Chapter Three.
An Unexpected Guest.
The old grandfather’s clock was just striking six o’clock when Raymond and Bob, the two public schoolboys, came home from their afternoon excursion. They walked slowly up the drive, supporting between them the figure of a young fellow a few years older than themselves, who hopped painfully on one foot, and was no sooner seated on the oak bench in the hall, than he rested his head against the rails, and went off into a dead faint. The boys shouted at the pitch of their voices, whereupon Mr Bertrand rushed out of his sanctum, followed by every other member of his household.
“Good gracious! Who is it? What is the matter? Where did he come from? Has he had an accident?” cried the girls in chorus, while Miss Briggs ran off for sal volatile and other remedies.
The stranger was a tall, lanky youth, about eighteen years of age, with curly brown hair and well-cut features, and he made a pathetic figure leaning back in the big oak seat.
“He’s the son of old Freer, the Squire of Brantmere,” explained Raymond, as he busied himself unloosing the lad’s collar and tie. “We have met him several times when we have been walking. Decent fellow—Harrow—reading at home for college, and hates it like poison. We were coming a short cut over the mountains, when he slipped on a bit of ice, and twisted his ankle trying to keep up. We had an awful time getting him back. He meant to stay at the inn to-night, as his people are away, and it was too dark to go on, but he looks precious bad. Couldn’t we put him up here?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Better carry him straight to bed and get off that boot,” said Mr Bertrand cordially. “It will be a painful job, and if we can get it done before he comes round, so much the better. Here, you boys, we’ll carry him upstairs between us, and be careful not to trip as you go. Someone bring up hot water, and bandages from the medicine chest. I will doctor him myself. I have had a fair experience of sprained ankles in my day, and don’t need anyone to show me what to do.”
The procession wended its way up the staircase, and for the greater part of the evening father and brothers were alike invisible. Fomentations and douches were carried on with gusto by Mr Bertrand, who was never more happy than when he was playing the part of amateur surgeon; then Miss Briggs had her innings, and carried a tray upstairs laden with all the dainties the house could supply, after partaking of which the invalid was so far recovered that he was glad of his friends’ company, and kept them laughing and chatting in his room until it was time to go to bed.
The next morning the ankle was much better, but, at his host’s instigation, the young fellow despatched a note to his mother, telling her not to expect him home for a few days, as Mr Bertrand wished him to stay until he was better able to bear the long, hilly drive.
The girls discussed the situation as they settled down to finish the much disliked mending in the afternoon. “It’s very annoying,” Hilary said. “I do hope he won’t be long in getting better. We were going to London on Monday week, but if he is still here we shall have to wait, and I hate having things postponed.”