Magnum Bonum; Or, Mother Carey's Brood Part 109

"He'll soon be all right," said John, bending over him. "How came--"

"I came suddenly on them--him and his brother--birds'-nesting. In his fright he slipped in. I just caught him, but the other ran away, and I could not pull him up. Oh! if you had not come."

John hid his face in his hands with a murmur of intense thanksgiving.

"You should get home," he said. "Can you? I'll see to the boy."

At this moment the keeper came up full of wrath and consternation, as soon as he understood what had happened. He was barely withheld from shaking the truant violently back to life, and averred that he would teach him to come birds'-nesting in the park on Sunday.

And when, after he had fetched John's coat and boots, Sydney bade him take the child, now crying and shivering, back to his mother, and tell her to put him to bed and give him something hot he replied--

"Ay, ma'am, I warrant a good warming would do him no harm. Come on, then, you young rascal; you won't always find a young lady to pull you out, nor a gentleman to swim across that there Avon. Upon my honour, sir, there ain't many could have done that when it is in flood."

He would gladly have escorted them home, but as the boy could not yet stand, he was forced to carry him.

"You should walk fast," said John, as he and Sydney addressed themselves to the ascent of the steep sloping ground above the river.

She a.s.sented, but she was a good deal strained, bruised, and spent, and her heavy winter dress, muddied and soaked, clung to her and held her back, and both laboured breathlessly without making much speed.

"I never guessed that a river was so strong," she said. "It was like a live thing fighting to tear him away."

"How long had you stood there?"

"I can't guess. It felt endless! The boy could not help himself, and I was getting so cramped that I must have let go if your call had not given me just strength enough! And the tree would have come down upon us!"

"I believe it would," muttered John.

"Mamma must thank you," whispered Sydney, holding out her hand.

He clasped it, saying almost inwardly--

"G.o.d and His Angels were with you."

"I hope so," said Sydney softly.

They still held one another's hands, seeming to need the support in the steep, gra.s.sy ascent, and there came a catch in John's breath that made Sydney cry,

"You are not hurt?"

"That snag gave me a dig in the side, but it is nothing."

As they gained the level ground, Sydney said--

"We will go in by the servants' entrance, it will make less fuss."

"Thank you;" and with a final pressure she loosed his hand, and led the way through the long, flagged, bell-hung pa.s.sage, and pointed to a stair.

"That leads to the end of the gallery; you will see a red baize door, and then you know your way."

Sydney knew that at this hour on Sunday, servants were not plentiful, but she looked into the housekeeper's room where the select grandees were at tea, and was received with an astounded "Miss Evelyn!" from the housekeeper.

"Yes, Saunders; I should have been drowned, and little Peter Hollis too, if it hadn't been for Mr. Friar Brownlow. He swam across Avon, and has been knocked by a tree; and Reeves, would you be so very kind as to go and see about him?"

Reeves, who had approved of Mr. Friar Brownlow ever since his race at Schwarenbach, did not need twice bidding, but s.n.a.t.c.hed up the kettle and one of Mrs. Saunders's flasks, while that good lady administered the like potion to Sydney and carried her off to be undressed. Mrs. Evelyn was met upon the way, and while she was hearing her daughter's story, in the midst of the difficulties of unfastening soaked garments, there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Saunders went to it, and a young housemaid said--

"Oh, if you please, ma'am, Mr. Friar Brownlow says its of no consequence, but he has broken two of his ribs, and Mr. Reeves thinks Mrs. Evelyn ought to be informed."

She spoke so exactly as if he had broken a window, that at first the sense hardly reached the two ladies.

"Broken what?"

"His ribs, ma'am."

"Oh! I was sure he was hurt!" cried Sydney. "Oh, mamma! go and see."

Mrs. Evelyn went, but finding that Reeves and Fordham were with John, and that the village doctor, who lived close by the park gates, had been sent for, she went no farther than the door of the patient's room, and there exchanged a few words with her son. Sydney thought her very hard-hearted, and having been deposited in bed, lay there starting, trembling, and listening, till her brother, according to promise, came down.

"Well, Sydney, what a brave little woman you have shown yourself! John has no words to tell how well you behaved."

"Oh, never mind that! Tell me about him? Is he not dreadfully hurt?"

"He declares these particular ribs are nothing," said Fordham, indicating their situation on himself, "and says they laugh at them at the hospital. He wanted Reeves to have sent for Oswald privately, and then meant to have come down to dinner as if nothing had happened."

"Mr. Oswald does not mean to allow that," said Miss Evelyn.

"Certainly not; I told him that if he did anything so foolish I should certainly never call him in. Now let me hear about it, Sydney, for he was in rather too much pain to be questioned, and I only heard that you had shown courage and presence of mind."

The mother and brother might well shudder as they heard how nearly their joy had been turned into mourning. The river was a dangerous one, and to stem the current in full flood had been no slight exploit; still more the recovery of the boy after receiving such a blow from the tree.

"Very n.o.bly done by both," said Fordham, bending to kiss his sister as she finished.

"Most thankworthy," said Mrs. Evelyn.

There was a brief s.p.a.ce spent silently by both Mrs. Evelyn and her son on their knees, and then the former went up to the little bachelor-room where in the throng of guests John had been bestowed, and where she found him lying, rather pale, but very content, and her eyes filled with tears as she took his hand, saying--

"You know what I have come for?"

"How is she?" he said, looking eagerly in her face.

"Well, I think, but rather strained and very much tired, so I shall keep her in her room for precaution's sake, as to-morrow will be a bustling day. I trust you will be equally wise."

"I have submitted, but I did not think it requisite. Pray don't trouble about me."

"What, when I think how it would have been without you? No, I will not tease you by talking about it, but you know how we shall always feel for you. Are you in much pain now?"

"Nothing to signify, now it has been bandaged, thank you. I shall soon be all right. Did she make you understand her wonderful courage and resolution in holding up that heavy boy all that time?"

Mrs. Evelyn let John expatiate on her daughter's heroism till steps were heard approaching, and his aunt knocked at the door. Perhaps she was the person most tried when she looked into his bright, dark eyes, and understood the thrill in his voice as he told of Sydney's bravery and resolution. She guessed what emotion gave sweetness to his thankfulness, and feared if he did not yet understand it he soon would, and then what pain would be in store for one or other of the cousins. When Mrs. Evelyn asked him if he had really sent the message that his fractured ribs were of no consequence, his aunt's foreboding spirit feared they might prove of only too much consequence; but at least, if he were a supplanter, it would be quite unconsciously.