Reckless Griselda by Harriet Smart Page B

Cleopatra, a poor choice and no distraction – until tiredness overcame him around first light. He slept until ten and only woke then because Gough came in. Used to his master’s steady habits, Gough had been alarmed that he was not called for at seven as usual. By ten he could stand to wait no longer and had gone in to check that Tom was not insensible or worse.
     
    “Let me send for a doctor, sir,” said Gough who had worked himself into a state of serious alarm. “I am sure you caught a fever yesterday. You said you took a soaking in the storm.”
     
    “I have no fever, Gough,” said Tom. “And I should not consult a physician in a place like Cromer, for they are bound to be the sort to make a man take to a bath chair and emetics for the rest of his life.”
     
    “A purge sir, that might be just the thing,” said Gough. “Your late father used to take a mixture of…”
     
    “No Gough, if you please!” exclaimed Tom. “I do not need purges, I need a wife.”
     
    Gough looked shocked, but Tom was not over-concerned with Gough’s feelings. He was too out of temper and too miserable with desire to think of anyone but himself. “I will go and bathe.”
     
    “What about your breakfast, sir?”
     
    “I shall take it when I return.”
     
    “The sea looks very rough today, sir,” said Gough.
     
    “Then I shall take my chances,” said Tom and then seeing the distress on the old man’s face, said in a more mollifying tone, “Come now, you know I am a strong swimmer. Think how much good this will do me.”
     
    Gough was right – the sea was rough, but Tom was in the mood for some real exertion, and with considerable enthusiasm plunged into the water from the steps of the bathing machine. It was extremely cold but exhilarating, and he had swum out some distance from the machine in a matter of minutes. He stopped to tread water, gazing back at the shore and the strange appearance of the bathing machines which had been drawn into the water and looked like floating huts. In front of each some invalid floundered and splashed with the help of a guide, and there was only one other bather who had struck out on his own as Tom had done. He was swimming with a powerful crawl and Tom, wanting a challenge, determined to swim over to him and request a contest.
     
    It was no easy matter to catch him, however, and Tom was impressed by an exhibition of such strength. But then the swimmer slowed suddenly and Tom realised at once he was in great danger. He pushed himself forward only to see that the man been seized with the cramp and was hanging motionless in the water, about to be swept out to sea in the next pulse of the waves. Quickly Tom wrapped his arms around him and began to bring him back towards the shore. He was a large, muscular man and made almost dead weight for Tom to drag. Tom began to fear he was already drowned, but as they approached Tom’s machine he began to cough and splutter.
     
    Tom struggled and got him up onto the little platform at the end of the machine. The man sprawled onto the wooden floor of the machine and vomited violently. Clearly mortified, he attempted to get to his feet, only to stumble half way through the act.
     
    “Do not disturb yourself, sir,” Tom said, crouching beside him and offering him a towel. “You are not at all well.”
     
    “I am a fool,” he said. “Why I even attempt these things… Thank you. You are very kind.”
     
    “Anyone would have done the same.”
     
    “But poor cripples should not swim out of their depth and then oblige others to rescue them. I beg to apologise, sir.”
     
    “It was nothing. In fact I was chasing you to ask you for a race.”
     
    “I should have liked that,” said the man, managing a smile.
     
    “Another day perhaps?” said Tom.
     
    “Yes,” said the man. “May I know the name of my preserver?”
     
    “Thorpe, Thomas Thorpe,” said Tom.
     
    “Colonel Hugh Farquarson at your service,” responded the