The Oriel Window

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Nobody ever knew, – probably pony himself could not have told which it was, – but as Mrs. Ross instinctively stopped a moment on her way into the house, another sound seemed to mingle with the peacock's scream, or rather to grow out from it – a sort of stifled shriek of terror and rushing alarm. Then came voices, trampling feet, a kind of wail from Chrissie, and in an instant – an instant that seemed a lifetime – Ferdy's mother saw what it was. He had been thrown, and one foot had caught in the stirrup, and the startled pony was dragging him along. A moment or two of sickening horror, then a sort of silence. One of the men was holding the pony, Mr. Ross and the coachman were stooping over something that lay on the ground a little way up the drive – something – what was it? It did not move. Was it only a heap of clothes that had dropped there somehow? It couldn't, oh no, it couldn't be Ferdy! Ferdy was alive and well. He had just been laughing and shouting in his exceeding happiness. Where had he run to?

"Ferdy, Ferdy!" his mother exclaimed, scarcely knowing that she spoke; "Ferdy dear, come quick, come, Ferdy."

But Chrissie caught her, and buried her own terror-stricken face in her mother's skirts.

"Mamma, mamma," she moaned, "don't look like that. Mamma, don't you see? Ferdy's killed. That's Ferdy where papa is. Don't go, oh don't go, mamma! Mamma, I can't bear it. Hide me, hide my eyes."

And at this frantic appeal from the poor little half-maddened sister, Mrs. Ross's strength and sense came back to her as if by magic. She unclasped Chrissie's clutching hands gently but firmly.

"Run upstairs and call Flowers. Tell her to lay a mattress on the floor of the oriel room at once; it is such a little way upstairs; and tell Burt to bring some brandy at once – brandy and water. Tell Burt first."

Chrissie was gone in an instant. Ferdy couldn't be dead, she thought, if mamma wanted brandy for him. But when the mother, nerved by love, flew along the drive to the spot where her husband and the coachman were still bending over what still was, or had been, her Ferdy, she could scarcely keep back a scream of anguish. For a moment she was sure that Chrissie's first words were true – he was killed.

"Walter, Walter, tell me quick," she gasped. "Is he – is he alive?"

Mr. Ross looked up, his own face so deadly pale, his lips so drawn and quivering, that a rush of pity for him came over her.

"I – I don't know. I can't tell. What do you – think, Merton?" he said, in a strange dazed voice. "He has not moved, but we thought he was breathing at first."

The coachman lifted his usually ruddy face; it seemed all streaked, red and white in patches.

"I can feel his heart, sir; I feel fairly sure I can feel his heart. If we could get a drop or two of brandy down his throat, and – yes, I think I can slip my arm under his head. There's Burt coming with some water."

"And brandy," said Mrs. Ross. "Here, give it me – a spoon – yes, that's right. And, Walter, have you sent for the doctor?"

Mr. Ross passed his hand over his forehead, as if trying to collect himself.

"I will send Larkins now," he said, "on the pony – that will be the quickest," though a sort of shudder passed over him as he spoke of the innocent cause of this misery. "Larkins, go at once for Mr. Stern; you know the shortest way," for there was no doctor within a mile or two of Evercombe village, and Mr. Ross raised himself to give exact directions to the young groom.

When he turned again they had succeeded in getting a spoonful of brandy and water between Ferdy's closed lips – then another; then poor old Merton looked up with a gleam of hope in his eyes.

"He's coming to, sir – ma'am – I do believe," he said.

He was right. A quiver ran through the little frame, then came the sound of a deep sigh, and Ferdy's eyes opened slowly. They opened and – it was like Ferdy – the first sign he gave of returning consciousness was a smile – a very sweet smile.

"Papa, mamma," he whispered, "is it time to get up? Is it – my birthday?"

That was too much for his mother. The tears she had been keeping back rushed to her eyes, but they were partly tears of joy. Her boy was alive; at worst he was not killed, and perhaps, oh perhaps, he was not badly hurt.

Ferdy caught sight of her tears, though she had turned her face away in hopes of hiding them. A pained, puzzled look came over him. He tried to raise his head, which was resting on Merton's arm, but it sank down again weakly; then he glanced at his left arm and hand, which were covered with blood from a cut on his forehead.

"What is the – mamma, why are you crying?" he said. "Have I hurt myself? Oh dear, did I fall off my beautiful pony? I am so, so sorry."

"My darling," said his mother, "it was an accident. I hope you will soon be better. Have you any pain anywhere?"

