"Oh, I shall not get tired. You can't think how much better I am. No, I must go back now, Doctor Strong. Aunt Tree might want something."
"Physician's orders!" said Geoffrey, peremptorily. "Dose of one-half mile, to be taken immediately. Won't you please come, Miss Blyth? I—I want to tell you about a very interesting case."
Mrs. Weight peered over the window-blind. She was carrying a cup of tea to the deacon, who was feeling poorly, but had paused at sight of the young couple. "If that girl thinks of making up to that young man," she said, "she's got hold of the wrong cob, I can tell her. Mira Pettis made him a napkin-holder, worked 'Bonappety' on it in cross-stitch on blue satin, and he give it to the girls' cat for a collar. I see the cat with it on. I don't want to see no clearer than that how he treats young ladies. I wish't Doctor Stedman was home."
Another bicycle accident! This time it was a head-on collision, two boys riding at each other round a corner, as if for a wager. The young doctor had patched them both up, there being no broken bones, only a dislocated shoulder and many bruises, and was now riding home, reflecting upon the carelessness of the human race in general, and of boys in particular. Here was one of the great benefactions of modern civilisation, a health-and-pleasure-giving apparatus within the reach of all, and often turned into an engine of destruction by senseless stupidity. Mrs. Tree would burn all bicycles if she could have her way; not that Mrs. Tree was stupid, far from it! Miss Phoebe disapproved of them, Miss Vesta feared them, and evidently expected his to blow up from day to day. What would they all say if they knew that he had been trying to persuade Vesta to ride with him? He called her Vesta in his thoughts, merely to distinguish her from her aunt. He was quite sure it would be the best possible exercise for her, now that she was so much stronger. So far, she had met all his representations with her gentle—no! not gentle; Geoffrey would be switched if she was gentle; her quiet negative. Her aunts would not like it, and there was an end. Well, there wasn't an end! A reasonable person ought to listen to reason, and be convinced by it. Vesta did not appear to be reasonable yet, but she was intelligent, and the rest would come as she grew stronger. And—he had no right to say she was not gentle; she could be the gentlest creature that ever lived, when it was a question of a child, or a bird, or—anything that was hurt, in short. When that little beggar fell down the other day and barked his idiotic little shins, the way she took him up, and kissed him, and got him to laughing, while he, Geoffrey, plastered him up; and it hurt too, getting the gravel out. When that violoncello note gets into her voice—well, you know! Yes, she must certainly ride the bicycle! What could be more restoring, more delightful, than to ride along a country road like this, in the soft afternoon, when the heat of the day was over? The honey-clover was in blossom; there were clusters of it everywhere, making the whole air sweet. Of course he would watch her, keep note of her colour and breathing, see that she did not overdo it. Of course it was his business to see to all that. What was that the old professor used to say?
"There are two hands upon the pulse of life; the detective's, to surprise and confound, the physician's, to help and to heal."
It was that, after all, that feeling, that decided one to be a physician. If he could do anything to help this beautiful and—yes, noble creature, he was bound to do it, wasn't he, whether her aunts liked it or not? even, perhaps, whether she herself liked it or not. Well, but she would like it, she couldn't help liking it, once she tried it. She was built for a rider. He might borrow Miss Flabb's wheel for her. It was absurd for Miss Flabb to attempt to ride; she would never do enough to take down her flesh, and meantime, being near-sighted, she was at the mercy of every stray dog and hen, and likely to be run down by the first scorcher on the highroad. Now with him, even at the beginning, Vesta would have nothing to fear. He would—
At this moment came an interruption. The interruption had four legs, and barked. It came from a neighbouring farmhouse, and flew straight at the wheel, which was also flying, for the young doctor was apt to ride fast when he was thinking. There was a whirl of arms, legs, wheels, and tails, a heavy fall,—and the dog ran off on three legs, ki-hying to the skies, and the young doctor lay still in the road.
Half an hour later, Mr. Ithuriel Butters stopped at the door of the Temple of Vesta. He was driving a pair of comfortable old white horses, who went to sleep as soon as he said "Whoa!" He looked up at the house, and then behind him in the wagon. Seeing nobody at the windows, he looked up and down the street, and was aware of a young woman approaching. He hailed her.
"Say, do you know the folks in that house?"
"Yes," said Vesta; "I am staying there."
"Be!" said Mr. Butters. "Wal, Doctor Strong boards there too, don't he?"
"Yes; I don't think he is in now, though."
