Chapter VIII--The T-Cart

by Bram Stoker

　　When Harold took his degree, Stephen's father took her to Cambridge.She enjoyed the trip very much; indeed, it seemed under conditionsthat were absolutely happy.When they had returned to Normanstand, the Squire took an earlyopportunity of bringing Harold alone into his study. He spoke to himwith what in a very young man would have seemed diffidence:'I have been thinking, Harold, that the time has come when you shouldbe altogether your own master. I am more than pleased, my boy, withthe way you have gone through college; it is, I am sure, just as yourdear father would have wished it, and as it would have pleased himbest.' He paused, and Harold said in a low voice:'I tried hard, sir, to do what I thought he would like; and what youwould.' The Squire went on more cheerfully:'I know that, my boy! I know that well. And I can tell you that itis not the least of the pleasures we have all had in your success,how you have justified yourself. You have won many honours in theschools, and you have kept the reputation as an athlete which yourfather was so proud of. Well, I suppose in the natural order ofthings you would go into a profession; and of course if you so desireyou can do that. But if you can see your way to it I would ratherthat you stayed here. My house is your home as long as I live; but Idon't wish you to feel in any way dependent. I want you to stay hereif you will; but to do it just because you wish to. To this end Ihave made over to you the estate at Camp which was my father's giftto me when I came of age. It is not a very large one; but it willgive you a nice position of your own, and a comfortable income. Andwith it goes my blessing, my dear boy. Take it as a gift from yourfather and myself!'Harold was much moved, not only by the act itself but by the graciousway of doing it. There were tears in his eyes as he wrung theSquire's hand; his voice thrilled with feeling as he said:'Your many goodnesses to my father's son, sir, will, I hope, bejustified by his love and loyalty. If I don't say much it is becauseI do not feel quite master of myself. I shall try to show in time,as I cannot say it all at once, all that I feel.'Harold continued to live at Normanstand. The house at Camp was inreality a charming cottage. A couple of servants were installed, andnow and again he stayed there for a few days as he wished to getaccustomed to the place. In a couple of months every one acceptedthe order of things; and life at Normanstand went on much as it haddone before Harold had gone to college. There was a man in the housenow instead of a boy: that was all. Stephen too was beginning to bea young woman, but the relative positions were the same as they hadbeen. Her growth did not seem to make an ostensible difference toany one. The one who might have noticed it most, Mrs. Jarrold, haddied during the last year of Harold's life at college.When the day came for the quarterly meeting of the magistrates of thecounty of Norcester, Squire Rowly arranged as usual to drive SquireNorman. This had been their habit for good many years. The two menusually liked to talk over the meeting as they returned hometogether. It was a beautiful morning for a drive, and when Rowlycame flying up the avenue in his T-cart with three magnificent bays,Stephen ran out on the top of the steps to see him draw up. Rowlywas a fine whip, and his horses felt it. Squire Norman was ready,and, after a kiss from Stephen, climbed into the high cart. The menraised their hats and waved good-bye. A word from Rowly; with abound the horses were off. Stephen stood looking at them delighted;all was so sunny, so bright, so happy. The world was so full of lifeand happiness to-day that it seemed as if it would never end; thatnothing except good could befall.Harold, later on that morning, was to go into Norcester also; soStephen with a lonely day before her set herself to take up loose-ends of all sorts of little personal matters. They would all meet atdinner as Rowly was to stop the night at Normanstand.Harold left the club in good time to ride home to dinner. As hepassed the County Hotel he stopped to ask if Squire Norman had left;and was told that he had started only a short time before with SquireRowly in his T-cart. He rode on fast, thinking that perhaps he mightovertake them and ride on with them. But the bays knew their work,and did it. They kept their start; it was only at the top of theNorth hill, five miles out of Norcester, that he saw them in thedistance, flying along the level road. He knew he would not nowovertake them, and so rode on somewhat more leisurely.The Norcester highroad, when it has passed the village of Brackling,turns away to the right behind the great clump of oaks. From thisthe road twists to the left again, making a double curve, and thenruns to Norling Parva in a clear stretch of some miles beforereaching the