“Not much,” answered the fallen man, staggering to his feet, hatless, and with a dazed look. “I’m afraid my horse is done for, though, poor old chap.”
In that moment his only thought was of the beast he had been fond of, which had been to him as a friend, albeit often an unmanageable one. He had no thought just then of the money value of that doubled-up mass lying in the ditch.
Mahmud had finished his course. His forearm was broken, and the most merciful thing was to make a swift end of him with a bullet from a gun which one of the whips fetched from the nearest farmhouse. His owner stood by him and waited for the end, while Juliet and the rest of the hunt galloped away out of sight. When the shot had been fired the black horse was left to be carted off to the kennels, and Harrington turned to walk slowly and sorrowfully to the farmhouse, where he was promised a trap to convey him to the “Medlow Arms.”
Then and then only did he discover that he had dislocated his shoulder, and was suffering acute agony, and then and then only did he remember the acceptance which he had given for the black horse.
Where now were the fifty pounds which he had reckoned upon getting for the animal at Tattersall’s, trusting to Providence, or old Hayfield, to make up the balance of thirty. He saw himself now with that horrible acceptance falling due and no assets.
He got back to the rustic inn, with great suffering, and laid himself down upon the stony-hearted four-poster instead of dressing to go and dine at Medlow. The village surgeon came and attended to his shoulder, a painful business, though not unskilfully done; and then he was told he must keep himself as quiet as possible for a few days, and must not think of travelling till the inflammation was reduced. It was his right shoulder on which he had fallen, and he was utterly helpless. The handy young man of the “Medlow Arms” had to valet him and assist him to eat the tough mutton chop which was served to him in lieu of all the delicacies of Medlow Court.
A messenger came from that hospitable mansion at ten o’clock with a little note from Juliet.
“Why did you not turn up at dinner-time? Major Swanwick said you were all right. I waited till I saw you get up, safe and sound. So sorry for poor old Mahmud. Come to breakfast to-morrow and tell us all about it. We killed in a quarter of an hour.—Yours, Juliet.”
Harrington sent his best regards to Miss Baldwin and his apologies to Lady Burdenshaw, and begged to inform them that he had dislocated his shoulder, and was unable to write.
He had a miserable night—sleepless and in pain—haunted by the ghost of Mahmud, whose miserable end afflicted him sorely, and troubled by the perplexities of his financial position. Should he tell his father the whole truth? Alas, it seemed only yesterday that he had told his father the whole truth about his college debts; and though truthfulness is a great virtue, a second burst of candour coming on the heels of the first might be too much for Mr. Dalbrook’s patience.