CONCUSSION.
All the time these things were going on, the patient Christie had been
waiting, or rather driving to and fro, on the outskirts of the private
grounds. These were large, and well adorned with trees of ancient
growth, and clumps of shrubs, and ferny dingles. Southward stretched the
rich Perle valley, green with meadows beloved by cows, who expressed
their fine emotions in the noblest cream; on the north-east side was the
Beacon Hill, sheltering from the bitter winds, and forming a goodly
landmark; while to the north and west extended heathery downs with sweet
short grass, knolls of Scotch fir here and there, and gorse for ever
blooming. Across these downs, and well above the valley-margin ran one
of the two great western roads, broad and smooth as a ball-room floor,
and ringing some forty times a day, with the neigh, and the tramp, and
the harness-rattle of four steeds tossing their heads up, and the
musical blast of long brass horn, or merry notes of key-bugle.
Christie Fox in her own opinion was an exceedingly fine whip.
Tandem-driving was then much in vogue; and truly to be a good
tandem-whip was one of the loftiest aspirations of the rational being
who could afford it. Christie was scarcely up to that mark yet, although
she had been known to "tool a team," when her father had the gout, and
there was some one at her side. So it may be supposed, with what sweet
contempt her sparkling eyes regarded Churchwarden Tarrant's rattle-trap,
and his old cob Punch anteceding it.
"Now don't you go capering about, Miss Chris;" her brother had said when
he left her. "I should have brought George, or at any rate the boy.
These lanes are so narrow, and the ditches such a depth."
"Well, Jemmy, it shows how little you have been at home! Why I can drive
Sparkler, and Wild-oats, and Hurricane. To think of my coming to grief
with this old screw!"
"You are a wonder, no doubt. But at any rate, be careful. He is a quiet
old buffer, but he has got a temper of his own. Why he upset the
Reverend, last summer."
"He won't spill me, I can tell him that. The Reverend is a muff--he
should have let him say his prayers."
For a long time the young lady proved that she was right. _Punch_ went
up and down, and even on the common, as grave as a Judge, and as steady
as a Church. "Poor old chap!" said Christie to him; "Why you haven't got
the pluck to call your soul your own." _Punch_ only replied with a whisk
of his tail, as if to say--"well, I can call this my own," and pursued
his reflections, with a pensive head.
But suddenly the scene changed. A five-barred gate was flung mightily
open, half across the lane, with a fierce creak of iron, and a shivering
of wood; and out poured a motley crowd of all sorts and sizes, rattling
tea-kettles, and beating frying-pans, blowing old cow's horns, and
flourishing a blown dozen of Bob Jake's bladders, with nuts inside them.
_Punch_ was coming past, in a moody state of mind, down upon his luck in
some degree, and wondering what the world was made for, if a piece of
iron in a horse's mouth was allowed to deny him the Almighty's gift of
grass. However he resigned himself about all that.
But when this tremendous uproar broke upon him--for it happened to be
the Northern party of the parish, beating bounds towards the back of
Beacon Hill, and eager to win a bet about where they met the other
lot--and when a gate was flung almost into his shaky knees, which had
begun for some time to "come over," up rose the spirit of his hunting
days, for he had loved the hounds, when he was young. There was no room
to rise the gate; or perhaps he would have tried it, for the mettle of
springier times sprang up, and he had never heard a louder noise, in the
most exciting burst. Surely his duty was at least to jump a hedge.
He forgot altogether that he stood between two shafts, and that a young
lady was entrusted to his care. Swerving to the off-side, he saw a
comely gap, prepared no doubt by Providence, for the benefit of a horse
not quite so young as he used to be. And without hesitation he went at
it, meaning no harm, and taking even less heed of the big ditch on this
side of it. Both shafts snapped, though of fine lance-wood, the
four-wheeler became two vehicles, each with a pair of wheels to it, and
over the back flew Christie, like a sail blown out of the bolt-ropes.
Luckily she wore large bell-sleeves, as every girl with self-respect was
then compelled to do; and these, like parachutes expanding, broke the
full speed of her headlong flight. Even so it must have fared very badly
with her--for her hat being stringless had flown far away--had she been
allowed to strike the earth; but quicker than thought a very active
figure sprang round the head of the gate, and received the impact of her
head upon a broad staunch breast. The blow was severe, and would have
knocked the owner down, had he not been an English yeoman.
