He repressed it as unfaithfulness, but it kept returning.
He could not go with them--there was no horse for him, and to go on
foot, would, he feared, spoil their ride. He was so much afraid also
of presuming on lady Arctura's regard for him, that he would have
shrunk from offering had it been more feasible. He got a book, and
strolled into the park, not even going to see them off: Forgue might
be about the stable, and make things unpleasant!
Had Forgue been about the stable, he would, I think, have somehow
managed to prevent the ride, for Larkie, though much better, was not
yet cured of his lameness. Arctura did not know he had been lame, or
that he had therefore been very little exercised, and was now rather
wild, with a pastern-joint far from equal to his spirit. There was
but a boy about the stable, who either did not understand, or was
afraid to speak: she rode in a danger of which she knew nothing. The
consequence was that, jumping the merest little ditch in a field
outside the park, they had a fall. The horse got up and trotted
limping to the stable; his mistress lay where she fell. Davie, wild
with misery, galloped home. From the height of the park Donal saw
him tearing along, and knew something was amiss. He ran, got over
the wall, found the pony's track, and following it, came where
Arctura lay.
There was a little clear water in the ditch: he wet his
handkerchief, and bathed her face.
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