A TRUE WORD SPOKEN IN JEST.
To-day Esther and I were sitting with Aline in her room. It was
bitterly cold, though fine and sunny. I should have liked to be out
with the twins, whom I could see in the garden below tramping up and
down steadily, hand in hand. They are growing up as wild and shy as
a little pair of rabbits, and they are quite safe to keep to the
gardens once Aline has told them there was a fear of their meeting
the hunt if they went out to the park or the woods. They fear
nothing except the eyes of strangers. It makes us laugh to know that
they who would face Lord Aranmore's tallest stag, or the little wild,
horned, mountain cattle, will turn round and run, still hand in hand,
if they should happen to see a well-dressed stranger approaching them.
I had promised to help Aline with some baby-clothes she was making
for poor Mary Kennedy, whose husband was killed by a falling tree in
the summer, and whose first baby was born the other day, else I too
should have been out-of-doors, though I am not brisk in getting
about; and Esther, who takes care that I am never left behind, nor
made to feel a drag on the pleasure of the others, would have been
with me.
The things we are sewing at are made out of clothes we ourselves had
when we were little. They are fine, dainty little garments, and
smell sweetly of lavender. It almost breaks Oona's heart that Aline
will use them for the children of the poor. She says that coarse
stuffs would be far better, and perhaps she is right, but we have no
money to purchase the coarse stuffs if we would. Oona never argues
with Aline about it, but gives up the keys of the drawers that
contain the treasures, without words indeed, but with sighs as from a
breaking heart. Aline, for all her gentleness, makes even Oona feel
that she is mistress.
Aline has a curious love and tenderness for little babies, and she
would not feel the finest stuffs in the world too good for their
little tender bodies. I have seen her nursing them with an
expression half-divine. I am not sure that she does not see in every
one of them the little Baby of Bethlehem, and that they are not the
more precious for being born, like Him, in poverty. Then she is
veriest woman. I cannot bear to think of Aline growing old
unmarried. But that is one of the secret thoughts I keep to myself.
Suddenly my eyes, that had been straying from my seam, caught sight
of a gleam of scarlet in the distant coppice. Another and another,
and then I jumped to my feet and limped to the window. There were
the hounds stretching in a long line away to Larry's Spinney, and
hard on their heels went half a dozen scarlet coats, shadowed with
here and there a blue habit. I cried out, "The hunt, the hunt,
Esther! Oh, come and see!"
Aline looked with benign amusement at our excitement.
"Run out, children," she said; "you will see better from the
summer-house in the rose-garden. Don't let the twins tumble out of
the window, and go easily, Hilda dear; there will be plenty of time,
for the river will turn them."
We went out rejoicing. The summer-house is in two stories, a wooden
structure with seats, and little windows of coloured glass, opening
inwards, that may be shut against the weather. We found the twins
already in possession of the upper window, but, taking the privileges
of elder sisters, we packed them below, where they went rather
grumblingly.
Yes, the hunt had turned, and was coming back our way. It would pass
quite close to us, and no one would notice us, for their excitement
would be too absorbing.
"Why, there are the boys," I cried, "over yonder on the branch of the
chestnut! Poor boys, how they must want to follow!"
Even the boys did not see us. As soon as the hunt passed they would
go pounding away across country to get another glimpse. Ah! there
was Jack Tobin the huntsman, and Graves the whipper-in, and, well in
front, Lord Clandeboye the master, and his pretty daughter, and
following came a rout of scarlet and black.
"Esther," whispered I, "supposing that as they went by one should
look up and fall in love with you, and that he should prove to be
Prince Charming."
"Why not with you, Hilda?" she said, with one of her rich blushes.
"What have I to do with love or lovers?" I asked; and it was indeed
true that since my accident I had considered that my life was outside
the romances of other girls.
The ground slopes under the thick yew hedge of the rose-garden, so
that, as the riders came pounding along at the foot of the hill, we
had them well in view. One was riding a beautiful bay horse, which
attracted my attention before my eyes went to the rider's face. When
I looked at him I gave Esther's arm a pinch.
