Frances gave a great cry and sank on her knees beside it.
"Great God!" cried the doctor as he pushed her roughly aside, for there,
on Susan's bed, with closed eyes and no signs of life showing in his
face, lay Edward Montague. The doctor ran his hand under the covers over
the man's heart.
"He's libin'!" declared Susan, "he's been moanin' once or twice!"
"He's in a swoon. Bring me my medicine case! Give me a spoon! Chafe his
hands and wrists!" The doctor worked anxiously; there was a faint
flicker in the pulse, a slow beating of the heart. "Come away!" he
commanded as they went over to the window. "Where did you find him?"
asked the doctor.
"Down dyar!" Susan pointed down the valley with shaking fingers, "ebery
day o' my life Ise used to comin' out an' lookin' up an' down an' ober
to the hills, an' thinkin' 'bout de Bible an' de hills dat gib strength.
Dis mornin'--" Frances made an impatient movement, but the doctor
quieted her. He knew Susan must tell her story her own way.
"It sho' was a sight! Dis mornin' de meader was jes' as wet, an' de
grass was all flat where de watah done run off it, an' de crows was
flyin' an' callin' up in de sky. I kep' goin' to de do' an' lookin' an'
lookin', an' by an' by I sees sumpin' down by dat little fringe o'
trees, an' I knows, jes' lak dat, dat 'twas a man. I says to Bill--he 's
been hobblin' roun' right smart lately--'Bill, yuh come 'long, dyar's a
man down dyar.' An' when we got dyar we seed 'twas Marse Edward, an'
dat's all."
"How did you get him here?"
"Oh, we got him up, eben if he is right sizable." Susan had little to
say of her own feat, and of Bill's.
"I pulls off his clothes and gets him into bed wid a hot brick to his
feet, an' den I runs out to de road an' de firs' pusson I sees I sends
to Mr. Frazier's."
The doctor had been holding the whispered talk near the little window.
He had done all he could, and while he waited he made Susan tell the
tale, for the sake of the girl who leaned against the cabin side, that
stricken look yet in her face.
"Why did you send for her?" he asked sternly.
"La! Who I gwine git to help me if 'tain't Miss Frances?"
"Why didn't you send for her father?"
"Ain't I been libin' in his house all dese years," whispered Susan back
indignantly, "an' don't I know he's nebber to be 'sturbed when he's at
his work. He's down at de hall now!"
The doctor went back to the bedside. He motioned Susan and bent to his
work again.
By and by the inert figure stirred; there was a faint flush of color in
the white face; the doctor put a spoon to his lips, again and again. The
young man opened his eyes, looked at him without a glimpse of
recognition, turned a little on his side, and fell asleep.
"He's dry--quite?" the doctor whispered to Susan.
"I stripped off ebery rag he had. He's got on Bill's shut now."
A smile twitched the doctor's mouth, but he went on gravely enough. "Is
the brick hot?"
"'Tis de third one I done put in dyar!"
"Keep the fire going all you can!" to Bill. Bill before the fire piled
log after log with utmost quiet. The doctor pushed a flag chair
noiselessly towards Frances; Susan, used to long waiting, drooped by the
footboard; the doctor walked to and fro with noiseless footsteps from
bed to window. Out there, the narrow valley was flooded with sunshine,
the stream running full and red with the clay of the fields it had
ravaged; in here lay the victim of the flood. He took out his watch,
slipped it back again, looked long out of the little window towards the
distant purple peaks, went back to the bedside, looked, leaned
over,--turned, his face beaming.
"Perspiration!" he whispered, as he touched the edges of the young man's
forehead.
"You mean--" gasped Frances.
"He's all right, for the present, if he doesn't have pneumonia. My dear
child!" for Frances went white to the lips.
"No!" she steadied herself, "I'm not going to faint! Thank God!"
The doctor laid his hand on her shoulder gently, "I shall send for your
father at once, and when he comes you must go."
"Why should I?" she flashed. "He needs--"
"Nothing that we cannot do!" And he listened to no argument. He scarcely
allowed the professor to stay long enough to let slip from his lips the
joy that brimmed his heart, but with significant look at his daughter
sent them homewards at once.
It was dusk then, and they went quietly both with joy in their hearts,
and both with memory, likewise. The father, all the deep waters of his
life stirred by the despair and the gratitude held so closely together,
saw, as in a vision, the love of his life who had driven along this way
so often by his side, and sent his whole heart out to the memory of her.
His daughter saw first a pleading, earnest face, and then the white
unconscious one; listened to earnest words, that pleaded more strongly
now the speaker's lips were closed, remembered all the thoughtfulness
and kindliness in which she had read only friendliness, and in which she
read now deep, strong love, a love that placed her own happiness above
all else. To each their vision, sweet and bitter, bitter and sweet.