Tom, happy in this spectator of his military performances,
even though the spectator was only Maggie, proceeded,
with the utmost exertion of his force, to such an
exhibition of the cut and thrust as would necessarily
be expected of the Duke of Wellington.
“Tom, I will not bear it, I will
scream,” said Maggie, at the first movement
of the sword. “You’ll hurt yourself;
you’ll cut your head off!”
“One—two,” said Tom, resolutely,
though at “two” his wrist trembled a little.
“Three” came more slowly, and with it the
sword swung downward, and Maggie gave a loud shriek.
The sword had fallen, with its edge on Tom’s
foot, and in a moment after he had fallen too.
Maggie leaped from the bed, still shrieking, and immediately
there was a rush of footsteps toward the room.
Mr. Stelling, from his upstairs study, was the first
to enter. He found both the children on the floor.
Tom had fainted, and Maggie was shaking him by the
collar of his jacket, screaming, with wild eyes.
She thought he was dead, poor child! and yet she shook
him, as if that would bring him back to life.
In another minute she was sobbing with joy because
Tom opened his eyes. She couldn’t sorrow
yet that he had hurt his foot; it seemed as if all
happiness lay in his being alive.
A Love-Scene
Poor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was
resolute in not “telling” of Mr. Poulter
more than was unavoidable; the five-shilling piece
remained a secret even to Maggie. But there was
a terrible dread weighing on his mind, so terrible
that he dared not even ask the question which might
bring the fatal “yes”; he dared not ask
the surgeon or Mr. Stelling, “Shall I be lame,
Sir?” He mastered himself so as not to cry out
at the pain; but when his foot had been dressed, and
he was left alone with Maggie seated by his bedside,
the children sobbed together, with their heads laid
on the same pillow. Tom was thinking of himself
walking about on crutches, like the wheelwright’s
son; and Maggie, who did not guess what was in his
mind, sobbed for company. It had not occurred
to the surgeon or to Mr. Stelling to anticipate this
dread in Tom’s mind, and to reassure him by hopeful
words. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the
house, and waylaid Mr. Stelling to ask the very question
that Tom had not dared to ask for himself.
“I beg your pardon, sir,—but does
Mr. Askern say Tulliver will be lame?”
“Oh, no; oh, no,” said Mr. Stelling, “not
permanently; only for a little while.”
“Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think?”
“No; nothing was said to him on the subject.”
“Then may I go and tell him, sir?”
“Yes, to be sure; now you mention it, I dare
say he may be troubling about that. Go to his
bedroom, but be very quiet at present.”