Upon a double-breasted waistcoat, made of otter skin, soft and elastic,
he received the full brunt of the young lady's head, as the goal-keeper
stops a football. Throwing forward his arms, he was just in time to
catch more of her, as it descended; and thus was this lovely maiden
saved from permanent disfigurement, if not from death. But for the time,
she knew nothing of this.
Frank Gilham held her very firmly in his arms, and wondered, as well he
might do, at her good fortune and his own. Others came crowding round
the gate, but none had the least idea who she was, and Gilham would not
permit one of them to touch her, though many would gladly have shared
his load. Throughout all history, it has been the nature of the British
yeoman to bear his own burden, be it good or be it evil.
"Her be crule doiled," "A' vear her neck be bracken," "Look e' zee what
purty hair her hath!" "Vetch a drap watter," "Carr' un up to big 'ouze,"
"Her be scrunched like a trummot"--in this way they went on, all gaping
and staring, eager to help, but not sure of the way.
"Lift the gate from its hinges, and lay it down here;" said Gilham, for
she still remained senseless; "run to yon rick--they've been hay-binding
there; bring a couple of trusses, and spread them on the gate."
In two minutes Christie was lying on the gate--for Devonshire men can be
quick when they like--bedded and pillowed among sweet hay, with Frank
Gilham's coat spread across her pretty dress, and his hand supporting
her fair head, and easing the jerks as they bore her up the road. But
before they had gone more than ten or twenty yards towards Walderscourt,
whom should they come upon but Dr. Jemmy Fox, looking very joyful, until
he met them?
"My sister! My own dear Chris!" he exclaimed; and they fell away, while
he examined her.
"Concussion. Only slight, I hope. Thank God!" he said, with his eyes
full of tears; "keep her head like that, I will take this end; now, who
the other? But not to the Court--anywhere but that. Never mind why. I
can't stop to explain. What is the nearest house, this other way?"
"Mother's is not more than half a mile away, and good level road,"
answered Gilham. "She'd be well-treated there. You may trust us for
that."
"You are a brick. Take the other end, Frank. Some fellow with good legs
run in front, and tell Mrs. Gilham what her son has said. No crowding
round there; we want all the air. One or two of you run and catch Mr.
Farrant's horse before he tumbles through that harrow. The rest of you
go on with your beating work." For _Punch_ was careering across a
ploughed field, like a wrecker with his plunder at his heels.
By the time they arrived at White Post Farm, Mrs. Gilham was ready to
receive them, a kind old lady as ever lived, sensible, quiet, and
ready-witted. A bed on the ground-floor was ready, and poor Christie,
who still lay as if in a heavy sleep, was carried in very gently; and
placed as well as might be upon it. Sometimes she was breathing with
long gasps, and at other times showing no life at all, and her eyes were
closed as in a soft deep sleep. "The pretty dear! The poor young thing!"
cried Mrs. Gilham, and a real cry it was.
"I shall not leave her till she comes to herself--that is if you will
let me stop," said her brother, who was much more anxious than he cared
to let them see. "But if you could send a note to my Old Barn, George
would come over, with a little chest I want."
"In twenty minutes, I will be there," answered Gilham, "and back in
another fifteen with it, if it will come on horseback."
He had saddled a horse, and was off in two minutes, while Fox called
after him down the lane, to see on his road through Priestwell whether
Dr. Gronow was at home, and beg him to come up if possible.
Gronow came at once, when called; for if anything is remarkable among
the professors of the healing art (beyond their inability to heal) it is
the good-will with which they always try their best, and the largeness
of their ministrations to each other's families. Parsons appeal to one
another for a leg-up very freely; but both reading-desk and pulpit feel
that the strange foot is not up to much, unless it has its footing paid.
But Dr. Gronow (besides the kindness of his kind profession, always at
the service of its members) had an especial regard for Fox, as a young
man much of his own type, one who dared to think for himself, and being
thoroughly well-grounded, often felt impatient at the vast uncertainty
above. Whatever faith a young man may feel in his own powers of
perception, it is a happy moment, when a veteran confirms him.
