_CHRISTMAS DAY IN GWITHIAN CHURCH._
Soon the doctor called them back again. He asked Mrs. Wheeler to
stay a while with Marmaduke, and told the mother that he would speak
a word alone with her. Arm in arm with Winnie she passed along with
him, very tall and straight, but trembling she scarcely knew at what.
The parson led the way into the kitchen, as being the only room in
the house, except the bedrooms, where there was any fire, and shut
the door, and left them with the doctor. Winnie put one arm about
the mother's waist and took her to the fire. The two women, standing
there in their riding-habits, which were all muddied and torn, with
that awful fear upon their faces, would have melted a heart of stone.
The doctor, not as yet hardened by a continual acquaintance with such
scenes, stood with one hand resting on the kitchen-table, and an
expression of unwonted gravity upon his sunny face.
"What is it, sir?" asked the mother, stretching one hand towards the
doctor. "Tell us what is the matter with my boy?"
The doctor raised his head, and looked her frankly in the face, with
a keen, inquiring glance, as though he wished to know what sort of
woman this was with whom he had to deal.
"Mrs. Tregowan," he said--and how they hung upon his words!--"this is
not a case in which I should care to act alone. I presume that
expense is not an object; and in that case I should strongly
recommend you to at once telegraph for further aid from town." And
he mentioned one or two celebrated physicians whom he recommended
should immediately be summoned. Then there was silence for a moment;
the mother trembled and caught at Winnie's arm.
"But, sir," she said, "can you not tell us what it is you fear? Do
not be afraid for us; we would rather, far rather, know the worst
than ignorantly dread it; besides, it is only right that we should
know all."
Then the doctor answered in tones which were very grave and gentle.
He saw the plight which they were in, and knew the lad was to them
their all in all.
"It is difficult to say exactly what it is I fear; it is yet too soon
to speak. Do not think that I would hide anything from you, for,
believe me, I would not. Both brain and spine are injured, but to
what extent it is impossible to say; we must have further help before
we can be certain."
"Brain and spine!" the mother said, and with clasped hands she shrank
back as though she suffered physical pain. "Both brain and spine are
injured!"
"But, sir, you do not think that he will die?" It was Winnie's
question. There was a look in her eyes which made the doctor's dim,
although he knew not why.
"It is vain to prophesy. It is vain to speak of thinking. It is a
complicated case, one for a specialist, not for a country surgeon. I
have not yet made a complete examination; indeed, I hesitate to move
at all upon my own responsibility. We must wait until assistance
comes. One thing is certain, it is not a matter of a moment. Should
he die, the end will not be yet."
With that perforce they had to be content. There was nothing to be
done but wait. As best they might they had to endure suspense till
help should come. Coxon was despatched post-haste. He sought the
telegraph clerk in his own home, hurried him to the office, and at
once messages were flashed along the wires, some to the physicians,
bidding them start without a moment's pause; another to the officials
at the London terminus, requesting them to prepare a special train,
so that there might be no delay when the physicians came. As the
doctor said, expense was no object at such a time.
But whatever haste was made, many hours must elapse before assistance
could possibly arrive, each one of which would be, to those who
watched and waited, as though it were a year. Messengers were sent
in all directions--one to Tregowan, to tell the news to Nelly and to
Ria; a second to Pollyon's parents; a third to Eddie Mason's
home--for he was soon between the sheets and fast asleep; others to
every doctor within reach, for in the multitude of counsellors the
mother hoped there would be wisdom. The parsonage was all confusion.
The little Wheelers were sent off to a neighbour's, anywhere to be
away from home. It promised to be a pleasant Christmas Day for every
one!
It was about seven o'clock when Nelly and Ria came. They had driven
over post-haste in a pony-carriage. Nelly was very pale but calm.
Ria's eyes were swollen with much weeping. She promised to make
herself ill with the passion of her sorrow. When they drew up before
the house, she burst into another flood of tears, so that all the
neighbourhood could hear. Such a thing as calmness was impossible
with her. One would have thought that Duke was already dead and
buried.
"Where is he?" she cried, rushing through the open door. "Where is
he? Tell me, where is he? What have you done with him? O Duke!
Duke! I wish that I were dead!"
"My dear, pray--pray, my dear young lady, keep your feelings in
control," remonstrated Parson Wheeler, whose stock of self-possession
the events of the night had not increased. He was almost at his
wits' ends among them all. "This--this will never do. Consider, I
beg of you, as little noise as possible is absolutely
necessary--absolutely, the doctor said. Really you oughtn't to, you
know." And in his own way he strove to quiet the young lady; but Ria
would have none of him.
"How dare you speak to me?" she cried. "How dare you try to stop me?
How dare you want to keep me from my brother? Duke! where are you,
Duke! O Duke! Duke! Duke!"
And again her tears got the better of her powers of speech. She was
making confusion worse confounded. Mrs. Wheeler from above was
hurrying down. The mother and Winnie, ignorant of what was
happening, were fearful that some fresh misfortune had chanced to
them. The parson stood rubbing his hands, staring at the mourner,
utterly at a loss what to say or do. Only Nelly was in possession of
her wits.
