Volume One—Chapter Eleven.
The Doctor Abroad.
The thrust delivered by Scarlett before the breaking of the oar, aided by the impetus given by his feet as he fell, sent the boat back into the rapid stream beyond the eddy; and in spite of the doctor’s efforts, he could not check its course, till, suddenly starting up, he used his oar as a pole, arresting their downward course as he scanned the surface towards the piles.
“Sit down, Lady Scarlett!” he cried in a fierce, hoarse voice.—“Hold her, or she will be over.”
Aunt Sophia had already seized her niece’s dress, and was dragging her back, the three women sitting with blanched faces and parted ashy lips, gazing at the place where Scarlett had gone down.
“Don’t be alarmed; he swims like a fish,” said the doctor, though grave apprehension was changing the hue of his own countenance, as he stood watching for the reappearance of his friend.
“Help! help!” cried Lady Scarlett suddenly; and her voice went echoing over the water.
“Hush! be calm,” cried the doctor.—“Here, quick—you—Mr Prayle! Come and shove down the boat-hook here. She’s drifting. Mind, man, mind!” he cried, as Prayle, trembling visibly, nearly fell over as he stooped to get out the boat-hook.
He thrust it down into the water, but in a timid, helpless way.
“Put it down!” cried the doctor; and then, seizing an oar by the middle, he used it as a paddle, just managing to keep the boat from being swept away.
They were twenty yards at least from where Scarlett went down: but had he possessed the power to urge the boat forward, Scales dared not have sent it nearer to the piles with that freight on board. And still those terrible moments went on, lengthening first into one and then into a second minute, and Scarlett did not reappear.
“Why does he not come up?” said Prayle, in a harsh whisper.
“Silence, man! Wait!” cried the doctor hoarsely, as he saw Lady Scarlett’s wild imploring eyes.
“He must have struck his head against a stone or pile,” thought the doctor, “and is stunned.” And then the horrible idea came upon him, that his poor friend was being kept down by the tons and tons of falling water, every time he would have risen to the top. Two minutes—three minutes had passed, and, as if in sympathy with the horror that had fallen upon the group, the noise of the tumbling waters seemed to grow more loud, and the orange glow of sunset was giving place to a cold grey light.
Aunt Sophia was the next to speak. “Do something, man!” she cried, in a passionate imploring voice. But the doctor did not heed; he only scanned the surface of the foamy pool.
“There, there, there!” shrieked Lady Scarlett. “There, help!—James! Husband! Help!”
She would have flung herself from the boat, as she gazed wildly in quite a different direction; and the doctor, dropping the oar across the sides, sent the frail vessel back from him, rocking heavily; for he had plunged from it headlong into the rushing water, but only to rise directly; and they saw him swimming rapidly towards where something creamy-looking was being slowly carried by the current back towards the piles. The doctor was a powerful swimmer, but he was weary from his exertions. He swam on, though, rapidly nearing the object of his search, caught it by the flannel shirt, made a tremendous effort to get beyond the back-set of the current, and then turned a ghastly face upward to the air.
The gig was fifty yards away now, Prayle being helpless to stay its course; and though the doctor looked round, there was neither soul nor boat in sight to give them help.
It was a hard fight; but the swimmer won; for some thirty or forty strokes, given with all his might, brought him into the shallow stream, and then the rest was easy; he had but to keep his friend’s face above the water while he tried to overtake the boat. For a moment he thought of landing; but no help was near without carrying his inanimate burden perhaps a mile, the lock being on the other side, its keeper probably asleep, for he made no sign.
“Cannot that idiot stop the boat?” groaned Scales. “At last—at last!” He uttered these words with a cry of satisfaction, for Prayle was making some pretence of forcing the boat up-stream once more.
The doctor was skilful enough to direct his course so that they were swept down to the bows; and grasping the gunwale with one hand, he panted forth: “Down with that boat-hook! Now, take him by the shoulders. Lean back to the other side and draw him in.”
The swimmer could lend but little help; and Prayle would have failed in his effort, and probably overturned the boat, but for Aunt Sophia, whose dread of the water seemed to have passed away as she came forward, and between them they dragged Scarlett over the side.
