Читать книгу Miss Caprice - St. George Rathborne - Страница 8

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She looks up into his eyes; there is a set expression to be seen there, but his face is no whiter than before, although it must be a terrible shock to any man to see the imprint of a mad dog's teeth in the flesh of his arm.

"Oh, it has happened, the worst that could come about! What will you do, doctor?"

He is a man of medicine, and he knows full well what such a wound means.

"There is only one thing to be done. Excuse me for a minute or two, Lady Ruth."

He springs away from her side, and, turning with surprise, she sees him dart into the smithy of a worker in iron, just down the road a bit.

"Let us follow him!" says Philander.

"Poor, poor boy!" remarks Aunt Gwen.

"Oh, aunt! do you believe he will go mad?" gasps the younger lady, in a trembling voice.

"I am afraid; I've known of cases that happened like this. One thing's in his favor."

"And that?"

"He wasn't bit in the face, or on the hand."

"How does that matter?" demands Sharpe.

She gives him a look of scorn.

Then, ignoring her spouse, she says, as if continuing her speech to Lady Ruth:

"The dog's teeth went through several thicknesses of woolen cloth before entering the skin. The fabric very probably absorbed the poison. A rattlesnake's fangs are a different thing; they cut through the cloth and the poison is then injected from the hollow teeth or fangs."

"Oh!"

They have reached the smithy, and, standing in the door-way, witness a singular scene.

The smith is a brawny native Maltese, with a form a Hercules might envy. He has just taken from the fire a slender rod of iron, one end of which is hissing hot, even red.

With this he advances upon John Craig, who has laid his arm, bared almost to the shoulder, upon a high window ledge.

Then the iron just touches the flesh, and a little gust of white smoke puffs up.

"Jove! the boy has grit," mutters Colonel Lionel, unable to restrain his admiration, even for a rival in love.

As if overcome with the sensation of inflicting such pain, the blacksmith shudders and draws back.

"Again, it is not near enough," cries John Craig.

The blacksmith shakes his head.

"I cannot," he says, in English.

"My life may depend on it, man. This is no time for hesitation. Give me the iron!"

His words are spoken with authority, and the brawny smith surrenders the rod of glowing iron.

Without an instant's hesitation, only compressing his lips firmly together, the Chicagoan presses the red-hot iron upon his arm.

Then he tosses the hissing thing aside, and begins to draw his shirt over the raw red scar an inch square, which the merciless brand has seared upon his white arm.

Seeing the blanched face of Lady Ruth, and the anxious countenances of the others near-by, the doctor, who has recovered from the shock, smiles in a reassuring way.

"I am sorry you saw this; I didn't intend you should. Let us go to the hotel!" he says, slipping a coin in the hand of the honest smith, who seems loth to accept it.

Then the party continue down in the direction of the hotel, where they stop while the steamer undergoes repairs.

"Colonel Blunt, will you do me the favor to come to my room? I want to put a small bandage with iodoform on the burn," he says aside, but Lady Ruth hears it.

"Colonel Blunt, indeed! What sort of trained nurse do you suppose he would make? I have had experience—you may smile if you like. Tell the colonel where to find your box of liniments and bandages, and bring it to me."

"But, my dear Lady—"

"Not a word, doctor. I shall esteem it an honor; and what I lack in scientific knowledge my aunt can supply."

This clinches the matter, and John can offer no further argument against her wish; so Blunt, the Royal Engineer officer, is sent after the doctor's case, which errand he performs willingly enough, for although he knows this affair has brightened up the chances of his rival, still, as an Englishman, he has a deep, inborn admiration for bravery, no matter whether shown in a Zulu warrior, armed with war club and assagai, or in a Yankee youth who throws himself between a dusky child of Malta and a mad dog, to receive the monster's attack.

So he hastens up stairs to the room which John Alexander Craig temporarily occupies, opens the door, and speedily returns with the little traveling case in which the young physician keeps many important medicines, an assortment of ready liniment and lint, with the wonderful remedial agents known to modern surgery.

To John's surprise, after he has opened the case and started to arrange the small bandage, it is gently taken from his hands.

"Allow me," says the pretty "doll," as he has at times been forced to mentally term Lady Ruth, after she has played with his admiration.

"But, do you know—"

"I never told you my uncle was a surgeon, Sir Archibald Gazzam—"

"What! that great man your uncle!" cries the student, with the deep respect a young M.D. has for a famous practitioner.

"Yes; and more than once I have assisted him in some simple case at the house. He gave me credit for a fair amount of nerve."

"Fair amount! Jove! for a girl you have a wonderful quantity. Why, I believe you'd have faced that brute yourself, if I hadn't gone," he says, enthusiastically, the others being momentarily at the window to witness a procession pass the hotel, with the dead dog on a litter.

"No, no, I could not do that; but, Doctor Chicago, was that what sent you out to meet that awful beast?"

Her head is bent over her work, so that the intense blush remains unseen, but it fades away at his cool reply.

"Oh, no; quite another thing! I told you I never considered myself a coward, and when I saw that dear little child apparently doomed to a terrible death, I could see the eyes of one I revere looking at me, and though death were sure I could not refrain."

He says this quietly and earnestly, yet without an apparent desire to arouse any feelings of chagrin on her side.

