"I am all right," she said, with a faint smile. "Was he hurt?"
"Don't talk now," said the Doctor, quietly. "Thank God, you are not hurt much."
Keith was sitting in his office in New Leeds alone that afternoon. He had just received a telegram from Dave Dennison that Wickersham had left New York. Dennison had learned that he was going to Ridgely to try to make up with old Rawson. Just then the paper from Ridgely was brought in. Keith's eye fell on the head-lines of the first column, and he almost fell from his chair as he read the words:
DOUBLE TRAGEDY--FATAL SHOOTINGF.C. WICKERSHAM SHOOTS MISS LOIS HUNTINGTON ANDIS KILLED BY SQUIRE RAWSON
DOUBLE TRAGEDY--FATAL SHOOTINGF.C. WICKERSHAM SHOOTS MISS LOIS HUNTINGTON ANDIS KILLED BY SQUIRE RAWSON
The account of the shooting was in accordance with the heading, and was followed by the story of the Wickersham-Rawson trouble.
Keith snatched out his watch, and the next second was dashing down the street on his way to the station. A train was to start for the east in five minutes. He caught it as it ran out of the station, and swung himself up to the rear platform.
Curiously enough, in his confused thoughts of Lois Huntington and what she had meant to him was mingled the constant recollection of old Tim Gilsey and his lumbering stage running through the pass.
It was late in the evening when he reached Ridgely; but he hastened at once to Dr. Balsam's office. The moon was shining, and it brought back to him the evenings on the verandah at Gates's so long ago. But it seemed to him that it was Lois Huntington who had been there among the pillows; that it was Lois Huntington who had always been there in his memory. He wondered if she would be as she was then, as she lay dead. And once or twice he wondered if he could be losing his wits; then he gripped himself and cleared his mind.
In ten minutes he was in Dr. Balsam's office. The Doctor greeted him with more coldness than he had ever shown him. Keith felt his suspicion.
"Where is Lois--Miss Lois Huntington? Is she--?" He could not frame the question.
"She is doing very well."
Keith's heart gave a bound of hope. The blood surged back and forth in his veins. Life seemed to revive for him.
"Is she alive? Will she live?" he faltered.
"Yes. Who says she will not?" demanded the Doctor, testily.
"The paper--the despatch."
"No thanks to you that she does!" He faced Keith, and suddenly flamed out: "I want to tell you that I think you have acted like a damned rascal!"
Keith's jaw dropped, and he actually staggered with amazement. "What! What do you mean? I do not understand!"
"You are not a bit better than that dog that you turned her over to, who got his deserts yesterday."
"But I do not understand!" gasped Keith, white and hot.
"Then I will tell you. You led that innocent girl to believe that you were in love with her, and then when she was fool enough to believe you and let herself become--interested, you left her to run, like a little puppy, after a rich woman."
"Where did you hear this?" asked Keith, still amazed, but recovering himself. "What have you heard? Who told you?"
"Not from her." He was blazing with wrath.
"No; but from whom?"
"Never mind. From some one who knew the facts. It is the truth."
"But it is not the truth. I have been in love with Lois Huntington since I first met her."
"Then why in the name of heaven did you treat her so?"
"How? I did not tell her so because I heard she was in love with some one else--and engaged to him. God knows I have suffered enough over it. I would die for her." His expression left no room for doubt as to his sincerity.
The old man's face gradually relaxed, and presently something that was almost a smile came into his eyes. He held out his hand.
"I owe you an apology. You are a d----d fool!"
"Can I see her?" asked Keith.
"I don't know that you can see anything. But I could, if I were in your place. She is on the side verandah at my hospital--where Gates's tavern stood. She is not much hurt, though it was a close thing. The ball struck a button and glanced around. She is sitting up. I shall bring her home as soon as she can be moved."
Keith paused and reflected a moment, then held out his hand.
"Doctor, if I win her will you make our house your home?"
The old man's face softened, and he held out his hand again.
"You will have to come and see me sometimes."
