softly, as he laid his hand gently on the boy’s brow. “I’m glad his face is not disfigured.”
“Yes, so am I,” said the doctor; “it does not tell tales of the terrible mischief that has been done.”
“What do you call it—concussion of the brain?”
“Yes, there is no fracture of the skull; only of his collar-bone, and that is a trifle compared to the other.”
“You must bring him round, doctor. Troubles never come singly.”
“What, have you some other trouble on hand?” said the doctor, rather impatiently, for he wanted the captain to go and leave him alone with his patient.
“Yes, don’t you know?”
“I know nothing but that I have that poor boy lying there to be saved from death if it be possible. Can’t you have a wind-sail lowered down here? The heat is intolerable.”
“Wind-sail? You’ll have wind enough directly. We’re going straight into a typhoon, and no other course is open to me in this reef-strewn sea.”
“A storm?”
“Yes, and a bad one, I expect. It will be pitch-dark directly.”
“The fresh air will be welcome,” said the doctor, calmly.
“Is the captain here?” said a voice at the state-room door—a voice speaking in anxious tones.
“Yes; what is it?” said the captain, quickly. “Come on deck, sir. It’s rushing upon us like a great wall. Hear it?”
Doctor Kingsmead turned his face for a moment towards the door, to hear a peculiar dull distant roar, different from any sound with which he was familiar. Then the door swung to, and he was bending over his young patient again, thinking of nothing else, hearing no more for a few moments, till the door was pushed open again, and the rough, ruddy bronze face of Bostock appeared in the full light of the swinging lamp.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, hoarsely. “Just going on dooty, and mayn’t have another chance, as things looks bad.”
“What do you mean?” said the doctor, starting.
“Just wanted to have one more look at the dear lad, sir.”
“But what do you mean by things looking bad?”
“Haven’t you seen, sir? Well, you can hear.”
The doctor could hear, for at that moment something struck the vessel a tremendous blow, which made her shiver, and then all was turmoil and confusion as rain, wind, and spray swept the decks, and the steamer careened over and lay for a time upon her beam-ends.
“Come down and tell me if the storm gets worse,” said the doctor, with his lips to the man’s ear.
“Right, sir; but it can’t be much worse till the sea gets up. It’s blown flat just now.”
The man gave a lingering look at the insensible boy, and then crept through the door, passing out quickly as if to keep some of the din from entering the cabin.
The doctor bent over his patient again, and then leaned forward to unscrew the fastening of the circular pane of glass which formed the port-hole.
But he opened it only a few inches and then clapped it to and fastened it again to keep out the rush of wind and spray which entered with a wild shriek and rocked the lamp to and fro, threatening to put it out.
He returned to his seat and watched, paying no heed whatever to the terrific roar of the storm nor the quivering of the great vessel, which was evidently being driven at great speed dead in the teeth of the storm, though really making very little progress.
And then hours went by, with the doctor as insensible to the progress of the terrific hurricane as the boy he watched. There were plenty of passengers below, but no one came near, and the two within that dimly-lit cabin seemed to be the only living beings on board, so perfectly uninterrupted did they remain.
This did not trouble the doctor in the least, for all he required was to be left undisturbed with Nature, that she might have time to work her cure, for as far as he was concerned nothing could be done.
He knew that a tremendous storm was raging, though there was so little sea on that the motion of the vessel was not violent, for the simple reason that the tops of the waves were cut off by the terrific wind, which literally levelled the white waste of waters through which they tore.
It must have been about midnight when the cabin door was opened again, and the old sailor crept in and close up to the doctor’s side.
“How is he, sir?” said the man, with his lips close to the doctor’s ear.
“Very, very bad, my man,” was the reply.
“Poor dear lad!” growled the old sailor. “So we are up yonder, sir.”
“Oh!” said the doctor, quietly, but without taking his eyes from the patient.
“Engine’s running at full speed to keep us head to wind.”
“Oh!” said the doctor, in the same low, uninterested tone.
“Wust storm I was ever in, sir, and if it don’t soon lull goodness knows what will happen next.”
“Indeed?” said the doctor. “But go now. Quietness is everything for my patient now.”
“Well, I’m blest,” said the man to himself; “it’s like talking to anyone in his sleep. Quietness, eh? Hang it! I didn’t make half so much noise as the wind. He’s thinking of that poor lad and of nothing else.”
It was so all through the night, the doctor hardly noticing the refreshments brought in by the white-faced steward, who tried to get up a conversation, but with very little success. “Terrible storm, sir.”
“Yes,” said the doctor.
“Bad for poor young Mr. Cranford, aren’t it, sir?”
“Very bad.”
“Lot of the passengers ill, sir, and asking for you, sir.”
“Sea-sick?” said, the doctor, with a momentary display of interest. “Awful, sir.”
“I could do nothing for them, and I cannot leave my patient,” said the doctor, slowly.
The steward ventured upon another remark, but it was not heard.
During the next few hours the captain sent down twice for news, but did not once leave the deck, the storm raging with, if possible, greater violence; but the vessel fought bravely, backed as she was by the guidance of skilful hands, and evening was approaching, with everybody on board growing worn out with anxiety or exertion.
The night came on weird and strange, the white spray and the peculiar milky phosphorescent surface of the sea relieving the darkness, but giving
