Chapter XV: Fallen by the Wayside

Yes, Richard Plowden’s prognostications of evil are realized. Not quite so fatally as they might have been, however, for Dick had seen in a vision of woe the figure of his friend stretched on a shutter, pulseless, lifeless, the generous heart at rest for ever. The figure which the gentlemen of the hunt carry along the narrow path by the mill-pool holds happily the spark of life still, but so white is the face lying on the huntsman’s scarlet shoulder that poor Dick, running out to meet his friend, gives a cry of horror.

‘Is he dead?’ he asks, distractedly.

‘Not a bit of it. He’s only fainted. I’m afraid there’s a few of his ribs broken. Do you belong to Benfield’s?’

Mr. Benfield is the miller.

‘No, but I’ve just come from there, they are getting ready for him. He’s my dearest friend. Where’s the nearest doctor?’

‘None nearer than Cheswold. One of the men has ridden off after him.’

They carry Alexis to the pretty old house beside the mill, and up a single flight of shallow oak stairs to the best bedchamber, the freshest and brightest of rooms, with two broad latticed windows overlooking the mill-stream and the willows, with their background of green hills. A man might find worse quarters than these in the hour of distress. Even in the midst of his grief Dick glances round the room admiringly, and thinks what a treasure old Benfield, the miller, has in his granddaughter, for it is Linda’s taste, of course, which beautifies his home.

They lay Alexis on the pure white counterpane, and Linda sponges his temples with eau de Cologne, until presently the heavy eyelids are lifted, and the patient looks about him wonderingly.

He recognises Dick, and fancies himself at home at the Grange.

This young woman in gray is one of the housemaids, no doubt. How soft and white her hand is! He did not think he had so pretty a servant in his staff.

‘Well, old fellow,’ he says faintly, and with a wan smile, ‘you were right. Such a cockney as I oughtn’t to go across country with your born Nimrods. Bayard’s youth and silliness sent me flying over rather a stiff bit of timber, and I’m afraid Bayard himself is demolished. By Jove, it was a thundering smash! I wonder if I have any bones whole? I feel as if they were all broken up in short lengths, like barley-sugar.’

‘Thank God you can make a joke of it,’ exclaims Dick. ‘But you mustn’t talk. You’ve been spitting blood, you know.’

‘I thought there was something unpleasant going on internally. How did they contrive to bring me home? I haven’t the slightest recollection of the transit.’

‘Home?’ echoes Dick, puzzled.

‘Yes. I am at home, am I not? Or how do I find you by my side?’

‘By a fortunate accident, dear old fellow. You are at Dorley Mill, close by the place where you fell, and in good hands, I am sure. And now not another word till the doctor has seen you.’

Old John Benfield, the miller, who has left his work on hearing of the accident, comes in at this moment, carrying a steaming glass of brandy and water, which he believes to be a specific for all earthly ills.

‘Sup it up, sir,’ he says; and Alexis is about to comply, when a firm hand takes away the glass.

‘Not on any account, grandfather. He has been spitting blood.’

‘All the more reason why he should have something warm and comforting,’ says Mr. Benfield.

‘You must get him some cold brandy and water, grandfather.’

‘Very well, little lass, it’s always for you to order and me to obey;’ and the old gentleman departs to perform his hospitable duty.

‘Dick,’ says Alexis presently, ‘I should feel happier in my mind if you’d go and see what has become of that poor beast, Bayard.’

‘I’ll go, Alex. But I execrate the brute. If I were to hear that all his four legs were broken I shouldn’t care.’

‘Nonsense, Dick! The beast is only young and silly. We were both too ambitious--wanted to fly too high.’

Richard leaves the sufferer unwillingly, and goes in quest of the bay. It is not long before he discovers the horse, a good deal chipped and knocked about, but in no wise seriously damaged, in the stable of the one small inn which adorns Dorley village--a house which you would hardly recognise as one of public entertainment, were it not for a dingy board above the front door--said door having sunk into the yielding soil of Dorley in a despondent and one-sided manner.

Standing in the semi-darkness of a dilapidated stable, principally inhabited by cocks and hens, Bayard wears the dejected and hang-dog aspect of a horse that knows he has committed himself. He gives a deprecatory snort at the sight of Richard, and comports himself altogether in a submissive and even crouching manner.

