Sprig Muslin

Amanda was on her knees beside him. He had fallen on his left side, and she had seen that his hand had been pressed to that shoulder, and, exerting all her strength, she managed to pull him over on to his back. She then saw the charred rent in his coat, and, far more terrifying, the ominous stain that was rapidly spreading. She tried to pull the coat away from that shoulder, but Sir Gareth’s coats were all too well cut. She cried out: ‘Help me, one of you! Help me!’ and began with feverish haste to rip off Sir Gareth’s neckcloth. The post-boy hesitated. His horses, no fiery steeds, had quietened, but his eyes were fixed wrathfully on the supposed highwayman, and he seemed more than half inclined to go to him rather than to Amanda. She looked round, while her hands folded and refolded Sir Gareth’s neckcloth into a pad, and said furiously: ‘Help me, I said!’

‘Yes, miss, but – is he to be let make off?’ the post-boy said, taking a reluctant step towards her, but keeping his glowering eyes on Hildebrand.

‘No, no!’ Hildebrand uttered hoarsely. ‘I won’t – I wouldn’t – !’

‘Never mind, never mind, come here!’ Amanda commanded, thrusting her hand, with the pad held in it, inside Sir Gareth’s coat.

The post-boy went to her, but when he saw Sir Gareth’s pallor, and the blood-soaked coat, he thought he was dead, and muttered involuntarily: ‘Gawd, he’s snuffed it!’

‘Lift him!’ Amanda said, her teeth clenched to control their chattering. ‘Lift him, and get his coat off! I’ll help you as much as I am able, but I must keep my hand pressed to the wound!’

‘It ain’t no manner of use, miss!’

‘Do as I bid you!’ she said angrily. ‘He’s not dead! He is bleeding dreadfully, and I know he would not if he were dead! Oh, hurry!’

He cast her a look of compassion, but he obeyed her, raising Sir Gareth in his arms, and contriving, with a little assistance from her, to strip the coat off. She did her best to keep her determined little hand pressed hard over the wound, but the bright red blood welled up, dyeing her fingers scarlet, and dripping on to her light muslin skirt. Mr Ross, his horse at last under his control, turned to see what aid he could render, and beheld this horrid sight. With a shaking hand, he stripped off his improvised mask, and flung it down. Had either Amanda or the post-boy had leisure to look at him, they would have seen that his face was almost as white as his victim’s. His lips parted stickily, he swallowed convulsively, took one wavering step forward, and sank without a sound on to the dusty road.

The post-boy glanced up quickly, and his jaw dropped. ‘Well, I’ll be gormed!’ he ejaculated. ‘Lord love me, if he ain’t gone off in a swound! A fine rank-rider he is!’

‘Take his neckcloth off!’ Amanda said.‘Quick!’

The post-boy snorted. ‘Let him lay!’

‘Yes, yes, but bring me his neckcloth! This is not enough! Oh, hurry, hurry!’

He still thought that all her labour would be in vain, but he did as she bade him, only pausing beside Hildebrand’s inanimate form for long enough to wrench the second pistol out of the saddle-holster, and to thrust it into the bosom of his own tightly fitting jacket. Prince started uneasily, and flung up his head, but the placidity of the post-horses seemed to reassure him, and he remained standing by his master’s body.

Amanda had succeeded in reducing the flow of blood, but it was still welling up under the soaked pad. Panic gripped her. The post-boy was obedient, but slow to understand her orders, and he appeared to be incapable of acting on his own initiative; Hildebrand, who should have rushed to her aid, had fainted instead, and was only just beginning to show signs of recovery. Furious with them both, frightened out of her wits, she wanted more than anything to scream. Pride and obstinacy came to her rescue: she was the daughter of a soldier, and she meant to become the wife of a soldier; and own herself beaten she would not. She overcame her rising hysteria after a struggle that made her feel weak and rather sick, and forced her shocked mind to concentrate. Sir Gareth had been hit in the hollow of his shoulder, and a much larger pad than one made by folding a neckcloth must be bound tightly in place before she dared relax the pressure of her desperate little hands. She looked round helplessly, unable for a moment to think of anything; then she remembered that Sir Gareth’s portmanteaux were strapped on the back of the chaise, and she ordered the post-boy to unstrap them. ‘Shirts! Yes, shirts! There must be shirts! And more neckcloths to tie it in place – get them!’

