A Little World Part 59

The last remark was made so seriously, and in such perfect good faith, that the surgeon and Harry Clayton exchanged glances, smiling the while.

"I hope," said the latter, "that he will soon be fit to be removed."

"Well, before long," said the surgeon. "Ten days or so. Not sooner-- bad case rather. It was only this morning that he became sensible; and I don't think that even now he fairly realises the length of time that he has been lying there."

"But this must be a most unusual case," said Clayton. "Surely you never had a suspension of the faculties for so long?"

"Oh yes!" said the surgeon. "Such things do happen. Concussion of, or pressure upon the brain from a fracture, gives us at times some exceedingly interesting studies. In this case, the horse must have struck your friend full on the temple, and I wonder that he was not killed."

Then, according to the custom of his _confreres_, the surgeon proceeded to dilate upon the number of eighths of an inch higher or lower which would have been sufficient for the blow to have caused death. But he was interrupted in his discourse by the approach of Sir Francis, who now came up, watch in hand.

"The ten minutes are at an end, and I thank you, sir," he said. "I am indeed most grateful for your skilful treatment of my son. How can I ever disburden myself of the obligation?"

"Oh! if you come to that, easily enough," laughed the surgeon, who fully believed, and held unflinchingly to the faith, that his hospital was the best in London, sparing no pains to let every one know that it was also one of the poorest. "We don't want such patients as your son here, Sir Francis Redgrave; and you may depend in future upon receiving our yearly report, with, I hope, your name down as one of our donors."

Sir Francis shook hands warmly, saying nothing, but thinking the more deeply; and then, bidding farewell to the sergeant at the door, he was accompanied by Clayton back to their temporary home.

They had not been back long though, before there was a step on the stair, and Mr Stiff, the landlord, came up to announce a visitor.

"Who?" said Sir Francis.

"That there little jigging man, sir, as Mr Lionel used to buy his dogs of in--"

"Tell him that I am unwell--that I cannot see him," exclaimed Sir Francis; and Mr Stiff took his departure, but only to return at the end of five minutes.

"Well, Mr Stiff?"

"I can't get rid of him, please, Sir Francis. He says he should be so glad if you'd see him only for a minute. He won't detain you more, and he's in a terrible way about your saying you can't."

"Well, show him up," said Sir Francis, who was not in the humour to refuse anything in the gladness and thankfulness which now filled his heart.

"Shall I see him?" said Clayton, offering to relieve Sir Francis of the task.

"No; perhaps it is something about poor Lionel. I will see him."

The next minute there was the peculiar thumping noise of D. Wragg's feet in the pa.s.sage, but Sir Francis found time to say a few words before the dealer readied the room.

"Is not this the curious-looking man at the house we searched?"

"The same," said Harry.

"Ah, yes!--I forgot," said Sir Francis; "these troubles have tried me.

But here he is."

Sir Francis was right, for the noise increased, the door was thrown open, and the next moment, in a tremendous state of excitement, D. Wragg stood confessed.

Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.

D. WRAGG ON PRINCIPLE.

"Sarvant, sir--sarvant, sir!" exclaimed D. Wragg, flourishing his hat first at Sir Francis, and then at Harry Clayton, while he worked and jerked himself about in a way that was perfectly frightful to contemplate. "Just give me a minute. I won't keep you both more than that, only I couldn't rest without coming in to tell you as it does us at home so much good 'cos that young gent's found, as you can't tell."

Sir Francis knit his brow as he listened, for he could not help a.s.sociating the man before him with the cause of Lionel's disappearance; but he did not speak.

"Ah! I see you're cross about it," said D. Wragg, who caught the frown; "but never mind if you are; we're glad all the same. You thought we had to do with it?"

"My good fellow, yes!" exclaimed Sir Francis, hastily; for this touched him upon a tender point--he had been unjust. "Yes; we did think so, and I beg your pardon for it most heartily. It was a gross piece of injustice, and I beg that you will forgive it. If--"

"You're a reg'lar, thorough-bred, game gentleman! that's what you are,"

said D. Wragg; "and I respect you, sir, that I do. And if you're sorry for having my place searched, why, there's an end of it; and as to forgiving you, why, we won't say any more about that."

