Volume Four—Chapter Eleven.
The Doctor Gives Way.
The doctor was up there soon after sunrise to find Mrs Hallam and Julia by Eaton’s couch, they having come down to take Crellock’s place shortly after daybreak.
“Good-morning. How is he?” said the doctor, quickly. “Mrs Hallam, you look ill yourself.”
“Nervous excitement. This trouble,” said Mrs Hallam, quietly; and she left the room with Julia, after answering a few questions.
The doctor examined the injury to the head, which was sufficiently grave, and then proceeded to re-bandage the shoulder that had been dislocated, watching the young man’s face, however, the while.
He felt the strained sinews, pressed on this bone, then on that, causing intense pain, and making his patient wince again and again; but though the muscles of his face twitched, and his lips involuntarily tightened, he did not even moan till, passing one hand beneath his shoulder, the doctor pressed on the bones again, when, with a sharp cry, Eaton drew in his breath.
“Hang it, doctor,” he whispered, quickly, “it’s like molten lead.”
“Ah, I thought that would make you speak, Phil. You confounded young humbug! I saw you were shamming.”
“No, no, doctor, not shamming. My head aches frightfully, and I can’t move my arm.”
“But you could get up and walk down to barracks to breakfast?”
“No, indeed I couldn’t, doctor.”
“It’s a lie, sir. If the enemy were after you, I’ll be bound to say you would get up and run.”
“By George, I wouldn’t!” whispered Eaton.
“Well, get up and have a go at them, my boy.”
“Perhaps I might do that,” said the young man, with the blood coming in his white face.
“Pretty sort of a soldier, lying here because you’ve had your shoulder out, and a crack on the head. Why I’ve seen men behave better after a bullet wound, or a bayonet thrust.”
“But there is no need for me to behave better, as you call it, and one gets well so much more quickly lying still.”
“With a couple of women paddling about you, and making you gruel and sop. There, get up, and I’ll make you a sling for that arm.”
“No, no, doctor. Pray, don’t.”
“Get up, sir.”
“Hush! Don’t speak so loudly,” whispered Eaton.
“Ah-h-h! I see,” said the doctor, “that’s it, is it? Why how dense I am! Want to stop a few days, and be nursed, eh?”
Eaton nodded.
“Fair face to sympathise. White hands to feed you with a spoon. Oh, I say, Phil Eaton! No, no! I’ve got my duty to do, and I’m not going to back up this bit of deceit.”
“I wouldn’t ask you if there was anything to call for me, doctor,” pleaded Eaton; “but I am hurt, there’s no sham about that.”
“Well, no; you are hurt, my lad. That’s a nasty crack on the head, and your shoulder must be sore.”
“Sore!” said Eaton. “You’ve made it agonising.”
“Well, well, a few days’ holiday will do you good. But no; I’m not going to be dragged up here to see you.”
“I don’t want to see you, doctor. I’m sure I shall get well without your help. Pray don’t have me fetched down.”
“I say, Phil,” said the doctor; “look me in the face.”
“Yes.”
“Is it serious? You know—with her.”
“Very, doctor.”
“But it’s awkward. The young lady’s father!”
“Miss Hallam is not answerable for her father’s sins,” said Eaton warmly.
“But the young lady—does she accept?”
Eaton shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said; “and now that the opportunity serves to clinch the matter you want to get me away. Doctor, for once—be human.”
Doctor Woodhouse sat with his chubby face pursed up for a few minutes, gazing down in the young man’s imploring countenance without speaking.
“Well, well,” he said, “I was a boy myself once, and horribly in love. I’ll give you a week, Phil.”
“And I’ll give you a life’s gratitude,” cried the young man joyfully.
“Why, by all that’s wonderful,” cried the doctor, with mock surprise, “I’ve cured him on the spot! Here, let me take off your bandages, so that you may get up and dance. Eh? Poor lad, he is a good deal hurt though,” he continued, as he saw the colour fade from the young man’s face, and the cold dew begin to form. “A few days will do him good, I believe. He is, honestly, a little too bad to move.”
He bathed his face, and moistened his lips with a few drops of liquid from a flask, and in a few minutes Eaton looked wonderingly round.
“Easier, boy? That’s it. Yes, you may stay, and you had better be quiet. Feel so sick now?”
“Not quite, doctor. Oh! I am so glad I really am ill.”
The doctor smiled, and summoned Mrs Hallam, who came in with Julia.
“I must ask you to play hostess to my young friend here. He shan’t die on your hands.”
Julia turned pale, and glanced from one to the other quickly.
“Mr Eaton shall have every attention we can give him,” said Mrs Hallam, smiling; and the doctor looked with surprise at the way her pale, careworn face lit up with tenderness and sympathy as she laid her hand upon the young man’s brow.
“I’m sure he will,” said the doctor, “and I’ll do my best,” he added, with a quick look at his patient, “to get him off your hands, for he will be a deal of trouble.”
“It will be a pleasure,” said Mrs Hallam, speaking in all sincerity. “English women are always ready to nurse the wounded,” she added with a smile.
“I wish I could always have such hands to attend my injured men, madam,” said the doctor with formal politeness. “There, I must go at once. Good-bye, Eaton, my boy. You’ll soon be on your legs. Don’t spoil him, ladies; he is not bad. I leave him to you, Mrs Hallam.”
She followed the doctor to the door to ask him if he had any directions, received his orders, and then, with a bright, hopeful light in her eyes, she went softly back towards the dining-room. A smile began to glisten about her lips, like sunshine in winter, as she laid her hand upon the door. Then she looked round sharply, for in the midst of that dawning hope of safety for her child there was a heavy step, and the study-door opened.
She turned deadly pale, for it was Stephen Crellock’s step; and the words that came from the study were in her husband’s voice.