For a long time no semblance of consciousness returned, and the groom, fearing to leave him, had to wait for hours until a country car should pass, in which his wounded master might be laid. There came one by at last, and on this Hemsworth was laid, and brought back to “the Lodge.” Before he reached home, however, sense had so far returned, as, that he felt his accident was attended with no serious injury; the shock of the fall was the only circumstance of any gravity.
The medical man of Macroom was soon with him, and partly confirmed his own first impressions, but strictly enjoining rest and quiet, as in the event of any unusual excitement, the worst consequences might ensue. Hemsworth bore up under the injunction with all the seeming fortitude he could muster, but in his heart he cursed the misfortune that thus delayed the hour of his long-sought vengeance.
“This may continue a week, then?” cried he, impatiently.
The doctor nodded an assent.
“Two—three weeks, perhaps?”
“It will be a month, at least, before I can pronounce you out of danger,” said the physician, gravely.
“A month! Great Heaven!—a month! And what are the dangers you apprehend, in the event of my not submitting?”
“There are several, and very serious ones—-inflammation of the brain, fever, derangement even.”
“Yes, and are you sure this confinement will not drive me mad?” cried he, passionately; “will you engage that my brain will hold out against the agonizing thoughts that will not cease to torture me all this while?—or can you promise that events shall stand still for the moment when I can resume my place once more among men?”
The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only a more certain evidence of the truth of the medical fears; and, without venturing on any direct reply, the doctor gave some directions for his treatment, and withdrew.