"I don't think so," said he, "only I wish I was in bed, mamma. What is it that is bleeding?"

"Nothing very bad, sir," said Merton cheerfully; "only a cut on your forehead. But that'll soon heal. Your handkerchief, please, ma'am, dipped in cold water."

"Yes," said Mr. Ross, "that is the best thing for the moment," and he folded the handkerchief up into a little pad, which he soaked in the fresh cold water, and laid it on the place. "I think we must move him," he went on. "Ferdy, my boy, will you let us try?"

Ferdy stretched out his right arm and put it round his father's neck. But the movement hurt somehow and somewhere, for he grew terribly white again.

"My back," he whispered.

A thrill of new anguish went through his parents at the words.

"Don't do anything yourself," said Mr. Ross; "lie quite still and trust to me."

Ferdy closed his eyes without speaking, and skilfully, though with infinite pains, his father raised him in his arms, Ferdy making no sound – perhaps he half fainted again; there he lay quite helpless, like a little baby, as with slow, careful tread Mr. Ross made his way to the house, from which, not a quarter of an hour ago, the boy had flown out in perfect health and joy.

At the door they met Chrissie. She started violently, then covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, papa," she began, but her mother was close behind and caught her in her arms.

"Hush, dear," she said. "No, no," in answer to the little girl's unuttered question. "Ferdy has opened his eyes and spoken to us; he knew us – papa and me."

Chrissie's terrors at once made place for hope. Her white face flushed all over.

"He's spoken to you, mamma? What did he say? Oh, then he can't be so very badly hurt. Oh, mamma, how glad I am!"

"Be very, very quiet, dear. We can do nothing, and be sure of nothing, till the doctor comes, but – oh yes, thank God, we may hope."

But by the time they had laid him on the mattress in the oriel room Ferdy looked again so ghastly pale that the poor mother's heart went down. There was little they could do; they scarcely dared to undress him till the surgeon came. It was a terrible hour or two's waiting, for Mr. Stern was out, and Larkins had to ride some considerable way before he caught him up on his morning rounds.

CHAPTER III

A STRANGE BIRTHDAY

Late on the afternoon of that sad day the doctor, coming out of the oriel room, was met by little Christine. She had been watching for him on the stairs. It was his second visit since the morning, and his face was very grave; but its expression altered at once when he caught sight of Chrissie. Though Stern by name, he was very far from stern by nature, and he was very fond of the Ross children, whom he had known nearly all their lives. Besides, it is a doctor's business to cheer up people as much as possible, and he was touched by poor Chrissie's white face. Never had the little girl spent such a miserable day, and thankful though she had been that her darling Ferdy's life had been spared, she was beginning to doubt if after all he was going to get better. Her mother had scarcely left him for an instant; she had been busy arranging the room for him, or rather she had been sitting beside him holding his hand while she gave directions to the servants.

By the doctor's advice Ferdy's own little bed had been brought into the room, and he himself moved on to it, lifted upon the mattress as he lay; and it had, of course, been necessary to carry out some of the other furniture and rearrange things a little. This would not disturb Ferdy, Mr. Stern said, but Ferdy's head was now aching from the cut on his forehead, though it was not a very bad one, and he was tired and yet restless, and could not bear his mother to move away.

So there she sat, and Mr. Ross had gone off to Whittingham by a mid-day train, and no one had given much thought to poor Christine.

"My dear child," said the doctor, "how ill you look! Have you been wandering about by yourself all day?"

"Yes," said Chrissie simply, her lip quivering as she spoke. "There was nothing I could do to help, and they were all busy."

"Where is Miss Lilly?" asked Mr. Stern.

"She wasn't coming to-day. We were to have a holiday. It – it is Ferdy's birthday, you know, and we were going to be so happy. Oh," she cried, as if she could keep back the misery no longer, "to think it is Ferdy's birthday!" and she burst again into deep though not loud sobbing.

Mr. Stern was very, very sorry for her.

"Dear Chrissie," he said, "you must not make yourself ill. In a day or two you will be wanted very much indeed, and you must be ready for it. Your brother will want you nearly all day long."

Chrissie's sobs stopped as if by magic, though they still caught her breath a little, and her face grew all pink and rosy.

"Will he, will he?" she exclaimed. "Do you mean that he is really going to get better? I thought – I thought – mamma kept shut up in the room, and nobody would tell me – do you really think he is going to get better soon?"

Mr. Stern took her hand and led her downstairs, and then into the library. There was no one there, but he closed the door.