"There goes your knight, Esther," I cried. "Now, if only he would
have an accident, and we could take him in and nurse him, it would be
like one of your story-books. Let us will him to fall down--shall
we?"
But Esther seemed not to have heard me. She had drawn back suddenly
into the shadow of the room. The young rider had caught sight of us,
and was looking up. For the moment he was evidently not thinking of
the hunt, for his sideways gaze was a long, direct one. Then I saw
that Esther was blushing hotly all over her dark face, and her eyes
had sunk under her long soft lashes.
"I am afraid he heard your voice, Hilda dear," she murmured; and then
her eyes flashed out again with sudden horror and fear.
Startled, I looked in the direction of her glance. There, where the
young rider had been flashing along in the run downhill, lay the
horse kicking and struggling, and a space in front of him the
huddled-up figure of his master.
Some of the other hunters were off their horses, and running and
shouting, but nearest of all were our two brothers, who in a second
of time had reached the prostrate man. Then a group of men hid all
from our sight; but in a second or two we saw that they had lifted
the young man, and had laid him on a space of sward.
I looked round at Esther. Her eyes were wide open, and she was
deadly pale.
"You're not going to faint?" I said.
"No," she answered, and the colour came back to her cheeks and lips.
"You don't think he's dead, Hilda?"
"I hope not. Dr. Rivers is there, fortunately. Come and we will see
what has happened. Someone will tell us."
"Yes," said Esther. "Come and see. Of course he must be taken to
Brandon."
"Unless he is near his own home," I suggested.
Esther looked at me almost angrily.
"He must be taken to Brandon," she said again.
She went out with an air that might have been Aline's own. No one
would have thought that she was the younger sister, as I humbly
followed her. She went up to the little group that stood about the
fallen man, and though everyone turned to look at her, she did not
seem to notice them.
"I hope he is not very much hurt, Dr. Rivers," she said. "Of course
you will carry him into the house at once."
The doctor lifted his hat
"I'm afraid there's a concussion of the brain--he was flung on his
head--but I can't examine him properly here. Thank you, Miss
Brandon. Of course the best thing would be to get him indoors at
once. Your brother has kindly offered the poor fellow the
hospitality of your house."
Esther turned to Hugh, who was standing by. "Run in quickly," she
said, "and tell Aline we are coming."
Presently, as they were making up a rough litter on which to carry
him, Donald came to my side and whispered that the young man was a
stranger in these parts, and that no one seemed to know where he had
dropped from. Also that the horse, which they had thought must be
badly injured, had done nothing worse than lame himself. He had
stepped in a rabbit-hole, and so caused the accident.
"They had better bring in the poor beast too," he added. "There are
no lack of empty stalls, and I daresay we can find him a bit of
bedding."
In a few minutes they were carrying the young fellow towards the
house, the horse following with a hanging head, as if he were
conscious that his master was hurt, and felt himself in some degree
to blame. He was a beautiful beast, and I was so glad he was not
hurt, for all dumb animals are very near my heart, that I felt
irrationally hopeful about his master's case also.
However, Dr. Rivers seemed to think the business very serious. There
was concussion, he found, and he feared internal injuries as well, so
that the young man might lie unconscious and on our hands for some
time.
"It is too bad, Miss Brandon," he said to Aline, "that you should
have all this trouble thrust upon you. He ought really to have a
nurse."
He hesitated and looked at her. Aline smiled faintly.
"Oona, our old nurse, has considerable experience in sick nursing,"
she said, "and, as you see, she will have several lieutenants."
The doctor nodded approvingly.
"I should not dare to order his removal, even if we knew that he had
friends in the neighbourhood."
"Pray do not think of such a thing," said Aline hastily. "The fact
that he met with his accident near our doors is his claim upon us.
Heaven forbid that we should grudge him anything we can do!"
I saw Dr. Rivers, who is a bachelor, look at her with a very distinct
glance of admiration.