sharp turn down the hill which is marked 'Dangerous toCyclists.' From the latter village branches the by-road over thehill which is the short cut to Normanstand.When Harold turned the corner under the shadow of the oaks he saw abelated road-mender, surrounded by some gaping peasants, pointingexcitedly in the distance. The man, who of course knew him, calledto him to stop.'What is it?' he asked, reining up.'It be Squire Rowly's bays which have run away with him. Three on'em, all in a row and comin' like the wind. Squire he had his reinsall right, but they 'osses didn't seem to mind 'un. They was fairmad and bolted. The leader he had got frightened at the heap o'stones theer, an' the others took scare from him.'Without a word Harold shook his reins and touched the horse with hiswhip. The animal seemed to understand and sprang forward, coveringthe ground at a terrific pace. Harold was not given to alarms, buthere might be serious danger. Three spirited horses in a light cartmade for pace, all bolting in fright, might end any moment incalamity. Never in his life did he ride faster than on the road toNorling Parva. Far ahead of him he could see at the turn, now andagain, a figure running. Something had happened. His heart grewcold: he knew as well as though he had seen it, the high cartswaying on one wheel round the corner as the maddened horses tore ontheir way; the one jerk too much, and the momentary reaction in thecrash! . . .With beating heart and eyes aflame in his white face he dashed on.It was all too true. By the side of the roadway on the inner curvelay the cart on its side with broken shafts. The horses wereprancing and stamping about along the roadway not recovered fromtheir fright. Each was held by several men.And on the grass two figures were still lying where they had beenthrown out. Rowly, who had of course been on the off-side, had beenthrown furthest. His head had struck the milestone that stood backon the waste ground before the ditch. There was no need for any oneto tell that his neck had been broken. The way his head lay on oneside, and the twisted, inert limbs, all told their story plainlyenough.Squire Norman lay on his back stretched out. Some one had raised himto a sitting posture and then lowered him again, straightening hislimbs. He did not therefore look so dreadful as Rowly, but therewere signs of coming death in the stertorous breathing, the ooze ofblood from nostrils and ears as well as mouth. Harold knelt down byhim at once and examined him. Those who were round all knew him andstood back. He felt the ribs and limbs; so far as he could ascertainby touch no bone was broken.Just then the local doctor, for whom some one had run, arrived in hisgig. He, too, knelt beside the injured man, a quick glance havingsatisfied him that there was only one patient requiring his care.Harold stood up and waited. The doctor looked up, shaking his head.Harold could hardly suppress the groan which was rising in histhroat. He asked:'Is it immediate? Should his daughter be brought here?''How long would it take her to arrive?''Perhaps half an hour; she would not lose an instant.''Then you had better send for her.''I shall go at once!' answered Harold, turning to jump on his horse,which was held on the road.'No, no!' said the doctor, 'send some one else. You had better stayhere yourself. He may become conscious just before the end; and hemay want to say something!' It seemed to Harold that a great bellwas sounding in his ears.--'Before the end! Good God! PoorStephen!' . . . But this was no time for sorrow, or for thinking ofit. That would come later. All that was possible must be done; andto do it required a cool head. He called to one of the lads he knewcould ride and said to him:'Get on my horse and ride as fast as you can to Normanstand. Send atonce to Miss Norman and tell her that she is wanted instantly. Tellher that there has been an accident; that her father is alive, butthat she must come at once without a moment's delay. She had betterride my horse back as it will save time. She will understand fromthat the importance of time. Quick!'The lad sprang to the saddle, and was off in a flash. Whilst Haroldwas speaking, the doctor had told the men, who, accustomed to huntingaccidents, had taken a gate from its hinges and held it in readiness,to bring it closer. Then under his direction the Squire was placedon the gate. The nearest house was only about a hundred yards away;and thither they bore him. He was lifted on a bed, and then thedoctor made fuller examination. When he stood up he looked verygrave and said to Harold:'I greatly fear she cannot arrive in time. That bleeding from theears means rupture of the brain. It is relieving the pressure,however, and he may recover consciousness before he dies. You hadbetter be close to him. There is at present nothing that can bedone. If he becomes conscious at all it will be