The Challenge of Love. Victorian Romance Novel

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СКАЧАТЬ lives and learns, lives and learns. Our responsibilities, Mr. Wolfe, thicken as we grow older. Now, you young men——”

      “I think we have more to carry.”

      “Oh!”

      “We have our unmade reputations on our shoulders.”

      “Ah, that’s true.”

      “Quite a sensible remark, Mr. Wolfe. Montague, perhaps Mr. Wolfe will take—a third helping of that sponge custard.”

      “Allow me, sir.”

      “Thanks. I will.”

      It had begun to rain again, and what with the wind blowing the rain full upon the windows and howling through the mulberry trees upon the Green, none of the three at Dr. Threadgold’s supper table heard the rattle of a horse’s hoofs over the cobbles. The stones gave place to gravel in front of the sententious, red-coated house on the north side of Mulberry Green, and a gig that came swinging round the white posts and chains drew up briskly outside Dr. Threadgold’s door. A loafer who had been following the gig at a run, gave a pull at the doctor’s door-bell, and set up a tremendous hammering with the lion-headed knocker.

      Dr. Threadgold still had the spoon in the dish of sponge custard.

      “Hallo, hallo, do they want to knock the house down!”

      “Montague, if that is old Crabbe’s boy, I wish you would box the little wretch’s ears. He always makes noise enough for Lord Blackwater’s footman.”

      They heard Sykes, the maid, cross the hall and open the front door. A gust of wind whirled in with the sound of men’s voices.

      “Confound it, Ruston, don’t touch that side of me!”

      The door closed again, shutting the voices into Dr. Threadgold’s hall.

      “This way, sir, please.”

      “What? Is he in? Deuce take——”

      A second door closed on the snarling voice, cutting it off sharply. Sykes came whisking into the dining-room with a scared white face.

      “Please, sir, it’s Sir George Griggs. He’s met with a haccident, sir, ’unting.”

      Dr. Threadgold pushed his chair back, put his napkin on the table, and gave his waistcoat a tug, the unconscious gesture that betrayed the professional dignity putting itself in order. His prim little mouth straightened into a tighter and more emphatic line.

      “Excuse me, my dear.”

      “Most certainly, Montague.”

      She turned to Wolfe, who was on the point of rising, and treated him as though he had asked her a question.

      “Certainly, Mr. Wolfe. By all means accompany Dr. Threadgold. I know that a young man in your position——”

      Wolfe was up, and had given her a slight, stiff bow.

      “Go and watch Dr. Threadgold, sir. No doubt you will learn something.”

      In Dr. Threadgold’s consulting room a huge, bullet-headed man in a red coat was striding to and fro from corner to corner, a splash of blood over his left temple, and his left cheek brown with mud. His riding breeches were ripped along one thigh and soaked with mud and slime. The man was like a great beast in pain. He swore—in gusts—as he stamped to and fro, holding his left arm folded across his chest, the right hand under the left elbow. A younger man stood leaning against the bookcase, looking on rather helplessly, and pulling the joints of his brown whiskers.

      Dr. Threadgold bustled in with John Wolfe at his heels.

      “Come, come, bless my soul! what’s all this about?”

      The big man turned like an angry bull.

      “Matter? Shut that door. I don’t want to have the whole house hear me swearing. Swear, confound it, I must.”

      “My dear Sir George—swear.”

      “The devil take that new hunter of mine. I’ll have the beast shot to-morrow. Played me a dirty trick. What!”

      The young man by the bookcase emitted sympathetic language through a cloud of hair. His nose and eyes looked like the beak and eyes of a bird all puffed up with feathers.

      “Ged, sir, never saw a beast refuse more scurvily. I nearly rode over you. Why——”

      “Look here, Threadgold—man, something’s pretty well messed up. The beast refused at a big ditch, and banged me over his head into an oak stub. We were down Bordon way, ten devilish miles. Thought it would be quicker to drive straight here in Ruston’s gig. Confound it—this shoulder kicks like an old duck-gun!”

      Threadgold took off his spectacles, wiped them with a silk handkerchief, and replaced them with an air of “now—for business.”

      “Please sit down, Sir George. You say you fell on your shoulder. That’s right, Mr. Wolfe, you might light that other gas jet. Now, sir. I’m afraid we shall have to have your coat off.”

      Threadgold made little, soothing gestures with his hands.

      “Coat off? Of course. But how the——”

      “I am afraid, Sir George, we shall have to sacrifice the coat.”

      “Confound the coat, cut it into ribbons.”

      “Mr. Wolfe, sir, you will find a pair of scissors in that drawer. What?”

      He found Wolfe standing at his elbow with a sharp-bladed knife.

      “Shall I slit the sleeve for you?”

      “Please do so, sir.”

      Wolfe went to work, and peeled the red coat from the injured man by slitting it along the seams. He was very dexterous and very gentle. Sir George watched Wolfe’s hands, keeping his jaw set for the moment when the surgeon should hurt him. But Wolfe had the coat off without causing him a pang.

      “By jove, that was smart!”

      Mr. Ruston of the hairy face chimed in with “Ged, it was, sir.”

      Wolfe threw the coat aside, slit the baronet’s waistcoat across the shoulder, unbuttoned it, handed it to Mr. Ruston, saying, “There’s a watch there, I think.” Then he dissected away the sleeve of Sir George’s shirt, and laid bare the bruised and swollen shoulder.

      Threadgold, who had grown rather fidgety, stepped forward, and reassumed his authority.

      “Thank you, Mr. Wolfe. Now, sir, we will see what is the matter.”

      Wolfe drew aside and watched Dr. Threadgold make his examination. His first impressions had tempted him to mistrust the little man’s ability, nor had he watched Dr. Threadgold’s chubby hands for half a minute before he knew him for a fumbler and no surgeon. A craftsman is very quick in judging a fellow craftsman, and Threadgold was fussy, ineffectual, and uncertain СКАЧАТЬ