The doctor bustled off down to the river’s brink, and quickly fetched back some water in his smart new white hat; he did not mind that, however, for he would at any time sacrifice anything he had to give ease or pleasure to another.
By the time the others came up, Tom opened his eyes, and looked dreamily around.
“Hullo! what’s the row? where am I?”
“Bless my soul! you’re a nice fellow you are, alarming us all like this. Do you feel better now? Where’s the pain? Does that hurt you, eh! or that?” said the doctor, who had removed Tom’s waistcoat, and was poking him about in the side with his fat fore-finger.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom, as Aesculapius bore rather heavily on a tender spot in his ribs, but he took no further notice of his enquiries, for he was gazing up into Lizzie’s anxious face; unless you take a murmured “Lizzie, my darling,” spoken so softly that only one person heard it, as an answer to the doctor’s questions.
“Speak, you young rascal! You can speak well enough; I heard you, you rogue. Bless my soul! I heard you.”
Tom laughed faintly, and a little pink colour came into Lizzie’s face. “I’m all right, doctor, thanks. I’ll be well in a minute.” He made an effort to rise, as the others gathered around, and a perfect gabble of questions without answers ensued. “I’m all right;” but his head fell back again in Lizzie’s lap, and a dead-like pallor once more overspread his face.
Tom’s actions belied his words. He was not by any means all right. Two of his ribs were broken by the heavy shot, nearly the size of slugs, that the young imp, Sir Mortimer had loaded his gun with; and if Tom had been hit on the left side, it would have been a case of requiescat in pace for him and all his troubles. As it was, he would be laid up for some time, perhaps for months.
The doctor saw this, and interrupted the old campaigner, as she was saying for Lizzie’s especial benefit, in her honeyed accents, which had a concealed sting beneath them—“How very sad! What a very charming picture; but if I were a young girl—”
“We would try and make ourselves useful? Bless my soul! my lady, we must try and get him home. Here, one of you,” he said, turning to the males, who stood aloof looking at one another, and doing nothing, in the manner customary to them on such occasions—“run up to the cottage where the carriages are left—”