It was a hazard to his liking, and Sir Jasper’s face was keen and ruddy as he clattered down and up the winding track. He was a short mile now from Windyhough, and he eased his mare because she showed signs of trouble.
“We’ve time and to spare, lass,” he muttered, patting her neck. “No need to kill you for the Cause.”
And then—from the midst of his eagerness and hope—a sickness crept over the horseman’s eyes. His left shoulder was on fire, it seemed; and, glancing down, he saw dimly that his riding-coat was splashed with crimson. The mare, feeling no command go out across the reins, yielded to her own weariness, and halted suddenly. Sir Jasper tried to urge her forward; but his hand was weak on the bridle, and the grassy track, the hills, the flakes of sleet, were phantoms moving through a nightmare prison.
He had come to the gate of Intake Farm, and the farmer—Ben Shackleton by name—was striding up the road to gather in some ewes from the higher lands before the snow began to drift in earnest.
“Lord love you, sir!” he said nonchalantly, catching Sir Jasper as he slid helplessly from saddle. “Lord love you, sir, you’re bleeding like a pig!”
“It’s nothing, Ben.” Even now Sir Jasper kept his spacious contempt of pain, his instinct to hide a wound as if it were a crime. “Help me to horse again. My wife needs me—needs me, Ben.”
Then he yielded to sheer sickness for a moment; and Ben Shackleton, who was used to helping lame cattle, grew brisk and business-like. “Here, William!” he called to a shepherd who was slouching in the mistal-yard. “Come lend a hand, thou idle-bones! Here’s master ta’en a hurt, and he’s a bulkier man than me. We’ve got to help him indoors to the lang-settle.”
Sir Jasper, by grace of long training, was able to keep his weakness off for a space of time that seemed to him interminable. He saw Windyhough at the mercy of these ragabouts of Goldstein’s—saw his wife standing, proud, disdainful, pitiful, while they bandied jests from mouth to mouth.
“It’s nothing, Ben, I tell you!” he muttered testily. “Help me to saddle.”
He staggered forward, tried to mount, fell back again into Ben’s arms. And still he would not yield. And then at last he knew that Windyhough would not see him to-day, if ever again; and the pity he had for his wife, left defenceless there by his own doing, was like a knife cutting deep and ceaselessly into his living flesh.