Chapter Twenty Five.
Trouble at Knock.
The Major was lying on the bank of the stream, white and motionless, while Black Bess was pawing the air in agony a few yards away. Esmeralda slipped from her saddle and ran to his side, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her feebly.
“Joan, my girl! That’s right. My—own—fault! I had no business to try it, but I was—mad, I think. That poor beast!” and he turned away his head, unable to look upon the animal’s struggles. “I can’t move. Get a cart—O’Brien’s farm.”
“I’ll go! I can see the chimneys. I’ll bring help at once. I’ll bring back men with me, and we’ll lift him with less pain.”
Hilliard dashed off in the direction of the farm, and Joan knelt down and lifted her father’s head on to her knee. He tried to smile encouragement into the ashen face.
“It might have been worse, dear! She threw me clear of the water, and I’ve no pain. I shall be all right when I get home, and have a rest.”
“Yes, darling, yes. Of course you will,” answered Esmeralda bravely. Accidents in the hunting-field were unfortunately no new thing to her, and her heart died within her as she looked at the helpless limbs, and heard her father’s words. Over and over again had she heard old huntsmen marvel at the unconsciousness of those who were most mortally injured. Absence of pain, combined with loss of power in the limbs, meant serious injury to the spine, yet it seemed as if, with the comparative comfort of the body, there must be a dulling of the mental powers, since the victim frequently congratulated himself on his escape, and seemed to forget the experiences of others!
As Esmeralda sat holding her father’s head on her knee, the future stretched before her, transformed by the accident of a moment. The Major would never again ride by her side, never again mount his horse and gallop over the wide green land; while he lived he must lie even as he lay now, still and straight, a child in the hands of his nurses! Poor father! oh, poor, poor father! what a death in life, to one of his restless nature! what grief, what agony to see his sufferings! The spring would come, and the summer, and the autumn, but there would be no sunshine at Knock Castle, nothing but clouds and darkness, and dull, settled gloom. Esmeralda had been her father’s darling, and had returned his love with all the fervour of a passionate Irish heart, so that the sight of him in his helplessness hurt like a physical pain, and the moments seemed endless until Hilliard returned accompanied by the farmer and three of his men.
An hour later the Major was carried upstairs to his own room in the Castle, and laid gently upon the old four-poster bed. Hilliard had ridden on in advance to prepare the young mistress, and there she stood at the doorway, white to the lips, but smiling still, a smile of almost motherly tenderness as she bent over the prostrate form.