At length there was the distant sound of a horse’s feet coming at a gallop along the road; they soon came along the gravel drive, were heard to stop, and then in came quickly, but with a step soft as that of a cat, that awe-inspiring personage—the Doctor. He saw at a glance what had been done, and nodded his satisfaction, then examined the pupil of poor Fred’s eye, felt his pulse, and listened at his chest; and afterwards, drawing off his coat and kneeling by the bedside, continued the efforts that Mr Inglis had so well commenced.
An hour—a long, long hour—one with leaden seconds—slipped by during which time not an effort was relaxed; though the faces of Mr and Mrs Inglis betrayed the despair that had crept over them, while Harry and Philip sobbed so that they had to be sent out of the room; when they stifled the sobs as well as they could, and crept back to the door, where they sat listening outside.
All this time the Doctor’s face had been as solid as a block of marble, not a trace of any emotion—hopeful or despairing—appeared; he kept on giving order after order, and worked till the perspiration stood in great drops upon his brow; and still no sign of life. The tears coursed silently down Mrs Inglis’s face, and it was only by a great effort that she could keep from sobbing. Glad would she have been to have left the room, but a sense of duty forbade her, and she stayed, lending all the assistance that lay in her power.
All at once, the Doctor brightened up, and turning to the Squire said, “Now, I’ll have a glass of sherry and a biscuit.”
Mr Inglis saw nothing to cause the cheerful way in which the Doctor spoke, but felt that he must have a good reason for hope, or he would not have spoken so lightly. So, ringing the bell for the refreshment, he leaned over the poor boy, and, as he did so, a faint, a very faint, sigh escaped from his chest, and then there was a slight twitching of his eyelids.
“There,” said the Doctor, wiping his forehead, and turning upon Mr and Mrs Inglis with a delighted aspect,—“there, I don’t believe another medical man in the county would have persevered to that extent, and saved the boy’s life; but, there, all the credit belongs to Mr Inglis for commencing the work so well.”
“No; it’s not due to me. If it had not been for that book on the table,” said he, pointing to the little pamphlet, “I should not have known how to proceed.”
“Ah, well,” said the Doctor, “then we will say it was all due to the Life Boat Institution.”
But all this while no efforts were relaxed, for, though symptoms of revival were plainly to be seen, they were like the flickerings of the wick of a lamp, liable at a moment to become extinct; but the endeavours of those present supplied the needful oil, and by slow degrees the cadaverous hue disappeared from Fred’s face; his breathing became firmer and more regular; and at last his eyes opened, staring vacantly at the ceiling, and those bending over him; but, after another lapse of time, a light seemed to be added to the vacant look, and, to the intense delight of all, a smile came over his pale face as he recognised Mr and Mrs Inglis. It was thought better that the lads should not come in at present, so the joyful new was conveyed to them outside the door in a whisper; and then off and away went Harry, followed by his brother, to perform a kind of triumphal war-dance down in the dining-room, where he could make a little noise without being overheard in the sick chamber.
Not very long afterwards, the Doctor took his departure, promising to return in the course of an hour or two; and then Mr and Mrs Inglis came into the room where the boys were, and, announcing; that Fred was in a calm sleep, with one of the maids watching by his side, they asked how the poor fellow came to be so nearly drowned.