"I know he ain't!" said Ithuriel Butters.
Vesta looked with interest at the stalwart old figure, and strong keen face. Most of the wrinkles in the face had come from smiling, but it was grave enough now.
"Will you come in and wait," she asked, "or leave a message?"
"Wal, I guess I won't do neither—this time!" said Mr. Butters, slowly.
Vesta looked at him in some perplexity; he returned a glance of grave meaning.
"You kin to him?" asked the old man. "Sister, or cousin, mebbe?"
"No! what is it? something has happened to Doctor Strong!" Vesta's hand tightened on the rail of the steps.
"Keepin' company with him, p'raps?"
"No, oh, no! will you tell me at once, please, and plainly, what has happened?"
Vesta spoke quietly; in her normal condition she was always quieter when moved; but the colour seemed to fall from her cheeks as her eyes followed those of the old man to something that lay long and still in the cart behind him.
"Fact is," said Mr. Butters, "I've got him here. 'Pears to be"—the strong old voice faltered for an instant—"'pears to be bust up some consid'able. I found him in the ro'd a piece back, with his velocipede tied up all over him. He ain't dead, nor he ain't asleep, but I can't git nothin' out of him, so I jest brung him along. I'll h'ist him out, if you say so."
"Can you?" said Vesta. "I will help you. I am strong enough. Will your horses stand?"
"They can't fall down, 'count of the shafts," said Mr. Butters, clambering slowly down from his seat, "and they won't do nothin' else. We'll git him out now, jest as easy. I think a sight of that young feller; made me feel bad, I tell ye, to see him there all stove up, and think mebbe—"
"Don't, please!" said Vesta. "I am—not very strong—"
"Thought you said you was!" said Ithuriel Butters. "You stand one side, then, if it's the same to you. I can carry him as easy as I would a baby, and I wouldn't hurt him no more'n I would one."
* * * * *
"There are two hands upon the pulse of life!" said the young doctor.
No one replied to this remark, nor did he appear to expect a reply. The room was darkened, and he was lying on his bed; at least some one was, he supposed it was himself. There was a smell of drugs. Some one had been hurt.
"There are two hands upon the pulse of life," he repeated; "the detective's, to surprise—and confound; the phys—phys—what?"
"Physician's," said some one.
"That's it! the physician's, to help and to heal. This appears to be—combination—both—"
The hand was removed from his wrist. He frowned heavily, and asked if he were a Mohammedan. Receiving no answer, repeated the question with some irritation.
"I don't think so," said the same quiet voice. "Then why—turban?" he frowned again, and brought the folds of linen lower over his nose. They were quietly readjusted. The light, firm hand was laid on his forehead for a moment, then once more on his wrist. Then something was put to his lips; he was told to drink, and did so. Than he said, "My name is Geoffrey Strong. There is nothing the matter with me."
"Yes, I know."
"But—if you take away your hand—I can't hold on, you know."
The hand was laid firmly on his. He sighed comfortably, murmuring something about not knowing that violoncellos had hands; dozed a few minutes; dragged himself up from unimaginable depths to ask, "You are sure you understand that about the pulse?"
Being answered, "Yes, I quite understand," said, "Then you'll see to it!" and slept like a baby.
When he woke next morning, it was with an alert and inquisitive eye.The eye glanced here and there, taking in details.
"What the—whatis all this?"
There was a soft flurry, and Miss Vesta was beside him. "Oh! my dear—my dear young friend! thank God, you are yourself again!"
Geoffrey's eyes softened into tenderness as he looked at her. "Dear Miss Vesta! what is the matter? I seem to have—" He tried to move his right arm, but stopped with a grimace. "I seem to have smashed myself. Would it bother you to tell me about it? Stop, though! I remember! a dog ran out, and got tangled up in the spokes. Oh, yes, I remember. Am I much damaged? arm broken—who set it? that's a nice bandage, anyhow. But why the malignant and the turbaned Turk effect? is my head broken, too?"
"Oh, no, dear Doctor Strong, nothing malignant; nothing at all of that nature, I assure you. Oh, I hope, I hope the arm is properly cared for! but it was so unfortunate his being laid up with pleurisy just at this time, wasn't it? and a severe contusion on your head, you see, so that for some hours we were sadly—but now you are entirely yourself, and we are so humbly and devoutly thankful, dear Doctor Strong!"
"I think you might say 'Geoffrey,' when I am all broke up!" said the boy.
"Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey!" murmured Miss Vesta, patting his sound arm softly.
