Part 12 (2/2)

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. b.u.t.ters, ”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. b.u.t.ters, 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 b.u.t.ters. ”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--_what_ is all this?”

There was a soft flurry, and Miss Vesta was beside him. ”Oh! my dear--my dear young friend! thank G.o.d, 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.

<script>