“No, no; not much, I hope,” he said, springing up, but looking very pale. “It’s an awkward blow rather, but don’t distress yourself—we’ll make the best of our way home at once—just one of you see to the horses.”
He spoke with effort, for he was evidently in great pain. Mary’s heart ached for him, but exhaustion and anxiety quite deprived her of the power of speaking or thinking collectively.
The horses were speedily brought. Frank held out his uninjured arm to help Mary Oliphant to mount her pony.
“I’m so very, very sorry,” she said, “to have caused this disaster, and spoiled our happy day through my foolish timidity.”
“Nay, nay; you must not blame yourself,” said Frank. “I am sure we all feel for you. It was that rascal of a dog that did the mischief, but I gave him such a mark of my respect as I don’t think he’ll part with for a long time.”
Poor Frank, he tried to be cheerful; but it was plain to all that he must be suffering severely. They were soon on their way home, but a cloud rested on their spirits. Few words were said till they reached the spot where the roads to the hall and the rectory parted. Then Frank turned to Mary and said, with a look full of tenderness, rendered doubly touching by his almost ghastly paleness,—
“Farewell; I hope you’ll be none the worse, dear Mary, for your fright. I shall send over to-morrow to inquire how you are. It was a happy escape.”
“Good-bye, good-bye!” she cried; “a thousand thanks for your noble and timely rescue! Oh, I hope—I hope—”
She could not say more, but burst into tears.
“All right—never fear for me!” he cried cheerily as he rode off, leaving Mary and a groom to make their way to Waterland, while himself and the rest of the party hastened on to Greymoor Park.