"Ria," she said, and put her arm about her sister's neck, "you
promised me you would not make the trouble worse. You will do him
harm, not good. Do you think that Duke does not know that you are
sorry without this noise? Ria," as Ria still sobbed on, "if you are
not still, we must drive home again, and not go to him at all."
But she would not be comforted. They were obliged to take her to the
room remotest from Duke, and then only by degrees could she be got to
understand that such a noise was the worst thing possible for him.
Shortly afterwards Mrs. Pollyon came in. Her husband had his hands
full of special services, and, however great his anxiety, was
compelled to stay away. It could scarcely have been in a frame of
mind which accorded with the season that he set about his duties. A
homely, busy body was Mrs. Pollyon, full of care for others rather
than herself. Winnie met her on the threshold, and in a few words
told her what had happened, not forgetting to say how much they owed
her lad for all that he had done for Marmaduke. Her listener's eyes
glistened, but she seemed to take for granted his self-sacrifice, as
though it were a thing of course.
"And how is the lad?" she asked; "is it well with him?"
"All is well. We thought at first that he was drowned, but he was
not. We saved him just in time." She did not say how he had been
saved. "The doctor says no ill consequences will follow; that he
will be just as well as though nothing at all had happened."
Her voice faltered as she thought how different it was with Duke, but
her hearer as yet knew nothing at all of that.
It was characteristic of Mrs. Pollyon that when she heard Ria
crying--for that young lady had not yet made an end of
sobbing--knowing that Lionel was well, she thought not of her desire
to see him, although her heart had been upon the rack all night
because of him, but marched straight off to give comfort to the
mourner. And it was she who was successful in softening the violence
of her grief. Accustomed as she was to visiting the sick and giving
consolation to sorrow, there was a magic in her presence, her voice,
her manner, which seemed insensibly to charm. Soon Ria's head was
pillowed on her breast, herself enfolded in her arms, and at last she
was at rest.
"Poor Ria! poor little one! Don't you know that this is Christmas
Day? What are you crying for on Christmas Day? Are these tears to
welcome Jesus?" And Mrs. Pollyon stroked Marion's tumbled hair, and
induced her to wash, so far as possible, the traces of sorrow from
her eyes.
Then they went upstairs. Lionel they found enjoying the sweetest of
sweet sleep. They bent over his bed; there was a smile upon his
face; nothing of the look which was there last night; it had vanished
with the darkness; he seemed indeed at rest. His mother's eyes,
despite herself, were filled with tears; her lips moved, but what she
was saying to herself they did not know. Suddenly she stooped and
kissed him on the lips; he slept so slightly that so soft a touch was
enough to rouse him out of slumber; he opened his eyes and half rose
in bed; in astonishment he stared at them, at a loss to know, first,
where he was, and then what so large a company did in his room.
"I say, you know, what's this?" He paused and looked about him.
"Holloa! Is that you, mother? What! Ria Tregowan and Nelly!" And
very speedily he was down between the sheets again. There could be
no doubt that Master Lionel was little the worse for his night's
adventure.
They explained to him how matters stood, reminded him--for he seemed
momentarily to have forgotten--of all that had happened. In an
instant he was all anxiety to learn how it fared with Marmaduke.
Then for the first time Mrs. Pollyon was made acquainted with the
critical state which he was in; how that the issue of life or death
was with the Lord; that until more skilled advice arrived none could
have the faintest notion what that issue would probably be. Nothing
would satisfy Lionel but that he should get up and see his friend; he
seemed to think that his proper place was by his pillow, and
reproached himself as though all the blame for what had chanced were
his.
"What a brute I am! Here I am, lying in bed, and taking it easy,
while Duke is dying."
"Do not say that," said Nelly, putting out her hand to him, "do not
say that he is dying." And at the mere thought of it off went Ria
into another flood of tears.
Lionel was aghast; the expression of his face admirably expressed the
unqualified disgust which he felt for himself. He stared at Nelly,
he stared at Ria, he stared at his mother trying again to dry the
damsel's tears.
"Well, if I'm not a pretty sort of brute! if I'm not the
thick-headedest, hard-heartedest animal about! Punch my head, Ria!
there's a trump, do! It'll do you good, upon my word it will." And
in his own way he too strove to comfort Ria.
And succeeded to. Lionel had when he chose a cajoling way peculiarly
his own, which was effective on occasion, as it was effective now.
Ria ceased outwardly to mourn, his mother and the girls betook
themselves elsewhere, and he was left alone; and no sooner was he by
himself than he jumped out of bed, and with all haste began to dress.
"Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" He had stripped himself to the
waist, and was plunging his head into a basin of ice-cold water.
"Yah--h! isn't it cold? What a clod I am! can't open my mouth
without putting my foot in it! Poor old Duke! and to think that it
should be on Christmas Day--to think that after all he should come
off second-best! Yah--h--h!" He began to rub himself with a towel
until the skin threatened to peel off. "This comes of George
Trevena's bright ideas. I wish I'd got him here, I'd"---- A vicious
attempt to thrust his foot into a sock wound up the sentence.
