Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.
The Last Look Around.
About two years after his marriage, Philip Oldroyd was some five miles from home on the capital cob, a present from Sir John, one of his own breeding, when temptation fell in his way, for the Queen’s hounds came along in full cry, and after them a very full field.
“I must have a gallop for once in a way,” said the doctor, and, yielding to the temptation, away he went, till, feeling he had done enough, he was about to draw rein, when he saw that something was wrong on his left. Cantering up, he was directly after one of a group helping to free a lady from her fallen horse, which was struggling frantically to extricate itself from a ditch into which both had come down.
A gate was brought, the lady borne to the nearest cottage, and Oldroyd’s services eagerly accepted.
“Badly injured,” he said, after a rapid examination. “Someone had better ride over and get a carriage from the nearest place—an open carriage in which a hurdle and mattress can be laid. I’ll stay and do my best, but I should telegraph to town for Sir Randall Bray. An operation will be necessary. Are any of the lady’s friends here?”
“No; but I saw Major Rolph leading the field half-an-hour ago. This is Mrs Rolph.”
Oldroyd started, and bent down over the insensible woman for a moment, at the same time softly pressing back the thick, dark hair from her clammy brow, and there were the lineaments he had not before recognised; it was the face of the keeper’s daughter, softened and refined, though now terribly drawn with pain.