suddenly. He willrelapse and probably die as quickly.'All at once Norman opened his eyes, and seeing him said quietly, ashe looked around:'What place is this, Harold?''Martin's--James Martin's, sir. You were brought here after theaccident.''Yes, I remember! Am I badly hurt? I can feel nothing!''I fear so, sir! I have sent for Stephen.''Sent for Stephen! Am I about to die?' His voice, though feeble,was grave and even.'Alas! sir, I fear so!' He sank on his knees as he spoke and tookhim, his second father, in his arms.'Is it close?''Yes.''Then listen to me! If I don't see Stephen, give her my love andblessing! Say that with my last breath I prayed God to keep her andmake her happy! You will tell her this?''I will! I will!' He could hardly speak for the emotion which waschoking him. Then the voice went on, but slower and weaker:'And Harold, my dear boy, you will look after her, will you not?Guard her and cherish her, as if you were indeed my son and she yoursister!''I will. So help me God!' There was a pause of a few seconds whichseemed an interminable time. Then in a feebler voice Squire Normanspoke again:'And Harold--bend down--I must whisper! If it should be that in timeyou and Stephen should find that there is another affection betweenyou, remember that I sanction it--with my dying breath. But give hertime! I trust that to you! She is young, and the world is allbefore her. Let her choose . . . and be loyal to her if it isanother! It may be a hard task, but I trust you, Harold. God blessyou, my other son!' He rose slightly and listened. Harold's heartleaped. The swift hoof-strokes of a galloping horse were heard . . .The father spoke joyously:'There she is! That is my brave girl! God grant that she may be intime. I know what it will mean to her hereafter!'The horse stopped suddenly.A quick patter of feet along the passage and then Stephen halfdressed with a peignoir thrown over her, swept into the room. Withthe soft agility of a leopard she threw herself on her knees besideher father and put her arms round him. The dying man motioned toHarold to raise him. When this had been done he laid his handtenderly on his daughter's head, saying:'Let now, O Lord, Thy servant depart in peace! God bless and keepyou, my dear child! You have been all your life a joy and a delightto me! I shall tell your mother when I meet her all that you havebeen to me! Harold, be good to her! Good-bye--Stephen! . . .Margaret! . . . 'His head fell over, and Harold, laying him gently down, knelt besideStephen. He put his arm round her; and she, turning to him, laid herhand on his breast and sobbed as though her heart would break.The bodies of the two squires were brought to Normanstand. Rowly hadlong ago said that if he died unmarried he would like to lie besidehis half-sister, and that it was fitting that, as Stephen would bethe new Squire of Norwood, her dust should in time lie by his. Whenthe terrible news of her nephew's and of Norman's death came toNorwood, Miss Laetitia hurried off to Normanstand as fast as thehorses could bring her.Her coming was an inexpressible comfort to Stephen. After the firstoverwhelming burst of grief she had settled into an acute despair.Of course she had been helped by the fact that Harold had been withher, and she was grateful for that too. But it did not live in hermemory of gratitude in the same way. Of course Harold was with herin trouble! He had always been; would always be.But the comfort which Aunt Laetitia could give was of a more positivekind.From that hour Miss Rowly stayed at Normanstand. Stephen wanted her;and she wanted to be with Stephen.After the funeral Harold, with an instinctive delicacy of feeling,had gone to live in his own house; but he came to Normanstand everyday. Stephen had so long been accustomed to consulting him abouteverything that there was no perceptible change in their relations.Even necessary business to be done did not come as a new thing.And so things went on outwardly at Normanstand very much as they haddone before the coming of the tragedy. But for a long time Stephenhad occasional bursts of grief which to witness was positive anguishto those who loved her.Then her duty towards her neighbours became a sort of passion. Shedid not spare herself by day or by night. With swift intuition shegrasped the needs of any ill case which came before her, and withswift movement she took the remedy in hand.Her aunt saw and approved. Stephen, she felt, was in this way trulyfulfilling her duty as a woman. The old lady began to secretly hope,and almost to believe, that she had laid aside those theories whosecarrying into action she so dreaded.But theories do not die so easily. It is from theory that practicetakes its real strength, as well as its direction. And did the olderwoman whose life had been bound under more orderly restraint butknow, Stephen was following out her theories, remorselessly and tothe end.