Lady Ruth bites her lips, but her hands are steady, and the touch is exceedingly gentle as she binds up the ugly red mark which he has inflicted on himself with what she is disposed to term Spartan-like courage.

"There; it is done, doctor."

"And neatly done, too," says Aunt Gwen, with a nod and a look of pride.

"I thank you sincerely, Lady Ruth."

"Ah! you are a thousand times welcome. There is not a woman in Valetta who would not feel it an honor to bind up the wound of the hero who saved that Maltese child," says this young lady, frankly.

More shouts without.

This time the men of Valetta are clamoring for the American to show himself. They do not know much of America, but they recognize true grit wherever they meet it.

Of course, a rush is made for the balcony, but John remains behind.

He is feeling somewhat weak after the exciting events of the afternoon.

And, as he sits there, smiling to hear the clamor without—for he is human, this young Chicago M.D.—some one touches his arm.

"Lady Ruth, I thought you went out with the rest," he stammers, with a guilty blush, for it chances that at the very moment he is thinking of her, and what a soft, electric touch she has, so soothing, so very delightful.

"I did not go; I was watching you."

"An interesting study, surely."

"It was to me. I desired to know whether you secretly feared the results of your wound."

"And I did not dream you were so concerned about me. Considering the matter calmly, I am disposed to believe there is now no danger—that the hot iron radically destroyed the last chance of infection."

"I am very glad to hear you say so."

"You care a little, then?"

How quickly she is on her guard.

"Because I would not see a brave boy needlessly sacrificed."

"You look on me as a boy. I am twenty-three."

"My own age, sir. That gives me the right to feel myself your senior."

"How so?"

"You know a woman is older at twenty-three than a man. Then you do not wear a beard."

"I shall cultivate one from this hour. Why, a year ago I looked like a pard, but was influenced to change."

Again that quick flash of intelligence.

"Ah! Doctor Chicago has left a lady love in the city on the lake."

"What makes you say that?"

"Several remarks you have made; the one just now, and then in reference to the spur that sent you to face that dog. Ah! my friend, it must have been a strong motive to influence you like that."

He overlooks the peculiar patronizing air, such as a young woman sometimes assumes toward a boy her junior.

"Lady Ruth, the person you refer to, the thought of whom sent me to save that child, bears what is to me the holiest name on earth—mother."

She draws a quick breath.

"Forgive me. I was rude."

"Not at all. My words admitted of just such a meaning as you placed upon them."

"You left her in Chicago, of course."

John looks at her steadily.

"Lady Ruth, it may sound strange to you after what I have said, but my memories of my mother are all confined to the far past, to a period when I was a mere child; but they are none the less previous on that account."

She looks puzzled, as well she may.

"Do you mean she is—dead?"

"Heaven forbid, but I have not seen her in all these years. That is one reason I am abroad, Lady Ruth. I have a sacred mission to perform—to find my mother—to seek the solution of a mystery which has embittered my life. Perhaps some time, if we know each other a little better, I may confide a strange and sad story to you."

"Just as you please, doctor," she replies, with deep feeling in her voice, and at this moment the others bustle in.

"You must show yourself on the balcony. The dear people clamor for a sight of you, and I am really afraid they'll tear the house down soon if you don't appear before them," says Aunt Gwen, with unusual vigor.

"Yes, they unquestionably desire to publicly show their appreciation of your services, and I for one feel proud to be an American this day."

"Philander!"

"Excuse me, my dear. John, my boy, allow me to lead you out."

"One minute, please," says Lady Ruth, who has made a comfortable sling of a long white silk kerchief, which she wore around her neck.

This she insists on securing over John's shoulder.

"That arm must be painful. I know it from my long experience as the reliable assistant of my surgeon uncle. You will be glad to have this."

"But—for such a mere scratch—people will laugh at me," he protests, feebly, though it may be noticed that he makes no effort to deliver himself from the silk sling which she is now tying.

"People laugh at you! A mere scratch! Confound it, boy, there isn't a man living who would go through with what you have to-day for a cool, hundred thousand. I know one man a million would not tempt," cries the professor.

"I suppose I must submit," and accompanied by Philander, with the two women bringing up the rear, he passes out upon the balcony, where the colonel of Royal Engineers has remained, to be a curious spectator of the scene.

At sight of the hero of the street drama, those in the square before the hotel shout and cheer. They are mostly natives, but men and women feel very strongly drawn toward this young, smooth-faced American who risked his life to save a child, and that child a Maltese boy.

John bows, and presses his uninjured hand upon his heart, bows again, and retires.

Slowly the crowd disperses.

Lady Ruth completely ignores the colonel, but that veteran is not crushed by any means. He watches the capricious maiden with a quizzical light in his eye, which shows that he has not yet lost confidence in the kindness of fate, or his own charms as a beau.

Lionel Blunt's success in life has come from the fact that he has ever been ready to watch his chance and take advantage of every possible opportunity.

So night settles over Malta, over the dreamy, blue Mediterranean, over the singular city of Valetta, where this little company of tourists have been temporarily marooned, and where Doctor Chicago, aided by fate, has been enabled to make his first charge upon the heart of the proud English girl, Lady Ruth.