<h2><SPAN name="page49"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>V.</h2>
<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. May</span> still stood at the cottage
door, and the keeper, warned by the light, called from a little
distance. “Here we are, Mrs. May,” he said, as
cheerfully as might be. “He’s all
right—just had a little accident, that’s all.
So I’m carryin’ him. Don’t be frightened;
get a little water—I think he’s got a bit of a cut on
the head. But it’s nothing to fluster about.” .
. . And so assuring and protesting, Bob brought the old man
in.</p>
<p>The woman saw the staring grey face and the blood.
“O-o-o—my God!” she quavered, stricken sick and
pale. “He’s—he’s—”</p>
<p>“No, no. No, no! Keep steady and help.
Shift the table, an’ I’ll put him down on the
rug.”</p>
<p>She mastered herself, and said no more. The old man,
whose babble had sunk to an indistinct mutter, was no sooner laid
on the floor than he made a vague effort to rise, as though to
continue on his way. But he was feebler than before, and
Bob Smallpiece pressed him gently back upon the new-mended coat,
doubled to make a pillow.</p>
<p>Nan May, tense and white, curbed her agitation, <SPAN name="page50"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>ministering
and suffering in silence. Years before a man had been
carried home to her thus, but then all was over, and after the
first numbness grief could take its vent. Once she asked
Bob Smallpiece, in a whisper, how it had happened. He told
how little he knew, and save for passing the words to Bessy,
wakened by unwonted sounds, Mrs. May said nothing. Bessy,
in her nightgown, sat on the stairs, hugging her crutch, and
sobbing with what quietness she could compel of herself.</p>
<p>There was a little brandy in a quartern bottle, and the keeper
thought it well to force the spirit between the old man’s
teeth, while Mrs. May bathed the head and washed away the clotted
blood. As they did so the wheels of the doctor’s
dog-cart were heard in the lane, and soon the doctor came in at
the door, pulling off his gloves.</p>
<p>Johnny stood, pale, helpless, and still almost breathless,
behind the group, while the doctor knelt at his
grandfather’s side. There was a contused wound at the
top of the head, the doctor could see, a little back, not
serious. But blood still dripped from the ears, and the
doctor shook his head. “Fracture of the base,”
he said, as to himself.</p>
<p>Reviving a little, because of the brandy and the bathing, the
old man once more made a motion as if to <SPAN name="page51"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>rise, his
eyes grew brighter, though fixed still, and his voice rose
distinctly as ever.</p>
<p>“—took the bag in, yes. London’s
comin’ fast, London’s comin’ an’
a-frightenin’ out the butterflies. London’s
a-drivin’ the butterflies out o’ my round, out
o’ my round, an’ butterflies can’t live near
it. London’s out o’ my round an’
I’ve done my round an’ now I’ll give in the
empty bag. Take the bag: an’ look for the
pension. That’s the ’vantage o’ the
Pos’-Office, John. Some gets pensions but some
don’, but the butterflies’ll last my time I hope:
an’ Haskins he kep’ bees, but I’m hopin’
to finish my roun’—” and so on and so on till
the voice fell again and the muttering was fainter than
before.</p>
<p>Bob Smallpiece stood awkwardly by, unwilling to remain a
useless intruder, but just as reluctant to desert friends in
trouble. Presently he bethought himself that work was still
to do in inquiry how the old man’s hurt had befallen,
whether by accident or attack; perhaps, indeed, to inform the
police, and that in good time. So he asked, turning his hat
about in his hands, if there was anything else he could do.</p>
<p>“Nothing more, Smallpiece, thanks,” the doctor
said, with an unmistakable lift of the brows and a glance at the
door.</p>
<p>“God bless you for helpin’ us, Mr.
Smallpiece,” Mrs. May said as she let him out.
“I’ll let you know <SPAN name="page52"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>how he is in the mornin’ if you
can’t call.” And when the door was shut,
“Go to bed, Johnny, my boy, and take a rest.”
But Johnny went no farther than the stairs, and sat there with
his sister.</p>
<p>The old man’s muttering ceased wholly, and he breathed
heavily, stertorously. The doctor rose to his feet and
turned to Mrs. May.</p>
<p>“Won’t you tell me, sir,” she said.
“Is it—is it—”</p>
<p>“It is very serious,” the doctor said gravely; and
added with impressive slowness, “very serious
indeed.”</p>
<p>The woman took a grip of the table, and caught three quick
breaths.</p>
<p>“You must keep yourself calm, and you must bear
up. You must prepare yourself—in case of something
very bad indeed.”</p>
<p>Twice she tried to speak, but was mute; and then, “No
hope?” she said, more to sight than to hearing.</p>
<p>He put his hand kindly on her shoulder. “It would
be wrong of me to encourage it,” he said. “As
for what I can do, it is all over. . . . But you must bear
up,” he went on firmly, as, guided to a chair, she bent
forward and covered her face. “Drink
this—” He took a small bottle from his bag,
poured something into a cup and added water. “Drink
it—drink it up; all of it. . . . I must go. . .
. You’ve your children to think of, remember.
Come to your mother, my boy. . . . ”</p>
<p><SPAN name="page53"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>He was
gone, and the children stood with their arms about their
mother. The old man’s breathing, which had grown
heavier and louder still, presently eased again, and his eyes
closed drowsily. At this the woman looked up with an
impossible hope in her heart. Truly, the breath was soft
and natural, and the drawn lines had gone from the face: he must
be sleeping. Why had she not thought to ask Bob Smallpiece
to carry him up to bed? And why had the doctor not ordered
it? Softly she turned the wet cloth that lay over the
wound.</p>
<p>The breath grew lighter and still lighter, and more peaceful
the face, till one might almost trace a smile. Quieter and
quieter, and still more peaceful: till all was peace indeed.</p>
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