The dowager, herself, answered the gate, outstripping “Garge” in getting there first. The doctor, having rapidly explained matters, and told her not to be alarmed, she spoke up at once sharply to the point.
“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” she said. “I’m a woman, Doctor Jolly; but I’m not a fool, and you won’t find me crying like an idiot!”
Whereupon the orders were given to George, who looked on with stolid wonder and grief, and between them they carried Tom into the house and laid him on his bed, where the doctor saw him tranquilly composed, and told him cheerily he would be all right to-morrow.
“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” said the dowager, half to herself, in a muttering tone. “Here’s Thomas wounded, and Susan gone away, one doesn’t know where!”
“What! Susan gone?” enquired the doctor anxiously.
“Drat it all, man! It doesn’t matter. I was only bothering about her being out in the garden so late; that’s all!”
“Bless my soul!” said the doctor, quieting down—“you nearly frightened me to death! But I must see about Tom now!”—and there the conversation about the missing girl dropped.
The old lady had but just discovered the absence of the girl, and Miss Kingscott had disclaimed any knowledge as to her whereabouts. The fright of the dowager, however, about Tom, made her forget the other trouble for a time, particularly as Susan had often before stopped out late in the garden. She would not be really alarmed about her daughter till the morning.
Now, she was in a fearful state of anxiety about Tom, although she tried, with the dogged obstinacy of her nature, to affect indifference; but she was heartily glad when Doctor Jolly said he would do very well, and that he would come the first thing in the morning to see him.
It was night now, quite late; and the bright harvest moon was shining down out of a clear blue sky with all its August fulness, marking out every feature of the landscape with all that clearness of outline and vivid contrast of brilliant, blueish light and dark shadow which only moonlight gives.