"I think you might sit down by me and tell me all about it. Who is laid up with pleurisy? how much am I broken? who brought me home? who set my arm? I want to know all about it, please!"
The young doctor spoke with cheerful imperiousness. Miss Vesta glanced timorously toward the door, then sat down by the bedside. "Hush!" she said, softly. "You must not excite yourself, my dear young friend, you must not, indeed. I will tell you all about it, if you think—if you are quite sure you ought to be told. You are a physician, of course, but she was very anxious that you should not be excited."
"Who was anxious? I shall be very much excited if you keep things from me, Miss Vesta. I feel my temperature going up this moment."
"Dear! dear!" cried poor Miss Vesta. "Try—to—to restrain it, Geoffrey, I implore you. I will—I will tell you at once. As you surmise, my dear, a dog—we suppose it to have been a dog, though I am not aware that anyone saw the accident. An old man whom you once attended—Mr. Butters; you spoke of him, I remember—found you lying in the road, my child, quite unconscious. He is an unpolished person, but possessed of warm affections. I—I can never forget his tender solicitude about you. He brought you home in his wagon, and carried you into the house. He volunteered to go to Greening for Doctor Namby—"
"Namby never put on this bandage!" interrupted Geoffrey.
"No, Geoffrey, no! we do not think highly of Doctor Namby, but there was no one else, for you seem to feel so strongly about Doctor Pottle—"
"Pottle is a boiled cabbage-head!" said Geoffrey. "He couldn't set a hen's leg without tying it in bow-knots, let alone a man's arm. Who did set it, Miss Vesta? I'm sure I must be up to 105 by this time. I can't answer for the consequences, you know, if—"
"Oh! hush! hush!" cried Miss Vesta. "He had the pleurisy, as I said; very badly indeed, poor man, so that he was quite, quite invalided—"
"Pottle had? serve him—"
"No, no, Geoffrey; Doctor Namby had. And so—she was quite positive she understood the case, and—Mr. Butters upheld her—oh, I trust, I trust I did not do wrong in allowing her to take so grave a responsibility—Sister Phoebe in bed with her erysipelas—Geoffrey—you will not be angry, my dear young friend? Little Vesta set the arm!"
The word finally spoken, Miss Vesta sat panting quickly and softly, like a frightened bird, her eyes fixed anxiously on the young doctor.
The young doctor whistled; then considered the arm again with keen scrutiny.
"The de—that is—she did, did she?" he said, half to himself. He felt it all over with his sound hand, and inspected it again. "Well, it's a mighty good job," he said, "whoever did it."
Miss Vesta's sigh of relief was almost a gasp. Geoffrey looked up quickly, and saw her gentle eyes brimming with tears.
"You dear angel!" he cried, taking her hand. "I have made you anxious.I am a brute—a cuttlefish—hang me, somebody, do!"
"Oh! hush, hush! my boy!" cried the little lady, wiping away her tears. "It was only—the relief, Geoffrey. To feel that you are not angry at her—Sister Phoebe would call it presumption, but Vesta did notmeanto be presumptuous, Geoffrey—and that you think it is not so ill done as I feared. I—I am so happy, that is all, my dear!"
She wept silently, and Geoffrey lay and called himself names.Presently—"Where is she?" he asked.
"Sister Phoebe? she is still in bed, and suffering a good deal. I am continuing the remedies you gave her. I—I have thought it best to let her suppose that Doctor Namby had attended you, Geoffrey. She is very nervous, and I feared to excite her."
Geoffrey commended her wisdom, but made it clear that he was not thinking of Miss Phoebe. Couldn't he see Miss Little Vesta? he asked. He wanted to—to thank her for what she had done, and ask just how she had done it. There were all sorts of details—in short, it was important that he should see her at once. Asleep? Why—it seemed unreasonable that she should be asleep at this hour of the morning. Was she not well?
"She—she watched by you most of the night!" Miss Vesta confessed. "Your head—she was afraid of congestion, and wanted the cloths changed frequently. She would not let me sit up, Geoffrey, though I begged her to let me do so. She will come as soon as she wakes, I am sure."
"I told you I was a cuttlefish!" said Geoffrey. "Now you see! I—I believe I am getting sleepy again, Miss Vesta. What is that pretty thing you have around your neck? Did she sit in that chair? What a fool a man is when he is asleep!"
Seeing his eyelids droop, Miss Vesta moved softly away; was called back at the door, and found him looking injured. "You haven't tucked me up!" he said.