The doctor followed, with the water streaming from him, and gave a glance to right and left in search of a place to land.
“It would be no use,” he said quickly. “While we were getting him to some house, valuable minutes would be gone.—Now, Lady Scarlett, for heaven’s sake, be calm!”
“Oh, he is dead—he is dead!” moaned the wretched woman, on her knees.
“That’s more than you know, or I know,” cried the doctor, who was working busily all the time. “Be calm, and help me.—You too, Miss Raleigh.—Prayle, get out of the way!”
Arthur Prayle frowned and went aft. Lady Scarlett made a supreme effort to be calm; while Aunt Sophia, with her lips pressed lightly together, knelt there, watchful and ready, as the doctor toiled on. She it was who, unasked, passed him the cushions which he laid beneath the apparently drowned man, and, at a word, was the first to strip away the coverings from his feet and apply friction, while Scales was hard at work trying to produce artificial respiration by movements of his patient’s arms.
“Don’t be down-hearted,” he said; “only work. We want warmth and friction to induce the circulation to return. Throw plenty of hope into your efforts, and, with God’s help, we’ll have him back to life.”
Naomi Raleigh would have helped had there been room, but there was none, and she could only sit with starting eyes watching the efforts that were made, while Prayle tried hard with the oar to hasten the progress of the boat.
There was no sign of life in the figure that lay there inert and motionless; but no heed was paid to that. Animated by the doctor’s example, aunt and niece laboured on in silence, while the boat rocked from their efforts, and the water that had streamed from the garments of the doctor and his patient washed to and fro.
It was a strange freight for a pleasure-boat as it floated swiftly down with the stream, passing no one on that solitary portion of the river; though had they encountered scores no further help could have been rendered than that which friend was giving to friend.
For the doctor’s face was purple with his exertions, and the great drops of perspiration stood now side by side with the water that still trickled from his crisp hair.
“Don’t slacken,” he cried cheerily. “I’ve brought fellows to, after being four or five times as long under water, in the depth of winter too. We shall have a flicker of life before long, I’ll be sworn. Is he still as cold? I can’t stop to feel.”
Aunt Sophia laid her hand upon the bare white chest of her nephew in the region of his heart; and then, as her eyes met the doctor’s her lips tightened just a little—that was all.
“Too soon to expect it yet.—Don’t be despondent, Lady Scarlett. Be a brave, true little wife. That’s right.” He nodded at her so encouragingly, that, in the face of what he was doing, Lady Scarlett felt that all little distance between them was for ever at an end, and that she had a sister’s love for this gallant, earnest man.
“Where are we?” he said at last, toiling more slowly now, from sheer exhaustion.
“Very nearly down to the cottage,” replied Prayle; and the doctor muttered an inaudible “Thank God!” It was not loud enough for wife or aunt to hear, or it would have carried with it a despair far greater than that they felt.
“Can you run her into the landing-place?”
“I’ll try,” said Prayle, but in so doubting a tone, that the doctor uttered a low ejaculation, full of impatient anger, and Kate Scarlett looked up.
“Naomi! Quick! Here!” she cried. “Kneel down, and take my place.”
“Yes; warmth is life,” panted the doctor, who was hoarse now and faint. “Poor woman! she’s fagged,” he thought; “but still she is his wife.” There was a feeling of annoyance in his breast as he thought this—a sensation of anger against Kate Scarlett, who ought to have died at her post, he felt, sooner than give it up to another. Put the next moment he gave a sigh of satisfaction and relief, as he saw her rise and stop lightly to where Prayle was fumbling with the oar.
“Sit down!” she said in a quick, imperious manner; and, slipping the oar over the stern, she cleverly sculled with it, as her husband had taught her in happier times, so that she sent the gig nearer and nearer to the shore. But in spite of her efforts, they would have been swept beyond, had not the old gardener, waiting their return, waded in to get hold of the bows of the gig and haul it to the side. As it grated against the landing-stage, the doctor summoned all the strength that he had left, to bend down, lift his friend over his shoulder, and then stagger to the house.