54. CHAPTER LIV.
THE RESULT OF RIDING AN UNBROKEN COLT.
It was a little past noon, on the day of the scene just described.
Church at “Old St. John's,” within a mile of Blandfield, was
over, and the congregation, warned by the gloomy and lowering
sky, hastened to enter their vehicles, and return home before the
snow-storm which was plainly impending.
The Indian summer was dead. The dreamy sunshine which had
fallen on the world, like a last farewell of the golden summer, or
the pensive autumn, had faded now, withdrawing itself, and any
one could understand that winter, stern and harsh and gloomy,
was about to assert his rights, and cover the earth with his mantle
of snow. It was felt in the air. There was no wind; it was not
very cold; a sort of hush was in the atmosphere; the sun was
scarcely visible—a hazy globe of wan light, fading into mist.
St Leger had left Harley and Sainty to ride to Oakhill, and had
gone on horseback to attend church. It was his English habit, and
he rarely omitted going when it was in his power. Dismounting
and carefully affixing the bridle of his horse to a swinging-limb—
for he was riding a very fine young colt of Harley's but half-broken
to the saddle—he entered the old edifice, took his seat in one of the
high-backed pews, composed himself into an attitude of grave attention,
and listened with decorous bearing to the somewhat commonplace
sermon of the aged parson in his high, tub-shaped pulpit,
with the sounding-board above it, resembling a gigantic extinguisher.
St. Leger had seen from the numerous coaches standing around
the church, in charge of their coachman, that a considerable number
of the old planters of the region, with their families, were present,
and among the rest he had recognized the coach from Blandfield,
whose guardian had respectfully touched his hat and offered
to see that his spirited colt did not break away. Seated now in his
pew, St. Leger looked around; saw Evelyn and the whole family
from Blandfield—with the exception of the aged Mrs. Bland, who
had a dread of horses and would never trust herself behind them—
and wondering a little at the pallor of Evelyn's cheeks, proceeded
to look at other young ladies out of the corners of his eyes, while
apparently wrapped in the discourse of the old parson.
All at once he lost sight of the old parson, and turned his head
quickly. In one of the spacious pews, and leaning against a pillar,
he saw Fanny and beside her Puccoon, who had donned his least-ragged
coat in honor of the occasion. Fanny had asked him to
accompany her, on the long walk from the cabin to “Old St.
John s,” and they had set out early, leaving the hut in charge of
the Lady of the Snow,who had said that she was not strong enough
to walk so far.
St. Leger gazed at Fanny with suspicious intentness—his heart
was beating in the strangest way! The fair hair, falling in profuse
curls upon the round neck just a little drooping forward, was
crowned by a modest chip-hat, secured beneath the chin by a blue
ribbon. The young cheeks were touched by the most delicate rose-tint;
and Fanny's blue eyes, full of sweetness and innocence, were
fixed upon the preacher.
During all the service and the sermon, St. Leger looked at her;
and any one who had seen his tell-tale glances would have understood
that this mere child, in her rustic dress, made the world
brighter and life more sweet to the youth who had mingled with
countesses, flirted the fans of court beauties, and laughed at his
friends when they came to tell him of their “affairs of the heart.”
It was a marvel—a mystery; but so it was. St. Leger's heart sank
when he thought “I shall go away soon and never see her again—
she is no fit mate for me—we part soon and forever!” And, feeling
that this woe impended—that he would in a few days return to
Europe—he gazed at her with all his soul in his eyes, blushed like
a boy, and heard nothing more until there was suddenly a loud
rustling of dresses as the congregation rose, and the benediction
was pronounced by the parson.
The church emptied itself of its brilliant throng. St. Leger came
out, glancing furtively over his shoulder toward Fanny. He shrunk
from accosting her. His guilty conscience forbade him. He bowed
to the young ladies of his acquaintance, saluted the gentlemen
whom he knew in a friendly way, and went and mounted his colt,
who had trampled a wide circle in the grass, while impatiently
waiting for his rider.
As soon as St. Leger mounted, the colt began to spring sidewise,
to rear, and to bite at the air. The young man was an excellent
horseman. His spur dug its way into the colt's side, and the animal
shivered, half with fear, half with rage. He then leaped sidewise
to a distance of about ten feet; then he darted out of the enclosure
around the church, and—
St. Leger heard a faint cry, and saw a girl fall, struck violently
by the chest of the animal and hurled to the ground. He looked—
the girl was Fanny. She was lying insensible, with Puccoon
rushing toward her, and the Blandfield coachman violently holding
in his four horses to prevent them from running over her.
The young man never knew how he stopped his colt, was on the
ground, and had Fanny in his arms. The real fact was that he had
nearly broken the jaw of the animal, who, arrested by that savage
assault on his mouth, had stopped short, cowed, and trembling from
head to foot.
“Fanny!”
The words had escaped from St. Leger's lips in a sort of groan.
He held her clasped to his breast, kneeling on one knee, and
supporting her upon the other. She opened her eyes, and looked
at him, while the crowd hurried, as crowds will, to shut off the
fresh air.
“I am—not much hurt!”
The faltering voice went to his heart. He looked at her pale
face with agony.
“And I—I—!”
Puccoon put his arm around the child, and looked at her with
the eyes of a father, his frame trembling. Suddenly he groaned.
Her sleeve was bloody, and her hand hung down.
“Her arm is broken!” groaned Puccoon.
A voice at his shoulder—the voice of a young lady—said:
“You must put her in the carriage! We must take her home!”
It was Evelyn, who had impulsively sprung out and hastened to
the spot. She was looking at Fanny with deep pity and sweetness.
“We will take care of her! She cannot move!”
St. Leger did not waste time. He raised the girl in his arms,
carried her to the coach, and placed her in it. Puccoon had followed
in sort of maze, and the first thing he heard was—
“Get in my friend! There is room for all of us. Your little girl
must go to my house, which is not far. She is suffering.”
It was the voice of Judge Bland. Puccoon got in and held
Fanny, and the Judge and Evelyn having followed, the coach rolled
on slowly to Blandfield, followed by St. Leger, whose horse had
been caught by a servant when he leaped to the ground.
Two hours afterwards Fanny's broken arm was set, and she was
in bed, with Evelyn and Miss Clementina fanning her.
At the moment when the chariot had reached the Blandfield gate,
the snow had begun to fall, slowly, steadily, with the air of a snow
which had made up its mind to take its time, and in an hour afterwards
the whole world was one great mass of white.