‘Ah,’ says Dick, looking at him as ferociously as it is possible for the mildest of men to look--‘ah, you murderer! I wish there was a law for hanging such as you.’

He hurries back to Alexis, and tells him that the brute is all right.

‘Not a bone broken. He only broke your bones, the beast.’

The Cheswold doctor comes presently, having driven over at a slashing pace to so important a patient. Richard supports his friend during the medical examination, which is slow and painful.

The ribs are much hurt, one bone has been pressed inwards, whence the blood-spitting. It is altogether a serious case.

‘I should like you to see Krysis, of Winchester,’ says Mr. Skalpel, the local surgeon. ‘I shall not set the arm till to-morrow. There is a little swelling, and there’s a slight tendency to inflammation. I’ll send a lotion, which must be applied continually. You ought to have a trained nurse, by the way.’

‘I’d as soon have a ghoul,’ says Alexis, at which the surgeon fears his mind is beginning to wander. ‘I detest hired nurses.’

‘Can’t I nurse him?’ asks Dick. ‘I’m strong and wakeful, and I’ll obey your instructions to the letter.’

‘You might be of use undoubtedly, but I think a skilled hospital nurse----’

‘Send me to an infirmary at once,’ cries Alexis, peevishly. ‘I won’t have a hospital hag near me.’

‘See how the suggestion irritates him,’ says Dick. ‘Could not his old housekeeper come over from the Grange?’

‘That might do. Yes, she nursed Miss Secretan, I know. I’ll call as I go home and tell her to come over.’

‘Do nothing of the kind,’ exclaims Alexis. ‘I’ll have no old women pottering about me till they come to lay me out. Mrs. Bodlow’s a very good soul in her place--makes an admirable curry, and fries potatoes to perfection; but I won’t have her at my bedside in the middle of the night. I’d as soon wake up and see the witches in “Macbeth.”’

‘Nervous temperament, very,’ murmurs the surgeon.

‘Let Dick--my friend here--nurse me, and no one else,’ says Alexis.

The surgeon gives way. The servant of the house will no doubt be able to assist. All may be well. It would not do to offend such a patient, and this promises to be a long business--a very long business--if it is to result in recovery. There is a possibility of the case being brought to a sad and sudden ending.

Mr. Skalpel takes Dick out on to the stairs.

‘It is not a hopeless case?’ falters Dick, almost breaking down.

‘Hopeless, my dear sir! far from that. But I will not disguise from you that it is very serious. There are grave dangers. The greatest care is needed. Much must depend on the state of the blood. Mr. Secretan is a person of steady habits--or, to put it plainly, not a drinking man, I hope; not given to the pernicious practice which our modern slang calls “pegging”?’

‘Half a bottle of claret at and after dinner is about the extent of his dissipation.’

‘That’s a good hearing. We shall pull him through, but remember that good nursing is the main point. If you find yourself unequal to the task we must get a trained nurse--foolish prejudice, very--not old hags by any means. Many of them nice-looking young women.’

Downstairs Mr. Skalpel sees Linda, and inquires as to the possibility of assistance in the sick room.

‘I’m quite ready to give my help, if I can be of any use,’ says Linda, cheerfully.

‘No one better,’ replies the surgeon; ‘it was your good nursing that got your grandfather through that bad attack of bronchitis last winter. He’d have been in his grave but for you.’

‘Dear old grandfather!’ says Linda, affectionately.

‘But you mustn’t over-exert yourself, you know. I don’t want two patients instead of one.’

‘Don’t be afraid, Mr. Skalpel. Elizabeth will help me.’

Elizabeth is the maid of all work, a buxom girl who seems to be in a perpetual state of expansion, for her gowns are always too small for her, a girl with a brickdust complexion, big black eyes like damsons, a double chin, and a countenance expressive of supreme good nature.

‘Humph,’ says Mr. Skalpel; ‘I don’t know about Elizabeth. Elizabeth has enough to do to take charge of that troublesome adopted son of yours.’

Rather a queer look comes over the doctor’s face as he speaks of the child--a look of some feeling closely akin to dislike.

‘Trot is never troublesome,’ replies Linda, and again her colour brightens as it did when Richard Plowden questioned her about the boy’s relationship to herself.