“I will join you,” said Arthur to his friends; “my groom has the direction. I will just take the poor old man home, and send for a surgeon. I shall not be long.”
“So like you, Beaufort: the best fellow in the world!” said Mr. Watson, with some emotion. “And there’s Marsden positively, dismounted, and looking at his horse’s knees as if they could be hurt! Here’s a sovereign for you, my man.”
“And here’s another,” said Sir Harry; “so that’s settled. Well, you will join us, Beaufort? You see the yard yonder. We’ll wait twenty minutes for you. Come on, Watson.” The old man had not picked up the sovereigns thrown at his feet, neither had he thanked the donors. And on his countenance there was a sour, querulous, resentful expression.
“Must a man be a beggar because he is run over, or because he is half blind?” said he, turning his dim, wandering eyes painfully towards Arthur. “Well, I wish I had my dog!”
“I will supply his place,” said Arthur, soothingly. “Come, lean on me—heavier; that’s right. You are not so bad,—eh?”
“Um!—the sovereigns!—it is wicked to leave them in the kennel!”
Arthur smiled. “Here they are, sir.”
The old man slid the coins into his pocket, and Arthur continued to talk, though he got but short answers, and those only in the way of direction, till at last the old man stopped at the door of a small house near the churchyard.
After twice ringing the bell, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman, whose appearance was above that of a common menial; dressed, somewhat gaily for her years, in a cap seated very far back on a black touroet, and decorated with red ribands, an apron made out of an Indian silk handkerchief, a puce-coloured sarcenet gown, black silk stockings, long gilt earrings, and a watch at her girdle.
“Bless us and save us, sir! What has happened?” exclaimed this worthy personage, holding up her hands.