter?" he inquired.
"The lady says as there's some one been and hurted hisself down the
lane," began the man. "We can send a man up from Hart's Cottages," and
he pointed with his whip, "but if we stop, sir--"
"Stop!" was the interruption in imperative tones. "Of course we must,"
and he jumped out as he spoke. "Follow us," he said sharply to the
driver, who thereupon proceeded to obey, murmuring some thing to the
effect that the train would be gone, but that "it'll be no fault o'
mine."
"Nobody said it would be," my companion called back, and then we walked
on the few paces to where Moore was propped up in a half-sitting posture
against the wall.
"I was as quick as possible," said the stranger, though already he
hardly seemed such. Circumstances sometimes lead to familiarity so
quickly. "Is he all right--the boy; your brother?"
"Yes," I said. "I don't think the pain is very bad. I am sure you have
been wonderfully quick, and I don't know how to thank you. And how kind
that poor Mr Grey has been!"