"My dear child," he said, "I will tell you all I can," for he knew that Christine was a sensible little girl, and he knew that anything was better than to have her working herself up more and more with miserable fears. "I think Ferdy will be better in a day or two, but we cannot say anything yet about his getting well. Your father has gone to Whittingham to see one of the best doctors, and ask him to come down here to-night or to-morrow to examine your brother, and after that we shall know more. But I am afraid it is very likely that he will have to stay in bed a long time, and if so, you know how much you can do to make the days pass pleasantly for him."

Chrissie's eyes sparkled through the tears still there. "I don't mind that," she began. "Of course I know it will be very dull and tiresome for him, but nothing seems very bad compared with if he was going to – " she stopped short, and again she grew very white. "Oh, you are sure he isn't going to get worse?" she exclaimed. "I do get so frightened every now and then when I think of how his face looked, and it was bleeding too."

Mr. Stern patted her hand.

"You have not seen him since this morning?" he said.

Chrissie shook her head.

"Not since papa carried him in," she replied.

"Would you like to see him very much?"

"Oh, may I? I'll be very, very quiet and good. I'll bathe my eyes, so that he won't find out I've been crying, and I'll only stay a minute."

"Run upstairs then and make yourself look as much as usual as you can. I will go back for a moment and tell Mrs. Ross I have given you leave to come in."

Two minutes or so later Chrissie was tapping very softly at the door of the oriel room.

"Come in," said Mr. Stern.

He was not looking at all grave now, but very "smily" and cheerful, which Chrissie was glad of, as it reminded her that she herself must not cry or seem unhappy. But how strange it all was! She would scarcely have known the pretty little sitting-room: Ferdy's bed with a screen round it standing out at one side of the curiously shaped window, her mother's writing-table and other little things gone. Chrissie could not help staring round in surprise, and perhaps because she had a nervous dread of looking at Ferdy.

He saw her, however, at once.

"Chrissie," said a weak, rather hoarse little voice, "Chrissie, come here."

Chrissie choked down the lump in her throat that was beginning to make itself felt again.

"Kiss me," he said when she was close beside him. He did not look so unlike himself now, though there was a bandage round his forehead and he was very pale. "Kiss me," he said again, and as she stooped down to do so, without speaking, "Chrissie," he whispered, "I don't want mamma to hear – Chrissie, just to think it's my birthday and that it's all through our great wish coming true. Oh, Chrissie!"

The little girl felt, though she could not see him, that Mr. Stern was watching her, so she made a great effort.

"I know," she whispered back again, and even into her whisper she managed to put a cheerful sound. "I know, Ferdy darling. But you're going to get better. And you haven't any very bad pains, have you?"

"Not very bad," he replied. "My head's sore, but I daresay it'll be better to-morrow. But that won't make it right, you see, Chrissie. It's it being my birthday I mind."

Christine did not know what to say. Her eyes were filling with tears, and she was afraid of Ferdy seeing them. She turned away a little, and as she did so her glance fell on the window, one side of which looked to the west. She and Ferdy had often watched the sunset from there. It was too early yet for that, but signs of its coming near were beginning; already the lovely mingling of colours was gleaming faintly as if behind a gauzy curtain.

"Ferdy," said Chrissie suddenly, "I think there's going to be a beautiful sunset, and you can see it lovelily the way you're lying. Aren't you awfully glad you're in here? It wouldn't be half so nice in your own room for seeing out, would it?"

"No, it wouldn't," said Ferdy, more brightly than he had yet spoken. "I can't move my head, only the least bit, but I can see out. Yes, Chrissie, I can see the people on the road – I mean I could if the curtain was a little more pulled back."

"Of course you could," said Mr. Stern, coming forward. "But you must wait till to-morrow to try how much you can see."

"Shall I have to stay in bed all to-morrow?" said Ferdy.

"We must hear what the big doctor says," Mr. Stern replied, for he had already told Ferdy that another surgeon was coming to see him, so that the sudden sight of a stranger should not startle the little fellow. "Now, Chrissie, my dear, I think you must say good-night; you shall see much more of Ferdy to-morrow, I hope."

They kissed each other again, and Chrissie whispered, "Don't mind about its being your birthday, darling. Think how much worse you might have been hurt."

"I know. I might have been killed," said Ferdy in a very solemn tone.

"And do watch the sunset. I think it's going to be extra pretty," Chrissie went on cheerfully. "If you have to stay in bed, Ferdy, it will be nice to have this lovely window."