The post-boy unstrapped the portmanteaux, but hesitated, saying: ‘They’ll be locked, surely!’

‘Break the locks, then!’ she said impatiently. ‘Oh, if there were only someone who could help me!’

By this time, Hildebrand had struggled up. He was sick, and dizz

y, and his legs shook under him, but Amanda’s anguished cry pulled him together. The blood rushed up into his face; he said thickly, engulfed in shame: ‘I’ll do it!’ and went unsteadily to where the post-boy had set one of the portmanteaux down on the road.

‘Ho, yes?’ said that individual, bristling. ‘You will, will you? And make off with the gentleman’s goods, I daresay!’

‘Idiot!’ The word burst from Amanda. ‘Can’t you see he’s not a highwayman? Let him get at that case! I – I command you!’

She sounded so fierce that the post-boy gave way instinctively. The portmanteau was not locked, and with trembling hands Hildebrand flung back the lid, and began to toss over Sir Gareth’s effects. He found shirts, and many neckcloths, and a large sponge, at sight of which Amanda exclaimed: ‘Oh, yes, yes! Tie that up in a shirt, tight, tight, and bring it to me! Oh, no, give it to the post-boy, and whatever you do, Hildebrand, don’t look this way, or you will go off again in a faint, and there is no time to waste in fainting!’

He was too much overcome to answer her, but although he dared not let his eyes stray towards her he could do what she asked, and could even knot several of the neckcloths together. Between them, Amanda and the post-boy contrived to bind the improvised swab tightly in place; and while they worked, Amanda demanded to be told where the nearest inn, or house could be found. The post-boy at first could think of nothing nearer than Bedford, which was some eight miles distant, but upon being adjured pretty sharply to find his wits he said that there was an inn at Little Staughton, a mile down the cross-road. He added that it wasn’t fit for the likes of Sir Gareth, upon which, Amanda, wrought up to a dangerous pitch of exasperation, told him he was a cloth-headed gapeseed, an unladylike utterance which was culled from her grandfather’s vocabulary, and which considerably startled the post-boy. She directed him to strap up the portmanteaux again; and while he was doing it, she turned her attention to Hildebrand, informing him that he must help to lift Sir Gareth into the chaise. ‘It is of no avail to tell me you can’t, because you must!’ she said severely. ‘And I forbid you to faint until Sir Gareth is safely bestowed! You may then do so, if you wish, but I can’t stay for you, so you must take care of yourself. And I shan’t have the least compunction in leaving you, for this is all your fault, and now, when we are in this fix, you become squeamish, which puts me out of all patience with you!’

The unhappy Hildebrand stammered: ‘Of course I will help to lift him! I don’t wish to faint: I can’t help but do so!’

‘You can do anything if only you will have a little resolution!’ she told him.

This bracing treatment had its effect upon him. He could not but shudder when his eyes fell on her bloodstained gown, but he quickly averted them, choked down his nausea, and silently prayed that he might not again disgrace himself. The prayer was answered. Sir Gareth was lifted as tenderly as was possible into the chaise, where Amanda received him, and Hildebrand was still on his feet. This unlooked-for triumph put a little heart into him, and he suddenly looked very much less hang-dog, and said that he would ride on ahead to warn them at the inn to prepare to house a badly wounded man.

Amanda warmly approved this suggestion, but the post-boy, who still felt that Hildebrand was a dangerous rogue, opposed it, even going to the length of pulling out the pistol from his jacket. Hildebrand, he said, would ride immediately in front of him, so that he could put a bullet through him if he tried to gallop away.

‘What a detestably stupid creature you are!’ exclaimed Amanda. ‘It was all a jest – a wager! Oh, I can’t explain it to you now, but Sir Gareth knew it was an accident! You heard him say so! Yes, and you don’t suppose he would call a real highwayman a young fool, do you? Doesn’t that show you that he knew him? And he won’t try to escape, because I assure you he is excessively fond of Sir Gareth. Go at once, Hildebrand! And get on your horse, and follow him, and oh, pray, pray drive carefully!’

‘Shoot me if you wish!’ Hildebrand said, seizing his horse’s bridle. ‘I don’t care! I’d rather that than be hanged, or transported!’

With these reckless words, he mounted Prince, clapped his heels to the horse’s flanks, and shot off down the lane.