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<h3>Chapter Twenty Four.</h3> <h4>Doctor and Nurse.</h4> The old lawyer ran from the door with an alacrity not to be expected in one of his years, and returned directly with the key that he had found in his table. “Give it to me,” said Artis huskily, and snatching the key he tried to insert it, but his hand trembled so that he did not succeed, and the next moment he shrank away. “Here, open that door, Preenham,” he said. “I daren’t, sir, I daren’t indeed. Ah, poor young man!” “Give me the key,” said the old lawyer firmly, and taking it, he tried the door, to find that the lock had been tampered with, so that it was some minutes before he could get it to move. “Hadn’t I better fetch the police, sir?” faltered the butler. “No; stop,” said the old lawyer, turning the handle. “There is some one against the door.” He pushed hard, and with some effort got it open so that he could have squeezed in. “It is all dark,” he said. “No it is the curtain,” and forcing his way through, he drew back the hangings from the window. “It’s poor Capel—dead!” whispered Artis, who had followed. “Here, Preenham, come in,” he cried angrily. “Oh, how horrible—poor lad!” The lawyer saw the naked sword lying on the carpet; that the drawers and cabinet had been ransacked; and that the window was not quite shut down. He took this in at a glance as he ran to where Capel lay close to the door, where he had dragged himself sometime during the early hours of the morn, to lie exhausted after vainly trying to raise the alarm. “He’s dead, sir, dead!” groaned the butler. “Hush!” cried the old lawyer harshly. “He’s not dead. Mr Artis, you are young and active. Quick. That doctor, Mr Heston. You know where he lives. You, Preenham, brandy. Stop. Tell the ladies Mr Capel is ill. Nothing more. Don’t spread the alarm.” “Is anything very serious the matter?” said a voice at the door. “Yes—no, my dear. Go away now,” cried the old lawyer, “Mr Capel is ill.” “There is something terribly wrong again,” said a deeper voice, and, white as ashes and closely followed by Katrine, Lydia came in. She uttered a faint cry, and then wrested herself from Artis, who tried to stop her. “No,” she cried, imperiously, changed as it were in an instant from a shivering girl into a thoughtful woman. “Quick: go for help. Mr Girtle, what can I do?” “Yes, let me help too,” said Katrine. “What is it; has he tried to kill himself?” “No,” cried Lydia, turning upon her fiercely. “He was too true a man.” “I’m afraid there has been an attempt made by burglars,” said the old lawyer, “and that our young friend has been trying to defend the place; but—but he was locked in here—the key was in my table—and—and—I’m afraid I’m growing very old—things seem so much confused now.” He put his hand to his head for a few moments and looked helplessly from one to the other. Then his customary sang froid seemed to have returned. “This is not a sight for you, ladies,” he said. “Pray go back.” “I am not afraid, Mr Girtle,” said Katrine, with a slight shudder as she looked eagerly about the room. For her answer, Lydia took water from the wash-stand, and began to bathe the blood-smeared face, kneeling down by Capel’s side. Just then Preenham entered with decanter and glass, the former clattering against the latter, as he poured out some of the contents. Holding a little of the brandy to Capel’s clenched teeth, Mr Girtle managed to trickle through a few drops at a time, while Lydia continued the bathing, and Katrine stood, like some beautiful statue, gazing down at them with wrinkled brow and clasped hands. By this time, the knowledge that something was wrong had reached the women-servants, and they had both come to the door. “No, no; keep them away, Preenham,” said Mr Girtle, in answer to offers of assistance. “You go down, too, and be at the door, ready to let the doctor in.” “Yes, sir, I will,” said the old butler, piteously; “but my young master—will he live?” “Please God!” said the lawyer simply. “But he is not dead, sir?” “There is your answer, man,” said Mr Girtle, for just then Capel uttered a low moan. The old butler bent down on one knee, and Lydia darted at him a grateful look, as she saw him lift and press one cold hand, and then, laying it down, he rose, and went out of the room on tiptoe, raising his hands and his face towards Heaven. “Was he stabbed—with that sword?” said Lydia, in a hoarse whisper. “No, I think not. The doctor must soon be here,” was the reply. In fact, five minutes later there was a quick knock at the door, and Dr Heston hurried in, followed by Artis. “Give me the room,” he said quickly. “Ladies, please go.” Katrine turned slowly, and glanced at Lydia. “I may stay, Doctor Heston,” she said. “I may be of use.” “No words now,” he said, sharply. “By-and-by you will be invaluable. Well there, stay.” He had thrown off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as he spoke, and as Lydia bent her head and stood waiting, Katrine left the room. Then the deft-handed medico was busy with his examination. “Head literally scored with a bullet,” he said. “Not a cut?” whispered Mr Girtle, pointing to the sword. “Bless me, no. Scored by a bullet. An inch lower—hallo! What have we here?” He took out a knife and cut through the clothes, where he could not draw them away from where the blood had oozed out just below the left shoulder. “Hah! Yes! Bullet. Entered here; passed out. No! Here it is. Just below the skin.” He had raised the sufferer, and found that the bullet had passed nearly through, and was visible so near the surface