"There! torn it all to ribbons--just like me!" As was only to be
expected, he had nearly succeeded in dividing the leg of the sock
from the foot, but he did not allow the accident to impede his
progress, and proceeded in the same fashion to cram on the remainder
of his garments. "Carolling! pretty carolling indeed!" He was
dragging on his trousers in a fashion which threatened to leave them
in the condition of his sock. "As for that brute Fruin, if Duke does
die, it will be the nearest case of murder that ever yet was known.
Duke die! Fancy one talking of Duke dying as though it were just
nothing at all! I--I don't know what to say or do!" He plunged his
hands into his pockets, thrust his legs apart, and stood there in his
stockinged feet a picture of bewilderment. He could not realise the
thing at all. Duke die! it seemed impossible. Duke, who was
yesterday the impersonation of health and strength, to-day to die; he
could not grasp the thought at all; it seemed to him impossible.
For two or three minutes he stood there motionless, curious changes
passing over his face the while. At first his look betokened nothing
but bewilderment, then a strange fear came into his eyes, then the
corners of his mouth drooped down; grief was trembling on his lips.
One would have said he was about to cry; but he forced the thought
away; he rounded his lips into an O, and broke into a long, low,
melancholy whistle. It expressed his feelings more than any words
could do; then, more slowly, and with a more serious air, he
proceeded with the business of dressing.
At last he was attired to his completest satisfaction, then he knelt
in prayer. He remained longer on his knees than usual, for he had
very much to ask of God, then he left his room. Just outside his
door he met Mrs. Tregowan. He noted the look upon her face of fear
and sorrow, both too deep for utterance, and in some strange way felt
as though he were himself to blame.
"Mrs. Tregowan," he said, "O Mrs. Tregowan! what a brute I am! Lay
all the blame on me; I ought to have kept him from it from the first."
He stood in the passage in front of her. There could be no doubt it
was real sorrow, real sympathy he felt. She saw it instantly and put
out her hand to him.
"Blame you! What should I blame you for? I cannot understand it
all; it is a mystery to me. I shall perhaps know all about it better
soon; but this I do know, that you saved my boy."
"_I_ saved him! Yes, a pretty sort of saving, when he is down upon
his back and I don't know what, while I'm as right as ninepence. If
I were down upon my back and he were right as ninepence, you might
talk of saving then; but as it is, I'm just a brute, and feel I am."
"I believe," said Mrs. Tregowan, with the faintest of faint smiles,
"that you wish to make my trouble worse even than it is. Why do you
call yourself such names? Why do you paint yourself so terribly? If
my boy is spared to me, you shall not hide from me how much I owe to
you." She stooped and kissed him on the brow. "We are going to
church; will you come with us?"
He searched for his handkerchief and blew his nose. There was
something which he could not understand about his eyes. Then he
turned and went with her. The local doctor was with Marmaduke. He
had forbidden him to talk, being especially anxious he should sleep,
and since, if any one he knew and loved were within call, he would do
nothing but babble, babble, in a curious childish fashion, which was
so strange in him, nothing remained but to banish all but strangers
from his room. And so, since it was vain to sit in the house
wrestling with fear, and the House of God was so near, they were all
attending service at Gwithian church, the mother, the three girls,
Mrs. Pollyon, and now Lionel. Mr. and Mrs. Mason had come, and were
but waiting for Eddie to wake to take him back with them; and since
he as yet showed no signs of being tired of sleep, they, too, went
with the rest to Christmas service at the village church.
It was a memorable service. Parson Wheeler had a larger congregation
than he had had this many a year, and to a great extent a much more
earnest one. In the church all his nervous, preoccupied air had
fled; he was no longer bewildered--he was at home. Not that he was
eloquent; not that he was a man of light and leading; not that his
were great gifts from God. Not so. His were no winged words of
fire, his no majesty of genius; rather he was a simple-minded,
earnest soul, who was indeed a servant of the Lord. There was peace
within that House. As the service proceeded, the hearts of those who
listened grew more and more at rest. As the village choir--the rough
fishermen, the hard-worked miners, the stalwart, bonny
lasses--upraised the strains of Christmas psalmody, there came
comfort to their souls; the words of holy writ, as the wondrous yet
simple story was told, fell on their ears with the magic of a
soothing balm. The parson's text was from the second of Luke, "Fear
not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall
be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David
a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord;" and on these good tidings he
founded the simplest sermon. Had it been aught else, it would have
been above the comprehension of his hearers. He dwelt again and
again on the good tidings of great joy; and there were those there
who would never have tired to hear of them; and when at last he
ended, there were few there who did not leave God's house in every
sense better than they entered.
The mother went out with Winnie, Lionel by their side, Nelly and Ria
with Mrs. Pollyon following after, Mr. and Mrs. Mason bringing up the
rear; and the whole trust of one and all was truly with the Lord.
And that night the great physicians from London came, and were with
Marmaduke the while. Outside his door the mother prayed. So passed
Christmas Day away. It was a never-to-be-forgotten one with them.