Her name was on his lips for the first time. She did not hear it.
“Wait here,” Holden answered, and rode ahead.
The carriage stopped. She sprang out and ran forward a few steps—paused. She saw two men coming toward her, carrying something between them. Nearer, she saw it was a man. He hung dead weight, head fallen back, arms hanging, hands trailing in the long, wet grass. Behind, like a following dog, came a tall bare-headed girl. It seemed unreal, a play scene, till she saw the injured man’s face, dead white, with a dark streak across the mouth that lengthened it out into a horrible smile.
“Over here,” Florence said to the coachman. Her voice was lost in her throat, but he obeyed the beckoning hand. She was back in the carriage. The men were lifting up the burden her hands reached for.
“Easy with the shoulders!” Thair muttered. They laid it on the heaped-up cushions. Trembling as she was, she seemed to lift and move the inert body as easily as the men. She stooped and wiped away the stain that disfigured the poor face. And then it seemed the vacancy of it was the saddest look it could have worn.
“Can’t we get back by a road? The cut’s so rough?” she appealed to Holden.
The somber eyes of the men consulted each other.
“Yes,” Thair decided; “strike the country-club road over here. Longer, but—better.”
“We’ll go ahead and knock out some rails.”
“You’d better go back to the house with ’em,” Thair called after him. “We’ll ride over and let ’em know at the club.” He turned to Julia, who, through it all, had stood back, not moving or taking her eyes from the shape in the carriage.
She turned her eyes quickly to Florence. She put her hands to her face. “No! No!” she cried with vehemence—it might have been horror.
Florence looked at her. Julia’s habit was torn away at the waist, her hair falling on her shoulders. She looked stunned, stupid.
Florence turned to Thair. “_Can_ she ride?”
“I can ride,” Julia repeated dully. Thair was holding the black, but she made no motion to mount. She only stood watching the black bulk of the carriage laboring away across the broken field.
Four riders waited uncertain, whispering, looking after the carriage, looking at Thair, looking at Julia.
Bessie Lewis was mopping her cheeks with the wet ball of her handkerchief. She gave a hysterical gasp. “Oh, Julia, your habit!” She dabbed nervously at the skirt.