"She will be all right," said the man of long practice, after careful
examination; "only she must have her time, which you know as well as I
do. Never mind if she lies like this, for twelve or even for twenty-four
hours; though I do not think that it will last so long. She ought to
have a face she knows and loves, to meet her own, when her
consciousness returns. Then you know how to treat her. _Verbum sat._ But
I want to have a long talk with you, when this anxiety is over. Why have
you kept so long out of my way? Come down to my house, when your sister
can spare you."
Fox would have found it hard to say, or at any rate to tell Gronow, what
were his reasons for avoiding Priestwell, while the present black cloud
hung over him. In fact to himself his own motives had not been very
clear or well considered; but pride was perhaps the foremost. If Gronow
intended to take his part, the first thing to do was to call at Old
Barn, and let everybody know it. And the young man failed to recollect,
that the elder might have good reasons of his own, for keeping his
distance just at first. Nothing but kind consideration had prevented
Gronow from calling upon Fox straightway, for he knew what significance
people would attach to such a visit. Suspicion had fallen upon him as
well; and many of the baser sort declared, that old and young doctor had
arranged that piece of work between them.
Liberal as he was, and kind, whenever a case of real want or trouble was
brought before him, the retired physician was not beloved yet by his
neighbours, and he knew it, and was well content to have it so.
"A queer old chap"--was the usual summary of his character in the
parish; and the charitable added, "no call to blame him; a little bit
touched in the upper storey."
To the vast relief of her brother, and the delight of her kind hostess,
Christie Fox that very night contrived to come to herself, almost as
suddenly as she had left it.
"What is all this about?" she asked, opening her clear eyes strongly.
"Why, Jemmy, you have got no hat on! And where is mine? Oh dear! oh
dear! Thirty shillings, without the trimming."
"There it is, dear, as large as life, and not a speck upon it. Now drink
this cup of tea; and then I'll finish what I was saying."
"No, you always talk so fast, and you never let me say a word. I might
just as well have no tongue at all."
The young lady spoke in such fine ignorance of the self she had come
back to, that there could be no doubt of her being all there. And
presently the "cup of tea" had such a tranquillising power that she fell
into a sweet deep sleep, and did not awake until the sun was as high as
he meant to go at that time of the year. At first she had a slow dull
headache, and felt stiff all over. But Mrs. Gilham appearing with a
napkin'd tray, thin toast and butter, a couple of pullet's eggs just
laid, and one or two other brisk challenges at the hands of her youngest
daughter, nature arose with an open mouth to have the last word about
it, and Christie made a famous breakfast.
Very soon Dr. Gronow looked in again, and smiled in his dry way at her,
for he was not a man of many words. She gave her round wrist to be felt,
and the slim pink tongue to be glanced at, and the bright little head to
be certified cool and sound under the curls; and passing this
examination with high honours, she thought him a "very nice old man;"
though his face was not at first sight perhaps of the sweet and
benevolent order.
Then the old doctor took the young doctor aside--for Jemmy had not been
out of hail all night--and said, "She will do. I congratulate you. No
serious lesion, no feverish symptoms--just a bump on her head from a
mother-of-pearl button. But she has been severely shaken. I would not
move her for a day or two."
"May she get up?" asked Jemmy in that spirit of pure submission, with
which a doctor resigns his own family to the care of another, who knows
perhaps less than he himself does. But the plan is wise for the most
part, inasmuch as love is apt to cloud the clearest eyes.
"To be sure she may. It will do her good. But not to walk about yet.
These people are the kindest of the kind. You may safely leave all that
to the ladies. Meanwhile you are better out of the way. Come down for an
hour or two, and share my early dinner. You want looking to yourself.
You have not had a bit for some twenty-four hours."
It was little more than ten minutes' walk to Gronow's house at
Priestwell, and Fox accepted the invitation gladly. Neither in the
course of their walk, nor during their meal, did his entertainer refer
to the mysterious subject, which was always in the mind of one, and
often in that of the other. But Gronow enlarged upon his favourite
topic--the keen sagacity, and almost too accurate judgment possessed by
trout, and the very great difficulty he experienced in catching them,
unless the stream was muddy.
"But you can't fish at this time of year," observed Fox; "at least so
people say. I know nothing about it. Hunting and shooting are more to my
taste."
"You can fish every day in the year," replied Gronow; "at any rate in
this river. There is nothing against it, but prejudice. The little ones
are as bright as a new shilling now, and the old ones as a guinea."