Miss Vesta tucked him up with delicate precision, and drew the snowy counterpane into absolute smoothness. "There!" she said, her gentle eyes beaming with maternal pleasure. "Is there anything else, dear doctor—I mean dear Geoffrey?"
"No, nothing—unless—I don't suppose angels ever kiss people, do they?"
Very pink indeed, even to her pretty little ears, Miss Vesta stooped and deposited a very small and very timid kiss on his forehead; then slipped away like a little shocked ghost, wondering what Sister Phoebe would say.
"Where did you get your splints?" asked Geoffrey. "Was this thing all arranged beforehand? you confess to the bandages in your trunk."
Vesta laughed. "Your poor cigars! I tumbled them out of their box with very little ceremony. See them, scattered all over the table! I must put them tidy."
She moved to the table, and began piling the cigars in a hollow square."A cigar-box makes excellent splints," she said; "did you ever try it?"
But Geoffrey was thinking what a singular amount of light a white dress seemed to bring into a room, and did not immediately reply.
When he did speak, he said, "You watched me—I kept you up all night. I ought to be shot."
"That would be twice as troublesome," said Vesta, gravely; "I can set an arm, but I don't know anything about wounds, except theoretically. Perhaps you would'nt like theoretic treatment."
"Perhaps not. Was there—it seems a perfectly absurd question to ask, but—well, was any one playing the 'cello here last night? why do you laugh?"
"Only because you seem to have the 'cello so on your mind. You said such funny things last night, while you were light-headed, you know."
Geoffrey became conscious of the roots of his hair. "What did I say?" he asked.
"You seemed to think that some one was playing the 'cello; or rather, you fancied there was a 'cello in the room, and it seemed to be endowed with life. You said, 'I didn't know that 'cellos had hands!' and then you asked if it spoke Spanish. I couldn't help laughing a little at that, and you were quite short with me, and told me I that didn't know phlox from flaxseed. It was very curious!"
"Must have been!" said Geoffrey, dryly. "I'm only thankful—was that the worst thing I said?"
"Wasn't that bad enough? yes, that was the very worst. I am going out now, Doctor Strong. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Going out!" repeated Geoffrey, in dismay.
"Yes. I have some errands to do. What is it?" for the cloud on his brow was unmistakable.
"Oh—nothing! I thought you were going to see to this crack in my skull, but it's no matter."
"It is hardly two hours since I dressed it," said Vesta. "I thought you said it felt very comfortable."
"Well—it did; but it hurts now, considerably. No matter, though, if you are busy I dare say I could get Pottle to come in sometime in the course of the day."
He had the grace to be ashamed of himself, when Vesta brought basin and sponge, and began quietly and patiently to dress the injured temple.
"I know I am fractious," he said, plaintively. "I can't seem to help it."
He looked up, and saw her clear eyes intent and full of light.
"It is healing beautifully!" she said. "I wish you could see it; it's a lovely colour now."
"It's a shame to give you all this trouble," said Geoffrey, trying to feel real contrition.
"Oh, but I like it!" he was cheerfully assured. "It's delightful to see a cut like this."
"Thank you!" said Geoffrey. "I used to feel that way myself."
"And the callous is going to form quickly in the arm, I am sure of it!" said Vesta, with shining eyes. "I am so pleased with you, Doctor Strong! And now—there! is that all right? Take the glass and see if you like the looks of it. I think the turban effect is rather becoming. Now—is there any one you would like me to go and see while I am out? Of course—I have no diploma, nothing of the sort, but I could carry out your orders faithfully, and report to you."
"Oh, you are very good!" said Geoffrey. "But—you would be gone all the—I mean—your aunts might need you, don't you think?"
"No, indeed! Aunt Phoebe is better—I gave her the drops, and Aunt Vesta is bathing her now with the lotion—I can take the afternoon perfectly well. Your case-book? this one? no, truly, Doctor Strong, it will be a pleasure, a real pleasure."
"You're awfully good!" said Geoffrey, ruefully.
"It is themostunfortunate combination I ever heard of!" said MissPhoebe Blyth.
Miss Phoebe was in bed, too, and suffering very considerable discomfort. Erysipelas is not a thing to speak lightly of; and if it got into Miss Phoebe's temper as well as into her eyes, this was not to be wondered at.
Miss Vesta murmured some soothing words, and bathed the angry red places gently; but Miss Phoebe was not to be soothed.