that a slight cut would have given it exit. “Nothing vital touched, I think,” said the doctor, busying himself about the wound in the shoulder. “Ah! That’s right, madam. Nothing like a woman’s hand, after all, about a sick man. Why, this must have happened hours ago.” The doctor chatted away, quickly, but his hands kept time with his voice. He had laid down a small case of instruments with a roll of linen, and turning from the arm once more, he rapidly clipped away the hair, and dressed the wound in the head, a wound so horrible that Artis shuddered, turned to the brandy decanter that the old butler stood holding with a helpless, dazed look, and poured out a good dram, while Lydia knelt there, very pale, but calmly holding scissors, lint or strapping, to hand as they were required. “Now for the bullet,” said the doctor in a cheerful, airy way. “Mr Artis, just lend a hand here. Or, no; you look upset. Put down that decanter, butler! This isn’t a dinner-party. That’s right. Now kneel down here.” He softly raised Capel, and placed him in a convenient position before turning to Lydia. “Really, I think you would prefer to go now?” The girl’s lips seemed to tighten and she shook her head. “As you please;” said the doctor testily. “I have no time to waste. A little back, Mr Girtle; I want all the light I can have. Yes, that’s plain enough,” he muttered, as with one hand resting on the injured man’s shoulder where the bullet made quite a little lump, he stretched out the other, and from where it nestled in the case, fitted amongst so much purple velvet, he took out a small knife. There was a pleasant look of satisfaction in the doctor’s face, as he took out the knife, but the next moment he turned with an angry flash upon Lydia. It was the natural instinctive act of one who loves seeking to protect the object loved. For as Dr Heston took the knife in his hand, Lydia’s eyes dilated, and she leaned forward, caught the doctor’s arm, and gazed at the keen little blade with dilated eyes. “My dear young lady, are you mad?” cried the doctor, testily. She raised her eyes to his in a look so full of appeal, that he could read it as easily as if she had given it with the interpretation of words. He was not accustomed to argue in a case like this, but the girl’s loving attempt to protect the insensible man, touched him to the heart; and dropping his sharp, imperious manner, he said gently: “But, don’t you see? It is to do him good.” Lydia’s hand trembled, but she still grasped the doctor’s arm. “Come, come,” he said, smiling. “You must not be alarmed. Do you want the bullet to stay in and irritate the whole length of the wound?” She gave her head a sharp shake. “Well, then, be sensible, my dear girl. There, get me a bit of lint,” he continued, “and you shall see how easily and well I will do this. That’s better. Why, taking a tooth out is ten times worse. This is a mere trifle. There, that’s a brave little woman. He will not even feel it.” Lydia’s hand had dropped from the doctor’s arm, and she drew a long breath, watching him as if her eyes were drawn to his knife, while he bent over Capel. In a few minutes more the patient was lifted upon the bed, and Lydia stood there with her hands clasped in dread, for it seemed ominous to her that Capel should be compelled to lie there. “Can he not be taken up to his room?” “No, my brave little nurse, no. It would have been extremely nice for him, but what he requires now is absolute rest and quiet. Come, come. You are too strong-minded a little woman to be superstitious. Go where you will, in old houses, there has generally been a death in some of the bedrooms; but believe me, that does not affect the living. Why, if that were the case, what should we do at the hospitals? You are going to install yourself here, then, as nurse? That’s right. Let my instructions be carried out, and I’ll come in again at noon.” Whispered conversation went on all through the house that day, but though there had been the attempt at burglary, Mr Girtle hesitated about calling in the police again, and on consulting the doctor, he quite agreed that it would be better not to have them there. “It will only disturb my patient,” he said, “and, depend upon it, with a light and people sitting up, the scoundrels will not come again.” “Well,” said Mr Girtle, “we will not communicate with the police at present.” The doctor came in at one, and again at five; and, on leaving, looked rather serious. “If he is not different to this at about nine, when I come in again, I’ll get Sir Ronald Mackenzie to see him. I’ll warn him at once that he may be wanted.” “Then you think his case serious?” “Brain injuries always are.” At nine o’clock, when the doctor came, his manner startled Lydia, who had patiently watched the sufferer all day. “Yes,” he said; “I will have Sir Ronald’s opinion. I shall be back in half-an-hour.” He left the room and hurried down-stairs, while Lydia bent down and laid her cheek against the patient’s burning hand. He was delirious now, and talking loudly and rapidly. “Yes, it is there,” he kept on saying. “Count four stones from the left, press on the fifth, and it will swing around. I have it safely—do you hear?—safely.” This went on over and over again, and as Lydia listened, something, she knew not what, made her turn her head, when it seemed to her that one of the bed curtains trembled, and that, in the gloom, a hand was softly drawing one back, that the sick man’s words might be more plainly heard. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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