“We all have our foibles, have we not, Aurea, my child?”
“Oh, I know that, Susan, and I——”
Whatever Aurea was going to add was cut short by her aunt’s piercing scream. From some thick bushes on the left bank, a tall figure had shot out; there was a lightning rush, a shout from the chauffeur, who jammed on the brake, then a violent swerve, an upheaval, and a sickening, crunching sensation.
A man had deliberately flung himself in front of the car, which had gone over him, then stopped abruptly, shuddering throughout its rickety frame.
The driver sprang off and dragged from beneath the wheels a limp and motionless body. Yes, his vague fears had been justified.
“It’s Captain Ramsay!” he called to Aurea, who had already hurled herself into the road. “I’m afraid he is done for. Stay where you are.”
As he spoke, he raised a limp and bleeding figure in his arms, which he carried to the hedgerow; next, he took off his coat and laid him upon it, and ran and lit a motor lamp. All his actions were surprisingly prompt and vigorous.
“Now, will you come over here, miss?” he called to Susan authoritatively, but she was almost beside him. In a crisis, simple, talkative Susan was another person, and could rise to the occasion. “And you, Miss Morven, try and find some water—we passed a stream just now; bring it in anything—your hat or—yes, the salad bowl! I’m afraid it’s a bad business,” he continued, “and his head is all cut—and his wrist—it’s an artery. Miss Susan, fetch a stick quickly, quickly, and I’ll make a tourniquet.”
The chauffeur seemed to have taken complete command of the situation; he ordered the ladies hither and thither, he bandaged up Captain Ramsay’s head with Aurea’s white scarf—which he tore into strips—whilst Aurea stood by, eager to help, but trembling like an aspen. She had never heard a man moan, or witnessed such a scene.
“I think I’ve fixed him up just for the moment,” said Owen, rising, “and now I’ll fetch the doctor. You two ladies won’t mind stopping, will you?”