“Thank you, my dears, thank you,” he said. “It’s very kind of you; and I’m glad enough, I can tell you, to find that you’ve both got something in you besides fine young ladyism.”
“I wish we could do more,” said Rachel Linton, quietly.
“So do I, my dear,” said the little doctor; “and I wish I could do more, but I have done all I can. Nature must do the rest.”
The long, hot day passed on, and evening was approaching before the doctor took anything more than a glass of wine and water and a biscuit; and at last, when every one had judged by poor Gray’s aspect that all now was over, and Major Sandars came up and thanked him for his patient endeavours to save the poor fellow’s life, the doctor felt his patient’s pulse once more, raised the closed eyelids and gazed at the pupils, and then rose up, dropped into a cane lounging chair, and began softly rubbing his knees.
“Now, ladies,” he said firmly, “go below and dine. I order it. Sandars—Horton—if you have any good feeling left in you, you’ll send relays of Jacks and privates to rub my poor knees. I say,” he said, looking round with a smile, “that was a close shave, wasn’t it?”
“Close shave?” said the major, as the ladies drew back, apparently hurt at the doctor’s levity; and poor Bob Roberts, kneeling at the injured man’s feet, lowered his head so that those near should not see the unmanly tears gathering in his eyes, though he was somewhat comforted on seeing that Ensign Long was almost as much moved.
“Yes,” said the doctor; “you might have got all the nobs of the profession, and I don’t believe they could have done better.”
“No,” said Captain Horton rather coldly. “You have worked hard, Doctor Bolter.”
“Hard? I should think I have. I tell you what it is, sir, you would not have felt more pleased than I do if you had been made an admiral.”
“But the man is dying fast, Bolter,” said Major Sandars.