"It is curious that no one seems to know him," he said, looking down
at the unconscious face of his patient. "Of course, he may have
ridden some distance to the meet, yet his horse seemed fresh, and was
well in front all the time."
"He must be the stranger within the gates till he can speak for
himself," Aline replied. "Only, I pray that no one may be in
tortures of suspense about his absence."
Dr. Rivers had already turned out the young fellow's pockets, in a
vain search for a clue to his identity. A silver cigar-case with an
intricate monogram, a handkerchief with the same lettering, a
match-box, a pair of gloves; these told us nothing. We must wait for
time to clear up the mystery.
After Dr. Rivers had gone, and Oona was installed in the sick-room, I
crept in softly to where she sat beside the fire, sewing and crooning
to herself, just as I remember her when I was three years old.
I came in on tiptoe, but Oona smiled at me reassuringly.
"You needn't be afraid, Miss Hilda, child. He's nearly as sound off
as if he were dead. It would take nearly as much to waken him."
I looked at the face in the shadow of the chintz curtains. It was a
fair, boyish face, with something very sweet and captivating about
it, even through its rigid pallor. A small golden moustache hid the
quiet mouth, and the hair was golden. The lids were only half-closed
over the eyes, so that I was startled a minute.
"He looks as if he were dead, Oona," I cried, starting back.
"He's not dead, Miss Hilda, don't you be afraid of that; and what's
more, he's not going to die."
"He is very handsome," I said, venturing on another glance.
"He is,--a downright pretty young gentleman," said Oona; and the
phrase seemed the right one. His was an almost feminine charm and
sweetness.
Ever since the accident I had been troubled by the foolish thing I
had been saying to Esther just at the moment it happened. Of course
it was only a jest, and could have had no possible effect; a silly
joke couldn't have made the bay put its foot in a rabbit-hole.
Still, I felt horribly disquieted about it, and only hoped that
Esther had not heard me, as she certainly had not seemed to.
"It would be horrible, Oona," said I, "if your banshee had been
crying for him."
Oona looked at me almost with contempt.
"'Tis English he is, by the cut of him," she said. "I never heard
tell of an English family that she followed."
Oona shook her head and sighed, and I knew that she was thinking the
mysterious warning betokened death for one of us. It made me feel
rather creepy, so I went out, closing the door, and in search of
Esther.
I found her lying down. She had a headache, she said, and she looked
flushed and ill at ease.
"Dear old Essie," I said as I patted her pillows, "the shock of
seeing the accident has upset you. You must try and sleep, and then
you will be better."
I felt a little lost for want of Esther's company, as I stole down to
Aline's room. Finding it empty, I crept into a corner by the fire
and lost my sense of loneliness in a novel. But only for a time, for
it wasn't a very convincing novel, and the thing which had happened
to us only this morning was much more interesting.
Presently my novel slipped from my knee, and I sat with my chin
propped in my hands, looking into the heart of the cosy driftwood
fire. All of a sudden an illumination came to me. Why, the boy
upstairs was, must be, Sir Rupert's grandson. How amazing that
nobody should have thought of it but me!
"This makes a horribly awkward complication," I thought, having made
up my mind on the first matter. "If Aline recognizes the probability
of my guess, she will think it her duty to send word to Sir Rupert.
I feel quite sure that Sir Rupert is wicked and determined enough to
remove the young fellow at the risk of his life. He wouldn't be
beholden to a Brandon for anything. Then, if the removal didn't kill
him, the tender mercies of Castle Angry would be sure to do it."
I shuddered to think of the poor young fellow lying ill at Castle
Angry. Why, Sir Rupert or James Gaskin might kill him in one of
their orgies. There was something helpless and appealing in my
memory of the quiet young face that went to my heart.
"I shall keep my counsel," I said aloud, as I have a habit of doing.
"I may be right or wrong, but it seems to me that no harm can lie in
silence."
So not even to Esther did I whisper my suspicions; but I was
surprised at the density of everybody except myself. Even the boys,
who told us first that Sir Rupert's grandson had come home, exhausted
their conjectures about the stranger's identity, and never once
stumbled near the truth.