CHAPTER XVIII.
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."