"It is all very well for you, Vesta," said the poor lady, "you have never had any responsibility; of course it is not to be supposed that you should have, with what you have gone through. But with all I have onmyshoulders, to be laid up in this way is—really, I must say!"
This last remark was the sternest censure that Miss Phoebe was ever known to bestow upon the Orderings of Providence.
"Has Doctor Pottle attended to the doctor's arm this morning?"
This was the question Miss Vesta had been dreading. She pretended not to hear it; but it was repeated with incisive severity.
"You are getting a little hard of hearing, Vesta. I asked you, hasDoctor Strong's arm been attended to this morning?"
"Yes! oh, yes, Sister Phoebe, it has. And—it is healing finely, and so is his head. She says—I mean—"
"You meanhesays!" said Miss Phoebe, with a superior air. "This excitement is too much for you, Vesta. We shall have you breaking down next. I do not know that I care to hear precisely what Doctor Pottle says. In such an emergency as this we were forced to call him in, but I have a poor opinion of his skill, and none of his intelligence. If our dear Doctor Strong is doing well, that is all I need to know."
"Yes, Sister Phoebe," acquiesced Miss Vesta, with silent thanksgiving.
"When you next visit Doctor Strong's room," Miss Phoebe continued,—"I regret that you should be obliged to do so, my dear Vesta, but the disparity in your years is so great as to obviate any glaring impropriety, and besides, there seems to be no help for it,—when you next visit him, I beg you to give him my kindest—yes! I am convinced that there can be no—you may say my affectionate regards, Vesta. Tell him that I find myself distinctly better to-day, thanks, no doubt, to the remedies he has prescribed; and that I trust in a short time to be able to give my personal supervision to his recovery. You may point out to him that a period of seclusion and meditation, even when not unmixed with suffering, may often be productive of beneficial results, moral as well as physical; and in a mind like his—hark! what is that sound, Vesta?"
Miss Vesta listened. "I think—it is Doctor Strong," she said. "I think he is singing, Sister Phoebe. I cannot distinguish the words; very likely some hymn his mother taught him. Dear lad!"
"He has a beautiful spirit!" said Miss Phoebe; "there are less signs of active piety than I could wish, but he has a beautiful spirit. Yes, you are right, it is a hymn, Vesta."
Even if Miss Vesta had distinguished the words, it would have made little difference, since she did not understand Italian. For this is what the young doctor was singing:
"Voi che sapete che cosa e l'amor,Donne, vedete s'io l'ho nel cuor!"
The sisters listened; Miss Phoebe erect among her pillows, her nightcap tied in a rigid little bow under her chin; Miss Vesta sitting beside her, wistful and anxious, full of tender solicitude for sister, friend, niece,—in fact, for all her little world. But neither of them could tell the young doctor what he wanted to know.
* * * * *
It was near sunset when Vesta came again into the young doctor's room. He was sitting in the big armchair by the window. He was cross, and thought medicine a profession for dogs.
"I trust you have enjoyed your afternoon!" he said, morosely. Then he looked up at the radiant face and happy eyes, and told himself that he was a squid; cuttlefish was too good a name for him.
Vesta smiled and nodded, a little out of breath.
"I ran up-stairs!" she said. "I didn't think, and I just ran. I am well, Doctor Strong, do you realise it? Oh, it is so wonderful! It is worth it all, every bit, to feel the spring coming back. You told me it would, you know; I didn't believe you, and I hasten to do homage to your superior intelligence. Hail, Solomon! Yes, I have had a most delightful afternoon, and now you shall hear all about it."
She sat down, and took out the note-book. Geoffrey had been wondering all the afternoon what colour her eyes were, now that they had ceased to be dark agates. "I know now!" he said. "They are like Mary Donnelly's."
"'Her eyes like mountain waterWhere it's running o'er a rock.'"
"Whose eyes?" asked Vesta. "Not Luella Slocum's? I was just going to tell you about her."
"No, not hers. How is she? You must have had a sweet time there."
Vesta gave her head a backward shake—it was a pretty way she had—and laughed. "I am sure I did her good," she said. "She was so angry at my coming, so sure I didn't know anything, and so consumed with desire to know what and where and how long I had studied, and what my father was thinking of to allow me, and what my mother would have said if she had lived to see the day, and what my aunts would say as it was, that she actually forgot hertic, poor soul, and talked a great deal, and freed her mind. It's a great thing to free the mind. But she said I need not call again; and—I'm afraid I have got you into disgrace, too, for when I said that you would come as soon as you were able, she sniffed, and said she would let you know if she wanted you. I am sorry!"
