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The Weathercock: Being the Adventures of a Boy with a Bias, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 26. Sympathy |
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_ CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. SYMPATHY Those were sad and weary hours at the Little Manor, and when Vane's delirium was at its height and he was talking most rapidly, Doctor Lee for almost the first time in his life felt doubtful of his own knowledge and ability to treat his patient. He was troubled with a nervous depression, which tempted him to send for help, and he turned to white-faced, red-eyed Aunt Hannah. "I'm afraid I'm not treating him correctly," he whispered. "I think I will send Bruff over to the station to telegraph for help." But Aunt Hannah shook her head. "If you cannot cure him, dear," she said firmly, "no one can. No, do not send." "But he is so very bad," whispered the doctor; "and when this fever passes off he will be as weak as a babe." "Then we must nurse him back to strength," said Aunt Hannah. "No, dear, don't send. It is not a case of doubt. You know exactly what is the matter, and of course how to treat him for the best." The doctor was silenced and stood at the foot of the bed, while Aunt Hannah laid her cool, soft hand upon the sufferer's burning brow. Neither aunt nor uncle troubled to think much about the causes of the boy's injuries; their thoughts were directed to the nursing and trying to allay the feverish symptoms, for the doctor was compelled to own that his nephew's condition was grave, the injuries being bad enough alone without the exposure to the long hours of a misty night just on the margin of a moor. It was not alone in the chamber that sympathetic conversation went on, for work was almost at a standstill in house and garden. For the three servants talked together, as they found out how much Vane had had to do with their daily life, and what a blank his absence on a bed of sickness had caused. "Oh, dear!" sighed Martha, "poor, poor fellow!" The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and to keep up an ample supply of those signs of sorrow she took a very long sip of warm tea, for the pot had been kept going almost incessantly since Vane had been borne up to his bed. "Yes, it is.--Oh, dear," sighed Eliza. "Poor dear! Only to think of it and him only as you may say yesterday alive and well." "Ay, and so it is, and so it always will be," said Bruff, who was standing by the kitchen-door turning some ale round and round in the bottom of a mug. "Ah!" sighed Martha. "Ah, indeed!" sighed Eliza. "And me so ready to make a fuss about the poor dear because he'd made a litter sometimes with his ingenuous proceedings." "And me too," sighed Eliza, "and ready to bite my very tongue off now for saying the things I did." "Yes, as Mr Syme says, we're a many of us in black darkness," muttered Bruff. "Why, that there hot-water apparatus is a boon and a blessin' to men, as the song says." "About the pens?" added Eliza. "You can most see the things grow." "Ah," sighed Martha. "He weer as reight as reight. It was all them turning off the scape-yokes." "And Missus forgetting to tell Martha about not lighting the fire." "And if he'd only get well again," sobbed Martha, wiping her eyes, "the biler might be busted once a week, and not a word would I say." "No," sighed Bruff giving his ale another twist round and slowly pouring it down his throat. "There's a rose tree in the garden as he budded hisself, though I always pretended it was one of my doing, and sorry I am now." "Ah," sighed Martha, "we all repents when it's too late." Pop! A cinder flew out of the fire on to the strip of carpet lying across the hearth, and a pungent odour of burning wool arose. But Bruff stooped down and using his hardened fingers as tongs, picked up the cinder and tossed it inside the fender. Martha started as the cinder flew out and looked aghast at Eliza, her ruddy face growing mottled, while the housemaid's cheeks were waxen as the maids gave themselves up to the silly superstition that, like many more, does not die hard but absolutely refuses to die at all. "Oh, my poor dear!" cried Martha, sobbing aloud, while Eliza buried her face in her apron, and the reason thereof suddenly began to dawn upon Bruff, who turned to the fireplace again, stooped down and carefully picked up the exploded bubble of coke and gas, turned it over two or three times, and then by a happy inspiration giving it a shake and producing a tiny tinkling noise. Bruff's face expanded into a grin. "Why, it aren't," he cried holding out the cinder; "it's a puss o' money." "No, no," sighed Martha, "that isn't the one." "That it is," cried Bruff, sturdily. "I'm sure on it. Look 'Liza." The apron was slowly drawn away from the girl's white face and she fixed her eyes on the hollow cinder, but full of doubt. "It is. Hark!" cried Bruff, and he shook the cinder close to Eliza's ear. "Can't you hear?" "It does tinkle," she said. "But are you sure that's the one?" "Of course I am, and it's a sign as he'll get well again, and be rich and happy." "No, no; that isn't the one, that isn't the one," sobbed Martha. "Tell you it is," cried Bruff so fiercely that the cook doubtingly took the piece of cinder, shook it, and by degrees a smile spread over her countenance and she rose and put the scrap on the chimney-piece between two bright brass candlesticks. "For luck," she said; and this time she wiped her eyes dry and examined a saucepan of beef tea which she had stewed down. "In case it's wanted," she said confidentially, though there was not the slightest likelihood thereof for some time to come. "Well," said Bruff at last, "I suppose I had better go out to work." But he only looked out of the kitchen window at the garden and shook his head. "Don't seem to hev no 'art in it," he said, looking from one to the other, as if this were quite a new condition for him to be in. "Seems to miss him so, and look wheer you will theer's a something as puts you in mind of him. Well, all I says is this, and both of you may hear it, only let him get well and he may do any mortal thing in my garden, and I won't complain." Bruff took up his mug, looked inside it, and set it down again with a frown. "My missus is coming up to see if she can do owt for you 's afternoon." "Ah!" sighed cook, "you never know what neighbours is till you're in trouble, 'Liza." "No." "Go up, soft like, and ask missus if I may send her a cup o' tea." "No," said Eliza, decisively; "pour one out and I'll take it up. And I say, dear, you know what a one master is for it; why don't you send him up the little covered basin o' beef tea. There, I'll go and put a napkin over a tray." Perhaps it was due to being called "dear," perhaps to the fact there was an outlet for the strong beef tea she had so carefully prepared; at any rate Martha smiled and went to the cupboard for the pepper, and then to the salt-box, to season the beef tea according to her taste. Five minutes later the tray was borne up with the herbaceous and the flesh tea, and in addition some freshly-made crisp brown toast. The refreshments were most welcome, for both the doctor and Aunt Hannah were exhausted and faint, and as soon as they were alone again, and Eliza gone down with the last bulletin, Aunt Hannah shed a few tears. "So sympathetic and thoughtful of the servants, dear," she said. The doctor nodded, and then as he dipped the dry toast in the beef tea he thought to himself that Vane had somehow managed to make himself a friend everywhere. But an enemy, too, he thought directly after, and he set himself to try and think out who it could be--an occupation stopped by messengers from the rectory, Gilmore, Distin and Macey having arrived to ask how the patient was getting on. While on their way back, they met Bates, the constable, looking very solemn as he saluted them and went on, thinking a great deal, but waiting until Vane recovered his senses before proceeding to act. _ |
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