Before they could come, however, he himself had crossed to the hall-door, and opened it, saying, "Come in, whoever you are!--What is it you want, good fellow? I know your face. Whose servant are you?"
"The Lady Arabella's, Sir Harry," replied the man; "but we want help quickly. Her horse has fallen in this dark night; and, though she says she is not hurt, yet we all fear it is but to give us comfort."
"Bring lanterns! bring lanterns!" cried Sir Harry, vehemently. "Lakyn! Matthew! Dick! Here, William Seymour, come with me. Here is that dear, beautiful girl, with her horse down, and herself hurt. Patience and mercy! what made her ride out in such a night as this?"
But William Seymour was by this time at the hall-door.
"I will go, I will go!" he exclaimed. "Stay you, Sir Harry. Send down the lanterns. I will go."
And, without waiting to catch up cloak or hat, he ran out over the terrace and through the garden, passed the little gate, and hurried on down the narrow road which kept along the stream. He had not far to go, however; for about half way between the house and the London road, he came suddenly upon a group of three human beings and five horses standing together, with the rain pouring down upon them in as heavy a stream as our somewhat weeping and uncertain skies ever let flow upon a hapless traveller.
"Are you hurt?--are you hurt?" exclaimed the young gentleman, addressing the taller of the two women who formed parts of the group.
"No, indeed," replied the lady; "very little, if at all. I know your voice, sir, though I see you are not my old friend, Sir Harry West. Good heaven! can it be Mr. Seymour?"
"The same, lady, and ever the humblest of your servants," replied the young gentleman. "Pray, let me assist you to the house. There are people coming with lanterns directly. Let me support you."
Arabella gave him her hand without any sign of unwillingness; and he led her on with care, asking again, in a low voice, as soon as they were some ten or twenty steps from her attendants, "Are you hurt?"