Then—“Oh! Mary,” cried Francie, “it’s a horse that’s runned away—and look, Mary, there’s a lady on it. Oh! I’m sure she will be tumbled off,” and Francie burst out sobbing with mingled fear, pity, and excitement.
It was too true—though it all seemed to Mary to pass in an instantaneous flash—the horse dashed past the gate—how glad Mary afterwards felt that she had placed herself and her little sister too far out of sight for their presence to have been the cause of what happened—flew down the lane till an open gate and a cart just coming out of a field seemed to bring its terror to a climax. It swerved suddenly, how or why exactly no one could tell, and the slight, swaying figure in the saddle was seen to fall—heavily, lifelessly to the ground—but, thank Heaven, thought Mary, clear of the stirrup. There was not added to the spectacle, terrible enough as it was, the unspeakable horror of a prostrate figure dragged along the ground—of a fair face battered beyond recognition upon the stones.
No one seemed to be at hand to give any assistance—the horse continued for a while his headlong course down the lane; then, after the manner of its kind, having done all the mischief it could, stopped short, and in a few minutes was quietly nibbling the grass as if nothing had happened.
But Mary gave little attention to the horse, her whole thoughts flew to the motionless figure lying there in a dark heap, where it had been thrown—so still, so dreadfully still—that was all that Mary could distinguish, as, overcoming the first natural but selfish instinct which would have made her shrink away from a sight possibly of horror, certainly of sadness, she ran down the lane, closely followed by little Francie, who would not be left behind.
“Is the poor lady killed, Mary, does you think?” she said, when her sister had stooped to examine the face half hidden by the long habit skirt which had dropped over it in the fall.
“Run back, Francie. Stay over there by the gate, and be sure to tell me if you see any one coming. No, I don’t think she’s killed, but she’s very badly hurt, I fear,” said Mary, “and, oh, Francie, I know who she is. She’s that pretty lady that came to church that Sunday—do you remember? Mr Cheviott’s sister,” she murmured to herself. “How strange!”
Francie had already run off to her post of observation. Mary, afraid though she was of further complicating the unknown injury by anything she might ignorantly do to help poor Alys, yet could not bear to see the fair head lying on the careless ground. Slowly and cautiously she raised it on to her own knee, supporting the girl’s shoulder with one arm, while with the other she tenderly wiped away the dust and grass stains disfiguring the pallid cheek. The girl’s eyes were closed, to all appearances she was still perfectly unconscious, but in the moving, carefully though it was done, a slight spasm of pain contracted her features for a moment. Mary shivered at the sight.
“It may be her spine that is injured,” she thought to herself, “her arms are not broken, and I don’t think her head is hurt. Oh dear, oh dear, if only some one would come! If I had some water, or some eau de cologne, or anything—I don’t think I shall ever again laugh at Alexa for carrying about a scent-bottle in her pocket. Francie,” she called, softly. Francie was beside her in a moment.
“Nobody’s coming,” she whispered. “Oh, Mary, couldn’t I run home and fetch somebody? The horse wouldn’t run after me, would it?” with a little shudder of fright.
“You good little girl,” said Mary, approvingly. “No, dear, I don’t think you could run home. It is too far for you to go alone. But let me see—there must be some cottage or farm-house close to—Hilyar’s cottages are quite half a mile off—”