"Are you?" said Geoffrey. "I am not. She will send for Pottle to-morrow, and he will suit her exactly. Where else did you go?"
Several cases were given in detail, and for a time the talk was sternly professional. Geoffrey found his questions answered clearly and directly, with no superfluous words; moreover, there seemed to be judgment and intelligence. Well, he always said that one woman in ten thousand might—
Coming to the last case in the book, Vesta's face lightened into laughter.
"Oh, those Binney children!" she said. "They were so funny and dear! I had a delightful time there. They were all much better,—Paul's fever entirely gone, and Ellie's throat hardly inflamed at all. They wanted to get up, but I didn't think they would better before to-morrow, so we played menagerie, and had a great time."
"Played menagerie?"
"Yes. I made a hollow square with the cribs and some chairs, and they were the lions, and I was the tamer. We played for an hour,—Mrs. Binney was tired, and I made her go and lie down,—and then I sang them to sleep, dear little lambs, and came away and left them."
"I see!" said Geoffrey. "That is what made you so late. Do you think it's exactly professional to play menagerie for an hour and a half with your patients?"
Vesta laughed; the happy sound of her laughter fretted his nerves.
"I suppose that is the way you will practise, when you have taken your degree!" he said, disagreeably.
The girl flushed, and the happy light left her eyes. "Don't talk of that!" she said. "I told you I had given it up once and for all."
"But you are well now; and—I am bound to say—you seem in many ways qualified for a physician. You might try again when you are entirely strong."
"And break down again? thank you. No; I have proved to myself that I cannot do it, and there is an end."
"Then—it's no business of mine, of course—what will you do?" asked Geoffrey. His ill-temper was dying out. The sound of her voice, so full, so even, so cordial, filled him like wine. He wanted her to go on talking; it did not matter much about what.
"What will you do?" he repeated, as the girl remained silent.
"Oh, I don't know! I suppose I shall just be a plain woman the rest of my life."
"I don't think plain is exactly the word!" said Geoffrey.
"You didn't think 'pretty' was!" said Vesta; and, with a flash of laughter, she was gone.
Geoffrey had not wanted her to go. He had been alone all the afternoon. (Ah, dear Miss Vesta! was it solitude, the patient hour you spent by his side, reading to him, chatting, trying your best to cheer the depression that you partly saw, partly divined? yes; for when an experiment in soul-chemistry is going on, it is one element, and one only, that can produce the needed result!) He had been alone, I say, all the afternoon, and his head ached, and there were shooting pains in his arm, and—he used to think it would be so interesting to break a bone, that one would learn so much better in that kind of way. Well, he was learning, learning no end; only you wanted some one to talk it over with. There was no fun in knowing things if there was no one to tell about them. And—anyhow, this bandage was getting quite dry, or it would be soon. There was the bowl of water on the stand beside him, but he could not change bandages with one hand. He heard Vesta stirring about in her room, the room next his. She was singing softly to herself; it didn't trouble her much that he was all alone, and suffering a good deal. She had a cold nature. Absurd for a person to be singing to chairs and tables, when other people—
He coughed; coughed again; sighed long and audibly. The soft singing stopped; was she—
No! it went on again. He knew the tune, but he could not hear the words. There was nothing so exasperating as not to be able to place a song.—
Crash! something shivered on the floor. Vesta came running, the song still on her lips. Her patient was flushed, and looked studiously out of the window.
"What is it? Oh, the bowl! I am so sorry! How did it happen?"
"It—fell down!" said Geoffrey.
Vesta was on her knees, picking up the pieces, sopping the spilt water with a towel. He regarded her with remorseful triumph.
"You were singing!" he said, at length.
"Was I? did I disturb you? I won't—"
"No! I don't mean that. I wanted to hear the words. I—I threw the bowl down on purpose."
Vesta looked up in utter amazement; meeting the young doctor's eyes, something in them brought the lovely colour flooding over her face and neck.
"That was childish!" she said, quietly, and went on picking up the pieces. "It was a valuable bowl."
"I am—feverish!" said Geoffrey. "This bandage is getting dry, and I am all prickles."
Vesta hesitated a moment; then she laid her hand on his forehead. "You havenofever!" she said. "You are flushed and restless, but—Doctor Strong, this is convalescence!"
"Is that what you call it?" said Geoffrey.
