“A broken arm, pooh hoo! And so it is—an elegant fracture, pooh hoo! You did it well when you went about it. Lend me your scissors, Miss Mary, and tear up a sheet into bandages. I’ll soon set it for him, pooh hoo! Ay, wince away, ma bouchal; roar murdher, and it will do you good, pooh hoo! Some splints now. Fell into the river, pooh hoo! After a salmon. You landed him like a child in arms. I forgive you, pooh hoo! I’ve room for the fish in me gig, and broiled salmon is—pooh hoo! That’s it; the arm this way, as if ye were goin’ to hit me. Well done, pooh hoo! Ars longa est; so is your arm—an elegant biceps, pooh hoo! Now, sir, tell me if there’s a surgeon-major in the whole British army, horse, foot, and dragoon, that could set your arm in less time, pooh hoo?” and the doctor regarded the swathed and bandaged limb with looks of the profoundest admiration.
“I shall want to get to barracks—”
“Ne’er a barracks will ye see this side of Lady Day; so make your mind easy on that score, pooh hoo! Keep in bed till I see you again, pooh hoo! I’ll order you something to take about bed-time, but it won’t be whiskey-punch, pooh hoo!” And the genial practitioner pooh-hoo’d out of the apartment.
How delightful is convalescence—that dreamy condition in which the thoughts float upwards and the earthly tenement is all but etherealized! Percy Bingham, as he reclined upon a sofa at an open window, through which the perfume of flowers, the hum of summer, with the murmur of the rolling Shauraunthurga, stole like strains of melody, lay like one entranced, languidly sipping the intoxicating sweets of the hour, forgetful of the past, unmindful of the future. The events of the last few days seemed like a vision. Could it be possible that he would suddenly awake and find himself in the dismal walls of his quarters at Westport, far, far away from chintz and lace and from her? No; this was her book which lay upon his lap; that bouquet was culled by her fair hands; the spirited sketch of a man taking a header spread-eagle fashion was from her pencil and must be sent to Punch. She was in everything, everywhere, and, most of all, in the inner sanctuary of his heart.
He had not seen much of her—a visit in the morning like a gleam of sunlight; a chat in the gloaming, sweet as vesper-bell; occasional badinage from the garden to his window, and that was all. How could he hope to win her, this peerless girl, this heiress of the “Joyce country,” whose gray eyes rested upon mead and mountain, lake and valley, her rightful dower? He sickened at the thought. Had she been poor, he would woo, and perhaps—It was not to be. He had tarried till it was too late; he had cut down the bridge behind him, burned his boats, and he must now ford the river of his lost peace of mind as best he might.
Days flew by, and still the young officer lingered at Knockshin. Like the fairy prince in the enchanted wood, he could discover no exit. Croquet had developed into short strolls, short strolls into long walks, long walks into excursions. His arm was getting strong again. Mr. Joyce talked “soldier” with him. He had been in the Connaught Rangers, and went through pipe-clay and the orderly book with the freshness of a “sub” of six weeks’ standing. Mary—what did she speak about? Anything, everything, nothing. Latterly she had been eloquently silent, while Percy Bingham, if he did not actually, might have fairly, counted the beatings of his heart as it bumped against his ribs. They spoke more at than to each other, and when their eyes met the glance was withdrawn by both with electrical rapidity. It was the old, old story. Why repeat it here?
“Mary, Jack Bodkin, your old sweetheart, is coming over for a few days’ fishing,” exclaimed Mr. Joyce one morning upon the arrival of the letter-bag.
Miss Joyce blushed scarlet—a blush that will not be put off; a blush that plunges into the hair, comes out on the eyelids, and sets the ears upon fire—and Percy Bingham, as she grew red, became deadly white. The knell had rung, the hour had come.
“This is from the colonel,” extending a letter as he spoke, the words choking him, “and—and I must say good-by.”
“Sorry for it, Bingham, but duty is duty. No chance of an extension?” asked Joyce.