“Have a care,” said Peregrine, feeling that the two were together on the bank, “or you’ll shove me into the ditch.” He however got well over.
Felix, attempting to “have a care” just when his doing so could be of no avail, gave his horse a pull with the curb as he was preparing for his second spring. The outside ditch was broad and deep and well banked up, and required that an animal should have all his power. It was at such a moment as this that he should have been left to do his work without injudicious impediment from his rider. But poor Graham was thinking only of Orme’s caution, and attempted to stop the beast when any positive and absolute stop was out of the question. The horse made his jump, and, crippled as he was, jumped short. He came with his knees against the further bank, threw his rider, and then in his struggle to right himself rolled over him.
Felix felt at once that he was much hurt—that he had indeed come to grief; but still he was not stunned nor did he lose his presence of mind. The horse succeeded in gaining his feet, and then Felix also jumped up and even walked a step or two towards the head of the animal with the object of taking the reins. But he found that he could not raise his arm, and he found also that he could hardly breathe.
Both Peregrine and Miss Tristram looked back. “There’s nothing wrong I hope,” said the lady; and then she rode on. And let it be understood that in hunting those who are in advance generally do ride on. The lame and the halt and the wounded, if they cannot pick themselves up, have to be picked up by those who come after them. But Peregrine saw that there was no one else coming that way. The memory of young Grubbles’ fate had placed an interdict on that pass out of the wood, which nothing short of the pluck and science of Miss Tristram was able to disregard. Two cavaliers she had carried with her. One she had led on to instant slaughter, and the other remained to look after his fallen brother-in-arms. Miss Tristram in the meantime was in the next field and had settled well down to her work.
“Are you hurt, old fellow?” said Peregrine, turning back his horse, but still not dismounting.
“Not much, I think,” said Graham, smiling. “There’s something wrong about my arm—but don’t you wait.” And then he found that he spoke with difficulty.
“Can you mount again?”
“I don’t think I’ll mind that. Perhaps I’d better sit down.” Then Peregrine Orme knew that Graham was hurt, and jumping off his own horse he gave up all hope of the hunt.
“Here, you fellow, come and hold these horses.” So invoked, a boy who in following the sport had got as far as this ditch did as he was bid, and scrambled over. “Sit down, Graham: there; I’m afraid you are hurt. Did he roll on you?” But Felix merely looked up into his face—still smiling. He was now very pale, and for the moment could not speak. Peregrine came close to him, and gently attempted to raise the wounded limb; whereupon Graham shuddered, and shook his head.
“I fear it is broken,” said Peregrine. Graham nodded his head, and raised his left hand to his breast; and Peregrine then knew that something else was amiss also.
I don’t know any feeling more disagreeable than that produced by being left alone in a field, when out hunting, with a man who has been very much hurt and who is incapable of riding or walking. The hurt man himself has the privilege of his infirmities and may remain quiescent; but you, as his only attendant, must do something. You must for the moment do all, and if you do wrong the whole responsibility lies on your shoulders. If you leave a wounded man on the damp ground, in the middle of winter, while you run away, five miles perhaps, to the next doctor, he may not improbably—as you then think—be dead before you come back. You don’t know the way; you are heavy yourself, and your boots are very heavy. You must stay therefore; but as you are no doctor you don’t in the least know what is the amount of the injury. In your great trouble you begin to roar for assistance; but the woods reecho your words, and the distant sound of the huntsman’s horn, as he summons his hounds at a check, only mocks your agony.
But Peregrine had a boy with him. “Get upon that horse,” he said at last; “ride round to Farmer Griggs, and tell them to send somebody here with a spring cart. He has got a spring cart I know;—and a mattress in it.”
“But I hain’t no gude at roiding like,” said the boy, looking with dismay at Orme’s big horse.
“Then run; that will be better, for you can go through the wood. You know where Farmer Griggs lives. The first farm the other side of the Grange.”
“Ay, ay, I knows where Farmer Griggs lives well enough.”
“Run, then; and if the cart is here in half an hour I’ll give you a sovereign.”
Inspirited by the hopes of such wealth, golden wealth, wealth for a lifetime, the boy was quickly back over the fence, and Peregrine was left alone with Felix Graham. He was now sitting down, with his feet hanging into the ditch, and Peregrine was kneeling behind him. “I am sorry I can do nothing more,” said he; “but I fear we must remain