"Feelin' real smart, be ye?" asked Mr. Ithuriel Butters. "Wal, I'm pleased to hear it."
Mr. Butters sat in the young doctor's second armchair, and looked at him with friendly eyes. His broad back was turned to the window, but Geoffrey faced it, and the light showed his face pale, indeed, but full of returning health and life; his arm was still in a sling, but his movements otherwise were free and unrestrained.
"You're lookin' fust-rate," said Mr. Butters. "Some different from the last time I see ye."
"I wonder what would have become of me if you had not happened along just then, Mr. Butters," said Geoffrey. "I think I owe you a great deal more than you are willing to acknowledge."
"Nothin' at all; nothin' at all!" said the old man, briskly. "I h'isted ye up out the ro'd, that was all; I sh'd have had to h'ist jest the same if ye'd be'n a critter or a lawg, takin' up the hull ro'd the way ye did."
"And how about bringing me home, three miles out of your way, and carrying me up-stairs, and all that? I suppose you would have done all that for a critter, eh?"
"Wal—depends upon the value of the critter!" said Mr. Butters, with a twinkle. "I never kep' none of mine up-stairs, but there's no knowin' these days of fancy stock. No, young man! if there's anybody for you to thank, it's that young woman. Now there's a gal—what's her name? I didn't gather it that day."
"Vesta—Miss Vesta Blyth."
"I want to know! my fust wife's name was Vesty; Vesty Barlow she was; yes, sir. I do'no' but I liked her best of any of 'em. Not but what I've had good ones since, but 'twas different then, seems' though. She was the ch'ice of my youth, ye see. Yes, sir; Vesty is a good name, and that's a good gal, if I know anything about gals. She's no kin to you, she said."
"No; none whatever."
"Nor yet you ain't keepin' company with her?"
"No-o!" cried Geoffrey, wincing.
"Ain't you asked her?"
"No! please don't—"
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Butters, with ample severity.
Geoffrey tried to laugh, and failed. "I—I can't talk about these things, Mr. Butters."
"Don't you want her?" the old man went on, pitilessly. Geoffrey looked up angrily; looked up, and met a look so kind and true and simple, that his anger died, still-born.
"Yes!" he said. "God knows I do. But you are wholly mistaken in thinking—that is—she wouldn't have me."
"I expect she would!" said Ithuriel Butters. "I expect that is jest what she would have. I see her when you was layin' there, all stove up; you might have be'n barrel-staves, the way you looked. I see her face, and I don't need to see no more."
Geoffrey tried to say something about kindness and womanly pity, but the strong old voice bore him down.
"I know what pity looks like, and I know the other thing. She's no soft-heart to squinch at the sight of blood, and that sort of foolery. Tell ye, she was jest as quiet and cool as if 'twas a church sociable, and she set that bone as easy and chirk as my woman would take a pie out the oven; but when she had you all piecened up, and stood and looked at you—wal, there!"
"Don't! I cannot let you!" cried Geoffrey. His voice was full of distress; but was it the western sun that made his face so bright?
"Wal, there's all kinds of fools," said Mr. Butters. "Got the teethache?"
"Toothache? no! why?"
"Thought you hollered as if ye had. How would you go to work to cure the teethache now, s'posin' you had it?"
"I should go to a dentist, and let him cure it for me."
"S'posin' you lived ten mile from a dentist, young feller? you're too used to settin' in the middle of creation and jerkin' the reins for the hoss to go. Jonas E. Homer had the teethache once, bad."
He paused.
"Well," said the young doctor, "who was Jonas E. Homer, and how did he cure his toothache?"
"Jonas Elimelech was his full name," said Mr. Butters, settling himself comfortably in his chair. "He's neighbour to me, about five miles out on the Buffy Landin' ro'd. Yes, he had the teethache bad. Wife wanted him to go and have 'em hauled, but he said he wouldn't have no feller goin' fishin' inhismouth. No, sir! he went and he bored a hole in the northeast side of a beech-tree, and put in a hair of a yaller dawg, and then plugged up the hole with a pine plug. That was ten years ago, and he's never had the teethache sence. He told me that himself."
"It's a good story," said the young doctor. "Do you believe it, Mr.Butters?"
"Wal, I do'no' as I exactly believe it; I was sort of illustratin' the different kinds of fools there was in the world, that's all."
They were silent. The sun went down, but the light stayed in the young doctor's face.
* * * * *
There was a commotion in the room below. Voices were raised, feminine voices, shrill with excitement. Then came a bustle on the stairs, and the sound of feet; then one voice, breathless but decided.