And Ferdy's face grew decidedly brighter.

"Good little woman," said the doctor in a low voice as she passed him, and by the way mamma kissed her Chrissie knew that she too was pleased with her.

So the little sister was not altogether miserable as she fell asleep that night, and she was so tired out that she slept soundly – more heavily indeed than usual. She did not hear the sound of wheels driving up to the house soon after she had gone to bed, and this was a good thing, for she would have guessed they were those of the carriage bringing her father and the doctor he had gone to fetch, from the station, and her anxiety would very likely have sent away her sleepiness.

Nor did she hear the carriage drive away again an hour or two later. By that time she was very deeply engaged, for she was having a curious and very interesting dream. She had forgotten it when she woke in the morning, but it came back to her memory afterwards, as you will hear.

Ferdy did not much like the strange doctor, though he meant to be very kind, no doubt. He spoke to him too much as if he were a baby, and the boy was beginning at last to feel less restless and more comfortably sleepy when this new visitor came. And then the library lamp was brought up, and it blinked into his eyes, and he hated being turned round and having his backbone poked at, as he told Chrissie, though he couldn't exactly say that it hurt him. And, worst of all, when he asked if he might get up "to-morrow" the strange doctor "put him off" in what Ferdy thought a silly sort of way. He would much rather have been told right out, "No, certainly not to-morrow," and then he could have begun settling up things in his mind and planning what he would do, as Chrissie and he always did if they knew a day in bed was before them; for they had never been very ill – never ill enough to make no plans and feel as if they cared for nothing in bed or out of it.

No, Ferdy was quite sure he liked Mr. Stern much better than Dr. Bigge, for, curiously enough, that was the great doctor's name, though by rights, as he was a very clever surgeon and not a physician, I suppose he should not be called "doctor" at all.

When at last he had gone, Mr. Stern came back for a moment to tell Ferdy's mother and Flowers how it would be best to settle him for the night. They put the pillows in rather a funny way, he thought, but still he was pretty comfortable, and he began to feel a little sleepy again; and just as he was going to ask his mother what they were doing with the sofa, everything went out of his head, and he was off into the peaceful country of sleep, where his troubles were all forgotten, hushed into quiet by the soft waving wings of the white angel, whose presence is never so welcome as to the weary and suffering.

When he woke next there was a faint light in the room. For a moment or two he thought that it was the daylight beginning to come, and he looked towards where the window was in his own little room; but even the tiny motion of his head on the pillow sent a sort of ache through him, and that made him remember.

No, he was not in his own room, and the glimmer was not that of the dawn. It was from a shaded night-light in one corner, and as his eyes grew used to it he saw that there was some one lying on the sofa – some one with bright brown hair, bright even in the faint light, and dressed in a pale pink dressing-gown. It was mamma. Poor mamma, how uncomfortable for her not to be properly in bed! Why was she lying there? He hoped she was asleep, and yet – he almost hoped she wasn't, or at least that she would awake just for a minute, for he was thirsty and hot, and the fidgety feeling that he couldn't keep still was beginning again. He did not know that he sighed or made any sound, but he must have done so, for in another moment the pink dressing-gown started up from the sofa, and then mamma's pretty face, her blue eyes still looking rather "dusty," as the children called it, with sleep, was anxiously bending over him.

"What is it, dear? Did you call me?"

"No, mamma. But why aren't you in bed, and why is there a light in the room? Aren't you going to bed?"

"Yes, in an hour or two Flowers will come and take my place. You see we thought you might be thirsty in the night, and the doctor said you mustn't move."

"I am thirsty," said Ferdy. "I'd like a drink of water."

"Better than lemonade? There is some nice fresh lemonade here."

Ferdy's eyes brightened.

"Oh, I would like that best, but I didn't know there was any."

Mamma poured some out into such a funny cup – it had a pipe, so Ferdy called it, at one side. He didn't need to sit up, or even to lift his head, to drink quite comfortably.

"And I think," Mrs. Ross went on, "I think I will give you another spoonful of the medicine. It is not disagreeable to take, and it will help you to go to sleep again."

Yes, it did; very, very soon he was asleep again. This time he dreamt something, though when he awoke he could not clearly remember what. He only knew that it was something about birds. He lay with his eyes shut thinking about it for a few minutes, till a sound close to him made him open them and look round. It was morning, quite morning and daylight, and from the window came the gentle twittering of some swallows, who had evidently taken up their summer quarters in some corner hard by.