Part 37 (2/2)

”I believe it,” he said. ”Then just put the case that you loved Christ much better than you do me; which would be the hard and the easy things then?”

Rotha was silent. But the whole conversation had rather given new food for the meditations it had interrupted and which had occasioned it. Where was all this to end?--the young man asked himself. And when should it end, in so far as the immediate state of things was concerned? As soon as possible! his judgment said. Rotha was already clinging to him with a devotion that would make the parting a hard business, even now; every week would make it harder. Besides, he had other work to do, and could not permanently play tutor. As soon as Mrs. Busby came home he would go to her and broach the matter. That would be, for the present, the best plan he could hit upon. A week or two more--

Which calculations, like so many others of human framing, came to nothing. A day or two later, driving in the Park one evening, a pair of unruly horses coming at a run round a corner dashed into the little phaeton which held Mr. Digby and Rotha, and threw them both out. The phaeton was broken; Rotha was unhurt; Mr. Digby could not stand up. He believed it was a sprain, he said; no more; but one foot was unmanageable.

A carriage was procured, he was a.s.sisted into it, Rotha took her place beside him, and the coachman was ordered to drive slowly.

A silent pair they were for some distance; and both faces very pale.

Rotha was the first one to speak.

”Mr. Digby--does it hurt much?”

”Rather, just now,” he said forcing a smile. ”Rotha, are you all right?”

”O yes. What can I do, Mr. Digby?”

”There is nothing to be done, till we get home.”

For which now Rotha waited in an impatience which seemed to measure every yard of the way. Arrived at last, Mr. Digby was a.s.sisted out of the phaeton, and with much difficulty into the house. Here he himself examined the hurt, and decided that it was only a sprain; no doctor need be sent for.

”Is a sprain bad?” asked Rotha, when the a.s.sistants had withdrawn.

”Worse than a broken bone, sometimes.”

Mr. Digby had laid himself down upon the cus.h.i.+ons of the lounge; sweat stood on his brow, and the colour varied in his face. He was in great pain.

”Where is Mrs. Cord?”

”She's out. She's gone to New York. I know she meant to go. What shall I do for you, Mr. Digby?”

”You cannot--”

”O yes, I can; I can as well as anybody. Only tell me what. Please, Mr.

Digby!”--Rotha's entreaty was made with most intense expression.

”Salt and water is the thing,--but the boot must come off. You cannot get it off, nor anybody, except with a knife. Rotha, give me the clasp knife that lies on my table over yonder.”

Mr. Digby proceeded to open the largest blade and to make a slit in the leg of his boot. The slit was enlarged, with difficulty and evident suffering, till the whole top of the boot was open; but the ankle and foot, the hardest part of the task, were still to do, and the swollen foot had made the leather very tight.

”I cannot manage it,” said Mr. Digby throwing down the knife. ”I cannot get at it. You'll have to send for a surgeon, after all, Rotha, to carve this leather.”

”Mr. Digby, may I try?”

”You cannot do it, child.” But the answer was given in the exhaustion of pain, and the young man lay back with closed eyes. Rotha did not hold herself forbidden. She took the knife, and carefully, tenderly, and very skilfully, she managed to free the suffering foot. It took time, but not more, nor so much, as would have been needed to send for a doctor.

”Thank you!--that is great relief. Now the salt and water, Rotha.”

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