The Graftons: A Novel

by Archibald Marshall

With her heart in her mouth she clambered out of the hollow and then saw him lying half in and half out of it, with his face white and dead, and his body underneath the heavy branch that had struck her down.

She found herself struggling with all her might to lift the weight from him, and then came suddenly to herself and ran as fast as she could down the hill to get help. Her face was bruised and bleeding, and her arm hung by her side useless, though she knew that it was not broken. She was hurt, too, where it had been pressed into her body, and every breath she drew was a sharp twinge. But she ran the whole way to the house, and managed to give clear and quick instructions to the men she found in the stables. She would have gone up with them, but Miss Waterhouse, who had seen her running across the park, came out and insisted upon her coming in. When she got indoors she collapsed, for she was rather badly hurt.

Bradby was hurt very seriously. He had seen the bough crack and begin to fall, directly towards where they were standing. Caroline was standing with her back towards it. He might have got out of the way himself, but there would have been no time to warn her, or even drag her out of danger. To throw her into the hollow was the only chance, and the bough caught him before he could jump in after her. The fallen trunk fortunately took the weight of the great bough, which if it had fallen to the ground must have killed them both. But the branch, an elbow of which had crushed Caroline, had struck Bradby down. It had broken both his thighs, and he had ribs broken besides, and internal injury which made his life hang in the balance for as long as Caroline took to recover from her lesser hurt.

He was said to be just out of danger when she was well enough to leave her room, and in two days, when she had practically recovered and could go out again, he was said to be going to get quite well, though he would have to lie up for many weeks yet.

He had been moved down to the Abbey, and was installed there with a couple of nurses, one of whom was able to leave him in a week. When Caroline first saw him he had altered so as to give her a shock of dismay. He was thin and gaunt and pale, but his great dark eyes stood out of his face in such a way as to bring out its essential refinement. The immaturity of his features seemed to have been wiped out; he was almost handsome, with his shock of dark hair spread over his pillow, and his long, pale, thin face with the fine eyes.

His mother was with him—a gentle sweet-faced woman, with the same beautiful eyes, but no other resemblance to this ugly duckling of a son. He must have inherited his strength and ruggedness from his father, of whom a photograph stood on his mantelpiece. There were photographs of his brothers and sisters too—good-looking men and girls, more like their mother than he was. His father had come when he was at his worst, but had gone back to his parish, and Caroline had not seen him.

Caroline knew he had saved her life, but found herself unable to say so, or to thank him. And she knew that he didn't want her to. They said very little at her first visit, but it was plain what healing it brought him.

She told Mrs. Bradby what he had done. "It was his quickness that saved me," she said, "and not thinking about himself. Very few people would have been able to think of what to do, and do it, in that fraction of time. The instinct must have been to get out of the way."

His mother must have known his secret. An instinct stronger than that of self-preservation had been at work, and Caroline owed her life to it, and he his injuries.