George Fenn - The Man with a Shadow

To have kept on as they were meant a collision, and there was nothing left now for the driver to do but draw gently upon the sound rein.

The pull given was vain, and a sharp one followed, just in time to make the half-bred mare swerve and avoid the doctor’s cob; but the consequence was that the fore wheel of the phaeton caught a post on the other side of the road. There was a crashing sound, a wild scream, and the cause of the accident went off at a more furious pace than ever, with the shafts dangling and flying about her legs.

“Hurt? No, not much,” cried the doctor, half lifting Leo from the grass at the side of the road; and hurrying to where Mary lay staring wildly, entangled among the fragments of the chaise.

“My poor child!” he cried. “Oh, this is bad work. Try and – Here! Miss Leo – Mrs Berens. Water – brandy – for Heaven’s sake, quick!”

“Oh! my poor darling!”

It was Mrs Berens who spoke; the accident, and its consequent call upon her for aid, having in an instant swept away all thought of self, and shown her at once in her best colours, full of true womanly sympathy.

Leo stood leaning against the hedge, dazed and perfectly helpless, while Mrs Berens came running out to help; but only to rush in again and return with a decanter and water.

“Is she – is she – ”

“Hush!” whispered the doctor sternly; “try and pour a few more drops between her lips, and keep on bathing her forehead till I get her out.”

Mrs Berens was down upon her knees on one side of Mary Salis, with her hands and delicate dress bedabbled with blood; but she did not heed the dust or hideous stains as she passed her left arm beneath the poor girl’s neck, and held her with her cut and bruised face resting upon her bosom, while the doctor tore hard at the crooked woodwork and iron which held the sufferer pinned down.

“Leo Salis,” said the doctor impatiently, “if you’re not hurt, don’t stand dreaming there, but run off to the village for help.”

Leo stared at him wildly for a moment or two, and then walked hastily away, holding her left wrist in her right hand, as if she were in pain.

“Hah! That’s better,” cried the doctor, as he set one foot against a portion of the iron-work, and pulled with all his might, his effort being followed by a loud cracking noise, and the iron bent. “Now, Mrs Berens, I think we can lift her out.”

“Yes; let me help,” cried the widow energetically, and seeming quite transformed as she assisted in bearing the inanimate girl into the drawing-room.

“Quick, Mary, pillows,” she cried; and her round-eyed, helpless maid ran upstairs, to return with the pillows, by whose aid Mary Salis was placed in a comfortable position.

Without its being suggested. Mrs Berens herself fetched basin, sponge, and towels, with which the blood and dust were removed, the widow colouring once highly as the doctor awarded her a word of praise.

“Cut in the temple. Hair will cover it,” said the doctor, as he rapidly dressed the insensible girl’s injuries. “Nasty contusion there on the cheek – slight abrasion.”

“Will it disfigure her, doctor?” said Mrs Berens anxiously.

“Oh! no – soon disappear.”

“What a comfort,” sighed the widow, who evidently believed that a young lady’s face was her fortune. “Is she much hurt, doctor?”

“No; I am in hopes that she is only suffering from the concussion. That bleeding has been good for her. She is coming round.”

“Poor darling!” cried Mrs Berens, tenderly kissing Mary’s hand.

“You’re an uncommonly good, useful woman, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor bluntly. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Oh, doctor!” she cried.

“Spoilt your dress and lace too. But, never mind, it will bring her round. Ah! that’s better; she’s coming to.”

“Is she?”

The doctor pointed to the quivering lips, as the next minute there was a weary sigh, and Mary Salis opened her eyes to gaze wildly round, and then made an effort as if to rise, but she only raised her head and let it fall back with a moan.

“Are you in pain?” said the doctor, as he took her hand.

She looked at him wildly, and a faint colour came into her cheek as she whispered hoarsely:

“Yes. Send – for a doctor.”

“He is here, my poor dove,” cried Mrs Berens. “Don’t you know him – Dr North?”

“Yes; but send – for some one – a doctor.”

“A little wandering,” whispered North, bending over Mary, who tried to shrink from him. “Now,” he said gently, “try and tell me where you feel pain. I must see to it at once.”

“No, no. Don’t touch me – a doctor – send for a doctor,” answered Mary.

“But Mr North is a doctor, my poor dear,” cried Mrs Berens.

“Send – for a doctor,” whispered Mary again; and then she uttered a faint cry of indignation and dread commingled as, thinking of nothing but the case before him, the doctor began to make the necessary preliminary examination, to stop short at the end of a minute, and lay his hand upon the patient’s forehead, aghast at the discovery he felt that he had made.

“Don’t resent this,” he said kindly. “Believe me, it is necessary, and I will not give you more pain than I can help.”

“Mrs Berens,” sobbed the poor girl, “your hand.”

“My darling!” cried the widow, taking the extended hand, to hold it pressed against her lips.

“Now, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I want you to move yourself gently – a little more straight upon the couch.”

She looked at him strangely.

“Now, please,” he said. “It will be an easier position.”

But still she did not move.

“Did you try?” he said rather hoarsely.

“Yes – I tried,” she said faintly; and then the flush deepened in her face again, as the doctor bent over the couch, and changed the position in which she lay.

“Did I hurt you?” he said.

“No. Did you move me?” she faltered; and Mrs Berens looked at him inquiringly.

“Just a trifle,” he said gravely. “Ah! here’s Salis.”

There was a quick step outside, and the curate rushed in, followed more slowly by Leo, who looked ghastly.

“Mary, my dear child,” he cried, throwing himself upon his knees beside his sister, “are you much hurt?”

“I think not, Hartley, dear,” she replied, with a smile. “My head is not so giddy now.”

“Oh! what a madman I was to let you go,” he cried.

“Hush, dear! It was an accident,” said the poor girl tenderly. “I shall soon be better. You are hurting Leo. She suffers more than I.”

“That cursed mare, North. She looked vicious. How was it, Leo?”

“She pulled, and one of the reins broke,” said Leo hoarsely. “There would have been an accident with any horse.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mary faintly; “and I am very sorry, Hartley. The chaise – the expense. Thank dear Mrs Berens, and now let me try and walk home.”

“No, no, my dear,” said Mrs Berens, “you must not think of going. Stay here, and be nursed. I’ll try so hard to make you well.”

“I know you would,” said Mary gently; “but I shall be better at home. Leo, dear, help me up. No, no, Hartley; I did not want to send you away. I’m better now.”

She made an effort to rise, as the doctor looked on with eager eyes awaiting the result, at which his lips tightened, and he glanced at Mrs Berens.

For Mary Salis moved her hands and arms, and slightly raised her head, but let it fall again, and looked from one to the other wildly, as if her perplexity were greater than she could bear.

Hartley Salis caught his friend by the wrist, and then yielded himself, and followed the doctor as he moved from the room.