Charles Lever - The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1

The most remarkable circumstance of his appearance was his mode of walking, and even here was displayed his wonted ingenuity. A partial paralysis had for some years affected his limbs, and particularly the muscles which raise and flex the legs; to obviate this infirmity, he fastened a cord with a loop to either foot, and by drawing them up alternately he was enabled to move forward, at a slow pace, to be sure, and in a manner it was rather difficult to witness for the first time with becoming gravity. This was more remarkable when he endeavored to get on faster, for then the flexion, a process which required a little time, was either imperfectly performed or altogether omitted, and consequently he remained stationary, and only hopped from one leg to the other after the fashion of a stage procession. His dress was a rusty black coat with a standing collar, black shorts, and white cotton stockings, over which the short black gaiters reached half way up the leg; on the present occasion he also wore a spencer of light gray cloth, as the day was cold and frosty, and his hat was fastened under his chin by a ribbon.

“And so he is n’t at home, Tate,” said he, as he sat whipping the pony from habit, – a process which the beast seemed to regard with a contemptuous indifference.

“No, Docther,” for by this title the old man was always addressed by preference, “the Knight’s up in Dublin; he went on Monday last.”

“And this is the seventh of the month,” muttered the other to himself. “Faith, he takes it easy, anyhow! And you don’t know when he’ll be home?”

“The sorra know I know, Docther; ‘t is maybe to-night he ‘d come – maybe to-morrow – maybe it would be three weeks or a month; and it’s not but we want him badly this day, if it was God’s will he was here!” These words were uttered in a tone that Tate intended should provoke further questioning, for he was most eager to tell of the duel and its consequences; but the “doctor” never noticed them, but merely muttered a short “Ay.”

“How do you do, Hickman?” cried out the deep voice of Bagenal Daly at the same moment. “You did n’t chance to see Mulville on the road, did you?”

“How d’ye do, Mister Daly? I hope I see you well. I did n’t meet Dr. Mulville this morning, – is there anything that’s wrong here? Who is it that’s ill?”

“A young fellow, a stranger, who has been burning powder with Mr. MacDonough up at Cluan, and has been hit under the rib here.”

“Well, well, what folly it is, and all about nothing, I ‘ll engage.”

“So your grandson would tell you,” said Daly, sternly; “for if he felt it to be anything, this quarrel should have been his.”

“Faix, and I’m glad he left it alone,” said the other, complacently; “‘t is little good comes of the same fighting. I ‘ll be eighty-five if I live to March next, and I never drew sword nor trigger yet against any man.”

“One reason for which forbearance is, sir, that you thereby escaped a similar casualty to yourself. A laudable prudence, and likely to become a family virtue.”

The old doctor felt all the severity of this taunt against his grandson, but he merely gave one of his half-subdued laughs, and said, in a low voice, “Did you get a note from me, about a fortnight ago? Ay!”

“I received one from your attorney,” said Daly, carelessly, “and I threw it into the fire without reading it.”

“That was hasty, that was rash, Mr. Daly,” resumed the other, calmly; “it was about the bond for the four thousand six hundred – ”

“D – n me if I care what was the object of it! I happened to have some weightier things to think of than usury and compound interest, as I, indeed, have at this moment. By the by, if you have not forgotten the old craft, come in and see this poor fellow. I ‘m much mistaken, or his time will be but short.”

“Ay, ay, that’s a debt there’s no escaping!” muttered the old man, combining his vein of moralizing with a sly sarcasm at Daly, while he began the complicated series of manouvres by which he usually effected his descent from the pony carriage.

In the large library, and on a bed hastily brought down for the purpose, lay Forester, his dress disordered, and his features devoid of all color. The glazed expression of his eye, and his pallid, half-parted lips showed that he was suffering from great loss of blood, for, unhappily, Mr. Daly’s surgery had not succeeded in arresting this symptom. His breathing was short and irregular, and in the convulsive movement of his fingers might be seen the evidence of acute suffering. At the side of the bed, calm, motionless, and self-possessed, with an air as stern as a soldier at his post, stood Sandy M’Grane; he had been ordered by his master to maintain a perfect silence, and to avoid, if possible, even a reply to Forester’s questions, should he speak to him. The failure of the first few efforts on Forester’s part to obtain an infraction of this rule ended in his submitting to his destiny, and supplying by signs the want of speech; in this way he had just succeeded in procuring a drink of water, when Daly entered, followed by Hickman. As with slow and noiseless steps they came forward, Forester turned his head, and, catching a glance of the mechanism by which old Peter regulated his progression, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“Ye mauna do it, ye mauna do it, sir,” said Sandy, sternly; “ye are lying in a pool of blood this minute, and it’s no time for a hearty laugh. Ech! ech! sir,” continued he, turning towards his master, “if we had that salve the Delawares used to put on their wounds, I wadna say but we ‘d stap it yet.”

By this time old Peter had laid his hand on the sick man’s wrist, and, with a large watch laid before him on the bed, was counting his pulse aloud.

“It’s a hundred and fifty,” said he, in a whisper, which, although intended for Daly’s ear, was overheard by Forester; “but it’s thin as a thread, and looks like inward bleeding.”

“What’s to be done, then? have you anything to advise?” said Daly, almost savagely.

“Very little,” said Hickman, with a malignant grin, “except writing to his friends. I know nothing else to serve him.”

A brief shudder passed over Daly’s stern features, rather like the momentary sense of cold than proceeding from any mental emotion, and then he said, “I spoke to you as a doctor, sir; and I ask you again, is there nothing can be done for him?”

“Well, well, we might plug up the wound, to be sure, and give him a little wine, for he’s sinking fast. I ‘ve got a case of instruments and some lint in the gig – never go without the tools, Mr. Daly – there’s no knowing when one may meet a little accident like this.”

“In Heaven’s name, then, lose no time!” said Daly. “Whatever you can do, do it at once.”

The tone of command in which he spoke seemed to act like a charm on the old doctor, for he turned at once to hobble from the room.

“My servant will bring what you want,” said Daly, impatiently.

“No, no,” said Peter, shaking his head, “I have them under lock and key in the driving-box; there’s no one opens that but myself.”

Daly turned away with a muttered execration at the miser’s suspicions, and then, fixing his eyes steadily on Sandy’s face, he gave a short and significant nod. The servant instinctively looked after the doctor; then, slowly moving across the floor, the nod was repeated, and Sandy, wheeling round, made three strides, and, catching the old man round the body with his remaining arm, carried him out of the room with the same indifference to his struggles or his cries as a nurse would bestow on a misbehaving urchin.

When Sandy deposited his burden beside the pony-carriage, old Peter’s passion had reached its climax, and assuredly, if the will could have prompted the act, he would have stamped as roundly as he swore.