"But if money--" continued Sir Francis.

"No; money ain't got nothing to do with it," said D. Wragg, gruffly; "and yet it has too, something. You see, sir, I got hold of Sergeant Falkner, and he's put me up to it all--how you found the young gent in the orspital and all; and so I wanted to come on about it. But what did I say to you when you came to me to search my place? Why, don't you make no mistake, I says, and now I says it again. Don't you make no mistake; I ain't come after money; but just to say as I'm sorry as the young gent should have got into such trouble through coming to my place; and as to his getting better, all I've got to say now is, as he shan't never come inside the shop again. I did have some of his money for different things; but there, lor' bless you, I put it to you, Mr Clayton, sir, if I hadn't had it to do me good, wouldn't he have spent it in organ-grinders, or bra.s.s bands, or something? 'Pon my soul, sir, I never see a young gent as knowed so little of what money was worth."

"And do you mean," said Sir Francis, "that if my son gets well, and comes to your place again, you will not admit him?"

"Course I do. Don't you make no mistake, sir. I'm in real earnest, I am; and if at any time you want a dorg, or a score o'--Blow it! hold your tongue, will you," he said, breaking off short in his speech, this portion of which was born of constant repet.i.tion. "But don't you make no mistake, sir--he shan't come no more; and as to the place being searched, that wasn't your doing; that was spite, that was, and Mr Jack Screwby--an ugly cuss! But they've got him for 'sault and violence, and he'll get it hot, and no mistake, sir. And now my sarvice to you both, gents, and I'm off; but I thought I'd come to say as I was sorry and glad too, and you understands me, I knows."

As he turned to go, Sir Francis crossed the room, and tried to thrust a five-pound note into his hands; but D. Wragg waved him off.

"No, sir; I promised 'em at home, if you wanted to do anything of that kind, as I wouldn't take it--and I won't--so there now. But look here!

don't you make no mistake; I ain't proud, and if you says to me, 'Mr D.

Wragg, will you take a gla.s.s of wine to drink my son back again to health?'--why, hang me if I don't."

Crash went D. Wragg's hat down upon the floor as he spoke, and after his arms had flown about at all manner of angles with his body, he folded them tightly, and stood gazing from one to the other.

"You shall drink his health, indeed, Mr Wragg," said Sir Francis, smiling; and the decanters being produced, D. Wragg did drink Lionel's health, and then in another gla.s.s that of Sir Francis, then took another to drink Harry Clayton's, and yet one more for the benefit of all absent friends, when he stumped off, evidently wonderfully steadied in his action by what he had imbibed.

Volume 3, Chapter XIX.

RICHARD PELLET'S VISITORS.

The clerk whose duty it was to show visitors into Richard Pellet's private office ought to have been well paid, for he must have been a valuable acquisition to his employer. Doubtless it was the result of training--he was for ever supposing that "the firm" was engaged. It was so when Jared last called. It was so when Harry Clayton determined to try and make friends with the husband of his late mother, and appeared at the office door. And it was so when, an hour after, a plainly-dressed, pale-looking woman asked to see Mr Richard Pellet. But if, the clerk said, she would give her name, he would go and see.

"Ellen Pellet," was the calm, quiet answer.

"Mrs Ellen Pellet?" queried the clerk.

"Yes," was the reply.

The man stared, hesitated, went half-way to the inner office, returned, hesitated again, and then turned to go; while more than one head was raised from ledger or letter to exchange meaning looks, after a glance at the very unusual kind of visitor to Austin Friars.

"It ain't my business," muttered the clerk to himself, and pa.s.sing down the little pa.s.sage, he opened the private office door of the firm, heedless of a light, gliding step behind him, and announced Mrs Ellen Pellet.

"Who?" roared Richard Pellet, leaping from his seat, and glaring at the clerk.

"It is I," said a quiet voice in the doorway, and Richard sank back pale and gasping in his seat.