"But surely they should be allowed time to breed."
"That is their business, and none of mine. If they choose to neglect
what they should be doing, and come to my hook, why I pull them
out--that is to say, if they don't slip off."
"But your hook has no right to be there just then."
"Is it for a fish to dictate to me, how I should employ my time? I
bought this property for the fishing. The interest of my money runs all
the year round, and so must what I spent it on."
Fox saw that he would only irritate this concise logician, by further
contention on behalf of the fish; and he was quite disarmed, when the
candid doctor added--
"I don't mean to say, that such a fellow as young Pike, Penniloe's
senior pupil, should be allowed to fish all the year round; for he never
goes out without catching something. But my case is different; the
winter owes me all the blank days I had in the summer; and as they were
nine out of every ten, I shall not have caught up the record, by the
time the May-fly comes back again."
"Then you can't do much harm now," thought Fox; "and the trout will soon
have their revenge, my friend--a fine attack of rheumatism, well in
season."
"And now," said Dr. Gronow, when dinner was over, and "red and white
wine," as they were always called then, had been placed upon the table,
not upon a cloth, but on the dark red sheen; "now you can smoke if you
like. I don't, just at present. Let us talk of all this botheration.
What an idiot world it is! You are young, and will have to wag your tail
to it. I go along, with my tail straight; like a dog who does not care
to fight, but is ready, if it comes to that."
"I know pretty well how you look at things. And it is the best way, for
those who can afford it. Of course, I am bound to pretend not to care;
and I keep up pretty well, perhaps. But for all that, it is not very
jolly. If my sister had not turned up, I am not sure how I should have
got on at all. Though Penniloe was very good, and so were several
others, especially Mockham. I must have a pipe, if you don't mind. It
makes me feel so grateful."
"That is something in its favour, and shows how young you still remain.
I would cultivate the pipe more than I do; if so it would bring back my
youth; not for the youth--blind puppyhood--but for thinking better of my
race, and of myself as one of them."
"It is not for me to reason with you," Fox answered humbly, as he blew a
gentle cloud; "you are far above me, in every way. I am stupid enough;
but I always know, when I come across a stronger mind."
"Not a stronger, but a harder one. We will not go into that question
now. Reams have been written about it, and they leave us none the wiser.
The present point is--how are you to get out of this very nasty scrape?"
"I don't care to get out. I will face it out. When a man knows his own
innocence----"
"That is all very fine; but it won't work. Your prospects do not depend,
I know, at all upon your profession. But for the sake of all your
friends, your sweet high-spirited sister, your good mother, and all your
family, you must not rest upon that manly view. Your innocence may be a
coat of mail to yourself. But it will not shelter them."
"I have thought of all that. I am not so selfish. But who can prove a
negative?"
"The man who can prove the positive. You will never be quit, until you
show who was the real perpetrator. A big word to use; for, after all,
the horror at such things is rather childish. The law regards it so, and
in its strong perception of mortal rights, has made it a felony to steal
the shroud, to steal the body an indictable offence, to be punished
with fine, or (if a poor man did it) with imprisonment."
"Is that the law? I could scarcely have believed it. And they talk of
the absurdities of our profession!"
"Yes, that is the law. And perhaps you see now, why your enemies have
not gone further. They see that it damns you ten times more, to lie
under the imputation, than it would to be brought to trial, and be
acquitted, as you must be. You have not to thank them for any mercy,
only for knowing their own game."
"It is enough to make one a misanthrope for life," said Fox, looking
really fierce once more. "I hoped that they had found their mistake
about me, and were sorry for accusing an innocent man."
"Alas for the credulity of youth! No Jemmy, the Philistines are upon
thee. You have to reckon with a wily lot, and an implacable woman behind
them. They will take every advantage of the rank cowardice of the
clodhopper, and the terror of all those pitch-plaster tales. You know
how these things have increased, ever since that idiotic Act of two or
three years back. That a murderer should be prevented even from
affording some posthumous expiation! And yet people call it a religious
age--to rob a poor wretch of his last hope of heaven!"
"Your idea is a grim one;" answered Fox with a smile; "I never saw it in
that light before. But now tell me one thing--and it is a main point.
