NEVER FORGOTTEN.

PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER, IX. IN HOSPITAL.

THE charitable gentleman with the clean crisp
whiskers, who had lent his phaeton for the
insensible Fermor, was a Major Carter, who, with
his son, had newly come to Eastport. At the
foot of his letters he wrote, "Yours sincerely,
Henry Deane Carter;" his son signed himself
"Somerset Carter," having received that name
in compliment to a Lord Alfred Somerset, " the
man who first took me by the hand," said his
father very often and very gratefully; and father
and son, and Mrs. Carter, had taken the first floor
of one of the villas on one of the terraces, and
were come to live economically at Eastport.

Not that this was made profession of, or was
even hinted at, by the small public of the place.
There was a sort of little prado down near
the pier, where a band sometimes played, and
where the men and women came and
sauntered; and here the crisp major, so clean and
dry and wiry, so brushed, so speckless, so yellow
in his gloves, and with little boots almost reflecting
the company like small speculums, first
entered, as it were from the wings, upon the
Eastport stage, and attracted the whole audience
in pit and boxes.

He knew a few people already, and, leaning on
the arm of the thoughtful boyish son, had put the
canary glove into several hands. He had a pleasant
gay face, like a little open pleasure-ground
(fenced on each side by a little light shrubbery of
crisp whisker). He was the most "youngish"
man for his years, and had always a smile of
eternal welcome upon his face: which smiles
were not, however, without something mechanical
about them, suggesting the idea that his face
was fitted up with snowy-white jalousies, like a
foreign villa, which he threw open all together
when accosting a friend.

In a few days, by some mysterious process, he
knew most people— most people, at least, that
ought to be known. The people that ought
to be known knew that he was a desirable addition
to society. They told each other often
about Lord Alfred Somerset, and used this nobleman
as a tonic. The mention of that name, received
with a sort of reverence, was found to be
about as invigorating as Jesuit's bark to the
languid system of the place. He was delightfully
well bred, needed no social valet-de-place
to take him round drawing-rooms, but subsided
without violence or exertion into general acquain-
tance. There are people who are thus never
strangers in a strange country, and float into
company and friends.

In that little corner the accident was a tremendous
source of excitement. It lent a prestige
to the race. There was some noise and confusion
on the course, in which Mr. Madden's frantic
cries were to be distinguished; and from that hot
and brick coloured racing stratum, which greased
its hair, and swathed its neck in a yellow cloth,
confining it with a glass pin, came loud charges
of foul play— charges marked into bars, as it
were, by loud execration. The stewards, indeed,
held a sort of investigation on Mr. Madden's
indignant requisition. And there were many wit-
nesses for Hanbury, but the best witnesses of all
were his own honest temper and open soul
— familiar to all the riding men. His profound
grief was a spectacle, and excited sympathy.

Fermor was taken in slow and dismal procession
to the house in Raglan-terrace. Some one had
run on to give notice. The parlour was hastily
got ready. Mrs. Manuel, surprised and aghast
at what was intended, made a sort of protest,
but was frantically overborne by Hanbury. A
crowd followed and hung about the place, telling
the story with relish to inquisitive passers-by.
Insensible still, Fermor was carried in, and Major
Carter, who had the command of the whole party,
and who gave orders with a skill and judgment
and readiness of resource that evoked respect
from all, was, almost as of course, admitted into
the house as a sort of friend whom they had long
known. So, too, was the doctor and that young
white-haired ensign also in sad distress about
the friend he so reverenced.

Hanbury came in as they stood waiting in the
drawing-room. "It is dreadful, isn't it?" he
said. "I couldn't help it, I couldn't!" He
glanced nervously at Violet, who was looking
steadily away. "But the doctor says he thinks
— he is sure, that is— it will be a very trifling
accident. It was, indeed, half his own fault," he
added, piteously, as if asking for comfort.

"Yes, yes," said the elder girl, "I am sure it
was. It was unavoidable."