“Gypsy is eating grass very comfortably in the lane,” said Mary, trying to speak in a cheerful, matter-of-fact tone. “It is I that am holding you, Miss Cheviott—I, Mary Western. Gypsy was very naughty; she threw you off, and I was just a little way behind and saw you.”
“Gypsy threw me off,” repeated Alys, slowly. “Oh, yes, I remember; she ran away.” A little shudder ran through her. “It is my own fault. Laurence said she was too fresh for me to-day. And you are Miss Western—how strange!”
“Mary Western,” the girl corrected.
“Yes, I know; I know your voice. How strange it should be you! I am very thankful. How long might I not have lain here without any one knowing? But my back—oh! Mary, what can I have done to my back?”
“I hope it is only strained, or bruised, perhaps,” said Mary, very gently, touched by Miss Cheviott’s unconscious use of her first name. “I have sent to the farm—Edge Farm—your cousin’s house, you know, for help; we are close to it.”
“Oh, yes, I know. I wanted to see it, and I thought a long ride would take it out of Gypsy. Poor Arthur, how sorry he will be if I am badly hurt!”
Something in her words struck Mary. Could it be true, then, that Captain Beverley was engaged to this girl? But what a time for such speculations! Mary checked herself, with a feeling almost of horror.
“What can have become of Thwaites? My groom, I mean,” said Alys, suddenly. “He was close behind me when Gypsy started off.”
“He must have taken a wrong turn,” said Mary. “Most likely he dared not follow too close, and must have lost sight of you. I wish some one would come. Do you think I could hold you more easily anyhow?”
“Oh, no; no, thank you, I mean,” said Alys, nervously. “Don’t move; that’s the only thing you can do for me. Don’t move the very least, please. Miss Western.”