Читать книгу Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Уровень 2 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall - Эмили Бронте, Энн Бронте - Страница 15

Next morning I mounted my horse. It was a dull, drizzly day. As I trotted along, I heard another horse at no great distance behind me. It was Mr. Lawrence! He began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the briefest possible answers to his queries and observations. He asked if my horse was lame. I replied with a look, at which he placidly smiled.

“Markham,” said he, “why do you quarrel with your friends? Your hopes are defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I warned you beforehand, you know, but you – ”

I seized my whip by the small end, and brought the other down upon his head. He reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell backward to the ground.

I left the fellow to his fate, and galloped away. Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and I turned and went back. It was no generous impulse; it was, simply, the voice of conscience.

Mr. Lawrence and his pony both altered their positions in some degree. The pony wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road. He was looking very white and sickly, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than white) to his head.

I dismounted, fastened my horse to the nearest tree, and picked up his hat. I was going to clap it on his head. But he took it from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.

“It's good enough for you,” I muttered.

Then I wanted to catch his pony and bring it to him.

“Here, you fellow – scoundrel – dog – give me your hand, and I'll help you to mount.”

No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm. He shrank away.

“Well! You may sit there till doomsday.”

“Let me alone, if you please.”

“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the devil – and say I sent you.”

I threw him my handkerchief, as his own was saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence and contempt. I remounted my horse and trotted away to the town.

Bad news flies fast. It was hardly four o'clock when I got home, but my mother gravely accosted me with,

“Oh, Gilbert! Such an accident! Rose was shopping in the village, and she heard that Mr. Lawrence was thrown from his horse. He is dying!”

This shocked me.

“You must go and see him tomorrow,” said my mother.

“Or today,” suggested Rose: “there's plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as your horse is tired.”

“Fergus may go.”

“Why not you?”

“He has more time. I am busy just now.”

“Oh! Gilbert, how can you be so indifferent? Your friend is dying!”

“He is not, I tell you.”

I sent Fergus next morning, with my mother's compliments, to make the requisite inquiries. The young squire had a broken head and a severe cold; but there were no broken bones.