The Quiet Gentleman

Ulverston appeared to have some need of his instant services, which made it imperative for him to try feebly to respond to the appeal. He found himself to be without the strength to thrust away the hand that was preventing him from struggling to raise himself; and he was, on the whole, relieved to hear the other voice say: “Pray do not talk to him any more, my lord! He will do very well if you let him alone.”

He thought this the most sensible remark he had ever heard, and tried to say so. Raising his leaden eyelids again, he found that Ulverston’s face had disappeared, and that it was Miss Morville’s which now hung over him. She seemed to be wiping his brow with a wet cloth; he could smell lavender-water. It was pleasant, but he felt it to be quite wrong for her to be sponging his face. He muttered: “You must not! I cannot think ...”

“There is no need for you to think, my lord. You have only to lie still,” replied Miss Morville, in a voice which reminded him so forcibly of his old nurse that he attempted no further argument, but closed his eyes again.

He desired nothing more than to slide back into the comfortable darkness from which Ulverston’s voice had dragged him, but it had receded. He was aware of being in bed, and soon realized that it must be his own bed at Stanyon, and not, as he had mistily supposed, in some billet in southern France. He heard Miss Morville desire Turvey to tighten a bandage, felt himself gently moved, and was conscious of pain somewhere in the region of his left shoulder.

Ulverston’s voice asked anxiously: “Is it bleeding still?”

“Very little now, my lord,” replied Miss Morville.

“How much longer does Chard mean to be?” Ulverston exclaimed, in a fretting tone. “What if that damned sawbones should be away from home?”

The Earl found these questions disturbing, for they made him think that there was something he must try to remember: something that flickered worryingly at the back of his clouded mind. The effort to collect his thoughts made him frown. Then he heard Miss Morville suggest that Ulverston should go downstairs to receive Dr. Malpas. She added, in a low tone: “Pray remember, my lord, that we do not know how this accident occurred, but think it may have been a poacher!”

“Oh, don’t we know?” Ulverston said, in a savage under-voice. “Poacher, indeed! Chard knows better!”

“I particularly requested him to say nothing more than that,” said Miss Morville. “I believe it is what he would wish.”

A train of thought was set up in the Earl’s mind. He said suddenly: “She does not object to Pug, and they can make up ten beds.”

“That is excellent,” said Miss Morville calmly, sponging his face again. “Now you may rest.”

“What happened to me?” he asked.

“You met with a slight accident, but it is of no consequence. You will be better directly.”

“Oh!” His eyelids were dropping again, but he smiled, and murmured: “You are always coming to my rescue!”

She returned no answer. He sank into a half-waking, half-dreaming state, aware of an occasional movement in the room, but not troubled by it. Once, a firm, light hand held his wrist for a minute, but he did not open his eyes.

But presently he was disturbed, rather to his annoyance, by a new and an unknown voice, which seemed to be asking a great many questions, and issuing a tiresome number of orders. It was interrupted by Ulverston’s voice several times. The Earl was not at all surprised when he heard the strange voice say: “I assure your lordship I should prefer to have no one but Miss Morville and the valet to assist me.”

Ulverston seemed to think that Miss Morville could not assist the stranger. He said, in his most imperious tone: “Nonsense! She could not do it!”

“Yes, she could,” said the Earl, roused by this injustice.

There was a moment’s silence, then his wrist was firmly held, and the strange voice said, directly above him: “Oh, so your lordship is awake, eh? That is very well, and we shall soon have you feeling more the thing .... My lord, Miss Morville and I are old colleagues, and I know her to be equal to anything. You need not fear to leave the patient in our hands .... That table, if you please, my man — what’s your name? Turvey? Very good, set it there, and the bowl upon it. Now, my lord, I am afraid I must hurt you a trifle — just a trifle!”

It soon became apparent to the Earl that the stranger had grossly understated the case. The hurt he began to inflict upon his patient was considerable enough first to wrench a groan from him, and then to make him grip his underlip resolutely between his teeth. He was just wondering how long he could endure when a pang, sharper than the rest, took from him all power of resistance, and he felt himself to be falling into an upsurging darkness, and lost consciousness.