THE LAIRD.
Conducted by the lady, they passed round the house to the court, and
across the court to a door in one of the gables. It was a low, narrow
door, but large enough for the man that stood there--a little man, with
colorless face, and quiet, abstracted look. His eyes were cold and keen,
his features small, delicate, and regular. He had an erect little back,
and was dressed in a long-tailed coat, looking not much of a laird, and
less of a farmer, as he stood framed in the gray stone wall, in which
odd little windows, dotted here and there at all heights and distances,
revealed a wonderful arrangement of floors and rooms inside.
“Good-morning, Mr. Fordyce!” said the doctor. “This is a bad business,
but it might have been worse! Not a soul injured but one!”
“Souls don't commonly get injured by accident!” returned the laird, with
a cold smile that was far from discourteous. “Stick to the body, doctor!
There you know something!”
“It's a truth, laird!” answered the doctor--but added to himself--“Well!
it's awful to hear the truth from some mouths!”
The laird spoke no word of objection or of welcome. They carried the
poor fellow into the house, following its mistress to a room, where,
with the help of her one domestic, and instructed by the doctor, she
soon had a bed prepared for him. Then away rode the doctor at full speed
to fetch the appliances necessary, leaving the laird standing by the
bed, with a look of mild dissatisfaction, but not a whisper of
opposition.
It was the guest-chamber to which George Crawford had been carried, a
room far more comfortable than a stranger might, from the aspect of the
house, have believed possible. Everything in it was old-fashioned, and,
having been dismantled, it was not in apple-pie order; but it was
rapidly and silently restored to its humble ideal; and when the doctor,
after an incredibly brief absence, returned with his assistant, he
seemed both surprised and pleased at the change.
“He must have some one to sit up with him, Miss Fordyce,” he said, when
all was done.
“I will myself,” she answered. “But you must give me exact directions,
for I have done no nursing.”
“If you will walk a little way with me, I will tell you all you need
know. He will sleep now, I think--at least till you get back: I shall
not keep you beyond a few minutes. It is not a very awkward fracture,”
he continued, as they went. “It might have been much worse! We shall
have him about in a few weeks. But he will want the greatest care while
the bones are uniting.”
The laird turned from the bed, and went to his study, where he walked up
and down, lost and old and pale, the very Bibliad of the room with its
ancient volumes all around. Whatever his eyes fell upon, he turned from,
as if he had no longer any pleasure in it, and presently stole back to
the room where the sufferer lay. On tiptoe, with a caution suggestive of
a wild beast asleep, he crept to the bed, looked down on his unwelcome
guest with an expression of sympathy crossed with dislike, and shook his
head slowly and solemnly, like one injured but forgiving.
His eye fell on the young man's pocket-book. It had fallen from his coat
as they undressed him, and was on a table by the bedside. He caught it
up just ere Alexa reentered.
“How is he, father?” she asked.
“He is fast asleep,” answered the laid. “How long does the doctor think
he will have to be here?”
“I did not ask him,” she replied.
“That was an oversight, my child,” he returned. “It is of consequence we
should know the moment of his removal.”
“We shall know it in good time. The doctor called it an affair of
weeks--or months--I forget. But you shall not be troubled, father. I
will attend to him.”
“But I _am_ troubled, Alexa! You do not know how little money I have!”
Again he retired--slowly, shut his door, locked it, and began to search
the pocket-book. He found certain banknotes, and made a discovery
concerning its owner.
With the help of her old woman, and noiselessly, while Crawford lay in a
half slumber, Alexa continued making the chamber more comfortable.
Chintz curtains veiled the windows, which, for all their narrowness, had
admitted too much light; and an old carpet deadened the sound of
footsteps on the creaking boards--for the bones of a house do not grow
silent with age; a fire burned in the antique grate, and was a soul to
the chamber, which was chilly, looking to the north, with walls so thick
that it took half the summer to warm them through. Old Meg, moving to
and fro, kept shaking her head like her master, as if she also were in
the secret of some house-misery; but she was only indulging the funereal
temperament of an ancient woman. As Alexa ran through the heather in the
morning, she looked not altogether unlike a peasant; her shoes were
strong, her dress was short; but now she came and went in a soft-colored
gown, neither ill-made nor unbecoming. She did not seem to belong to
what is called society, but she looked dignified, at times almost
stately, with an expression of superiority, not strong enough to make
her handsome face unpleasing. It resembled her father's, but, for a
woman's, was cast in a larger mold.
The day crept on. The invalid was feverish. His nurse obeyed the doctor
minutely, to a single drop. She had her tea brought her, but when the
supper hour arrived went to join her father in the kitchen.