Five minutes later Keith turned up the walk that led to the side verandah of the building that Dr. Balsam had put up for his sanatorium on the site of Gates's hotel. The moon was slowly sinking toward the western mountain-tops, flooding with soft light the valley below, and touching to silver the fleecy clouds that, shepherded by the gentle wind, wreathed the highest peaks beyond. How well Keith remembered it all: the old house with its long verandah; the moonlight flooding it; the white figure reclining there; and the boy that talked of his ideal of loveliness and love. She was there now; it seemed to him that she had been there always, and the rest was merely a dream. He walked up on the turf, but strode rapidly. He could not wait. As he mounted the steps, he took off his hat.
"Good evening." He spoke as if she must expect him.
She had not heard him before. She was reclining among pillows, and her face was turned toward the western sky. Her black dress gave him a pang. He had never thought of her in black, except as a little girl. And such she almost seemed to him now.
She turned toward him and gave a gasp.
"Mr. Keith!"
"Lois--I have come--" he began, and stopped.
She held out her hand and tried to sit up. Keith took her hand softly, as if it were a rose, and closing his firmly over it, fell on one knee beside her chair.
"Don't try to sit up," he said gently. "I went to Brookford as soon as I heard of it--" he began, and then placed his other hand on hers, covering it with his firm grasp.
"I thought you would," she said simply.
Keith lifted her hand and held it against his cheek. He was silent a moment. What should he say to her? Not only all other women, but all the rest of the world, had disappeared.
"I have come, and I shall not go away again until you go with me."
For answer she hid her face and began to cry softly. Keith knelt with her hand to his lips, murmuring his love.
"I am so glad you have come. I don't know what to do," she said presently.
"You do not have to know. I know. It is decided. I love you--I have always loved you. And no one shall ever come between us. You are mine--mine only." He went on pouring out his soul to her.
"Lois--I have come"--he began
"My old Doctor--?" she began presently, and looked up at him with eyes "like stars half-quenched in mists of silver dew."
"He agrees. We will make him live with us."
"Your father-?"
"Him, too. You shall be their daughter."
She gave him her hands.
"Well, on that condition."
The first person Keith sought to tell of his new happiness was his father. The old gentleman was sitting on the porch at Elphinstone in the sun, enjoying the physical sensation of warmth that means so much to extreme youth and extreme age. He held a copy of Virgil in his hand, but he was not reading; he was repeating passages of it by heart. They related to the quiet life. His son heard him saying softly:
"'O Fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint,Agricolas!'"
His mind was possibly far back in the past.
His placid face lit up with the smile that always shone there when his son appeared.
"Well, what's the news?" he asked. "I know it must be good."
"It is," smiled Keith. "I am engaged to be married."
The old gentleman's book fell to the floor.
"You don't say so! Ah, that's very good! Very good! I am glad of that; every young man ought to marry. There is no happiness like it in this world, whatever there may be in the next.
"'Interea dulces pendent circum oscula nati.'
"I will come and see you," he smiled.
"Come and see me!"
"But I am not very much at home in New York," he pursued rather wistfully; "it is too noisy for me. I am too old-fashioned for it."
"New York? But I'm not going to live in New York!"
A slight shadow swept over the General's face.
"Well, you must live where she will be happiest," he said thoughtfully. "A gentleman owes that to his wife.--Do you think she will be willing to live elsewhere?"
"Who do you think it is, sir!"
"Mrs. Lancaster, isn't it?"
"Why, no; it is Lois Huntington. I am engaged to her. She has promised to marry me."
"To her!--to Lois Huntington--my little girl!" The old gentleman rose to his feet, his face alight with absolute joy. "That is something like it! Where is she? When is it to be? I will come and live with you."
"Of course, you must. It is on that condition that she agrees to marry me," said Keith, smiling with new happiness at his pleasure.
"'In her tongue is the law of kindness,'" quoted the old gentleman. "God bless you both. 'Her price is far above rubies.'" And after a pause he added gently: "I hope your mother knows of this. I think she must: she seems so close to me to-day."