You know that you can trust me with your opinion. I confess that I am at
my wits' ends. The thing must have been done, to solve some doubt. There
is no one about here who would dare the risk, even if there were any one
zealous enough; and so far as I know, short of Exeter, there are none
but hum-drums, and jog-trots."
"You have expressed your opinion already a little too freely to that
effect, Master Jemmy."
"Perhaps I have. But I never meant it to go round. It was young and
silly of me. But what I want to ask you is this--do you think it
possible that, you know who----"
"Harrison Gowler?" said Dr. Gronow calmly. "It is possible, but most
improbable. Gowler knew what it was, even better than you did, or I
from your account of it. Introsusception is not so very rare, even
without a strain, or the tendency to it from an ancient wound. Putting
aside all the risk and expense--and I know that friend Gowler sticks
close to his money--and dropping all the feelings of a gentleman--what
sufficient motive could Gowler have? An enthusiastic tiro might have
longed to verify, etc., but not a man of his experience. He knew it all,
as well as if he had seen it. No, you may at once dismiss that idea, if
you ever formed it."
"I never did form it. It was suggested; and all that you have said
occurred to me. Well, I know not what to think. The mystery is hopeless.
All we can be certain of is, that the thing was done."
"Even of that I am not quite so certain. I am never sure of anything,
unless I see it. I have come across such instances of things established
beyond doubt--and yet they never occurred at all. And you know what a
set of fools these fat-chopped yokels are, when scared. Why they
actually believe in Spring-heeled Jack, Lord Somebody, and the ten
thousand guinea bet! And they quake in their beds, if the windows
rattle. Look at that idiot of a blacksmith, swearing that he saw you
with the horse! A horse? A night-mare, or a mare's nest, I should say.
Why it would not surprise me a bit, if it proved that the worthy baronet
is reposing in his grave, as calmly as his brave and warlike spirit
could desire. If not, it is no fault of our profession, but the result
of some dark history, to which as yet we have no clue."
Dr. Gronow had a manner of saying things, in itself so distinct and
impressive, and seconded so ably by a lowering of his eyebrows, and
wrinkling of his large steep forehead, that when he finished up with his
mouth set close, and keen eyes fixed intently, it was hard to believe
that he could be wrong--supposing at least that he meant to be right.
"Well, sir," said the young man, strongly feeling this effect; "you have
often surprised me by the things you have said. And strange as they
seemed, they have generally proved correct in the end. But as to your
first suggestion, it is impossible, I fear, to think of it; after what
at least a dozen people saw, without hurry, and in broad daylight. The
other matter may be as you say. If so, it only makes it worse for me.
What hope can I have of ever getting at the bottom of it?"
"Time, my dear fellow, time will show. And the suspicion against you
will be weakening every day, if you meet it with calm disdain. You
already have the blacksmith's recantation--a blow in the teeth for your
enemies. I am not exactly like your good parson, who exhorts you
devoutly to trust in the Lord. 'The Lord helps those who help
themselves,' is my view of that question. Though I begin to think highly
of Penniloe. He was inclined to be rude about the flies I use, once or
twice last summer. But I shall look over that, as he has been so ill. I
shall call and enquire for him to-morrow."
"But what am I to do, to help myself? It is so easy to say, 'take it
easily.' What is the first step for me to take? I could offer rewards,
and all that sort of thing. I could send for experienced men from
London. I have written to a friend of mine there already, but have had
no answer. I could put myself in a clever lawyer's hands. I could do a
lot of things, no doubt, and spread the matter far and wide. But the
first result would be to kill my dear father. I told you in what a
condition he lies."
"Yes. You are terribly 'handicapped' as the racing people call it.
Penniloe's illness was much against you. So was your own absence. So
were several other things. But the worst of all is your father's sad
state. And the better he gets, the worse the danger. But for all that, I
can give you one comfort. I have never yet known things combine against
a man, persistently and relentlessly, if he went straight ahead at them.
They jangle among themselves, by and by, even as his enemies are sure to
do; and instead of being hunted down, he slips out between them. One
thing I can undertake perhaps. But I won't talk of it until I know more,
and have consulted Penniloe. What, have you never had a glass of wine?
Well, that is too bad of me! These are the times, when even a young man
wants it, and an old one should sympathise with him thus. Oh, you want
to get back to the fair Miss Christie? Very well, take her half a dozen
of my pears. These people about here don't know what a pear is,
according to my interpretation of the word."