"I tell ye, I know the way. There's no need to show me, and I won't have it. I haven't been up these stairs for near seventy years, Phoebe, since the day of your caudle-party, but I know the way as well as you do, and I'll thank you to stay where you are."
The next moment the door opened, and Mrs. Tree stood on the threshold, panting and triumphant. Her black eyes twinkled with affection and malice. "Well, young sir!" she said, as Geoffrey ran to give her his sound arm, and led her in, and placed her in the seat of honour. "Fine doings since I last saw you! Humph! you look pretty well, considering all. Who's this? Ithuriel Butters! How do you do, Ithuriel? I haven't seen you for forty years, but I should know you in the Fiji Islands."
"I should know you, too, anywhere, Mis' Tree!" responded Mr. Butters, heartily. "I'm rejoicin' glad to see ye."
"You wear well, Ithuriel," said Mrs. Tree, kindly. "If you would cut all that mess of hair and beard, you would be a good-looking man still; but I didn't come here to talk to you."
She turned to Geoffrey in some excitement. "I'll speak right out," she said. "Now's now, and next time's never. I've let the cat out of the bag. Phoebe has found out about little Vesta's setting your arm and all, and she's proper mad. Says she'll send the child home to-morrow for good and all. She's getting on her shoes this minute; I never could abide those morocco shoes. She'll be up here in no time. I thought I'd come up first and tell you."
She looked eagerly at the young doctor; but his eyes were fixed on the window, and he scarcely seemed to hear her. Following his gaze, she saw a white dress glimmering against the soft dusk of the garden shrubs.
The young doctor rose abruptly; took one step; paused, and turned to his guest of ninety years with a little passionate gesture of appeal "I—cannot leave you," he said; "unless—just one moment—"
"My goodness graciousme!" cried Mrs. Tree. "Go this minute, child;run, do you hear? I'll take care of Ithuriel Butters. He was in my Sunday-school class, though he's only five years younger than me. Take care and don't fall!"
The last words were uttered in a small shriek, for apparently there had been but one step to the staircase.
Breathless, the old woman turned and faced the old man. "Have you got any bumblebees in your pocket this time, Ithuriel?" she asked.
"No,'m," said Ithuriel, soberly. Then they both stared out of the window with eyes that strove to be as young as they were eager.
[Illustration: "Then he comes, full chisel!" cried Ithuriel Butters.]
"There he comes, full chisel!" cried Ithuriel Butters. "She don't see him. He's hollerin' to her. She's turned round. I tell ye—he's grabbed holt of her hand! he's grabbed holt of both her hands! he's—"
Who says that heroism dies with youth? Marcia Tree raised her little mitted hand, and pulled down the blind.
"It's no business of yours or mine what he's doing, Ithuriel Butters!" she said, with dignity.
Then she began to tremble. "Seventy years ago," she said, "Ira Tree proposed to me in that very garden, under that very syringa-tree. I've been a widow fifty years, Ithuriel, and it seems like yesterday." And a dry sob clicked in her throat.
"I've buried two good wives," said Mr. Butters, "and my present one seems to be failin' up some. I hope she'll live now, I reelly do."
* * * * *
"Vesta!" Miss Phoebe's voice rang sharp and shrill through the house. Miss Vesta started. She was at her evening post in the upper hall. The lamp was lighted, the prayer had been said.
"Dear Lord, I beseech thee, protect all souls at sea this night; forJesus Christ's sake. Amen!"
But Miss Vesta was not watching the sea this time. Her eyes, too, were bent down upon the twilight garden. The lamplight fell softly there, and threw into relief the two figures pacing up and down, hand in hand, heart in heart. Miss Vesta could not hear, and would not if she could have heard, the words her children were saying; her heart was lifted as high as heaven, in peace and joy and thankfulness, and the words that sounded in her ear were spoken by a voice long silent in death.
"Vesta!"
Miss Phoebe's voice rang sharp and shrill through the silent house.Instinct and habit answered the call at once. "Yes, Sister Phoebe!"
"Stay where you are! I am coming to you. I have discovered—"
The figures below paused full in the lamplight. Two faces shone out, one all on fire with joy and wonder, the other sweet and white as the white flower at her breast.
Miss Phoebe's morocco shoes creaked around the corner of the passage.
"Good Lord, forgive me, and save all souls at sea just the same!" saidMiss Vesta; and she blew out the lamp.