Part 9 (1/2)
I'll go to her. She's in her room, I suppose,” and before they could restrain him, he had thrown off their impeding embraces and darted across the hall.
The two old people stared doubtfully at each other. For even this powerful ally, whose strength, however, they were by no means sure of, might succ.u.mb before the determined Josephine! Prudence demanded a middle course. ”Ain't they brother and sister?” said the old man, with an air of virtuous toleration. ”Let 'em fight it out.”
The young man impatiently entered the room he remembered to have been his sister's. By the light of the moon that streamed upon the window he could see she was not there. He pa.s.sed hurriedly to the door of her bedroom; it was open; the room was empty, the bed unturned. She was not in the house--she had gone to the mill. Ah! What was that they had said?
An infamous thought pa.s.sed through the scoundrel's mind. Then, in what he half believed was an access of virtuous fury, he began by the dim light to rummage in the drawers of the desk for such loose coin or valuables as, in the perfect security of the ranch, were often left unguarded. Suddenly he heard a heavy footstep on the threshold, and turned.
An awful vision--a recollection, so unexpected, so ghostlike in that weird light that he thought he was losing his senses--stood before him.
It moved forwards with staring eyeb.a.l.l.s and white and open lips from which a horrible inarticulate sound issued that was the speech of no living man! With a single desperate, almost superhuman effort Stephen Forsyth bounded aside, leaped from the window, and ran like a madman from the house. Then the apparition trembled, collapsed, and sank in an undistinguishable heap to the ground.
When Josephine Forsyth returned an hour later with her mill foreman, she was startled to find her helpless patient in a fit on the floor of her room. With the a.s.sistance of her now converted and penitent employee, she had the unfortunate man conveyed to his room--but not until she had thoughtfully rearranged the disorder of her desk and closed the open drawers without attracting d.i.c.k s.h.i.+pley's attention. In the morning, hearing that the patient was still in the semiconscious exhaustion of his late attack, but without seeing him, she sent for Dr. d.u.c.h.esne. The doctor arrived while she was absent at the mill, where, after a careful examination of his patient, he sought her with some little excitement.
”Well?” she said, with eager gravity.
”Well, it looks as if your wish would be gratified. Your friend has had an epileptic fit, but the physical shock has started his mental machinery again. He has recovered his faculties; his memory is returning: he thinks and speaks coherently; he is as sane as you and I.”
”And”--said Josephine, questioning the doctor's knitted eyebrows.
”I am not yet sure whether it was the result of some shock he doesn't remember; or an irritation of the brain, which would indicate that the operation had not been successful and that there was still some physical pressure or obstruction there--in which case he would be subject to these attacks all his life.”
”Do you think his reason came before the fit or after?” asked the girl, anxiously.
”I couldn't say. Had anything happened?”
”I was away, and found him on the floor on my return,” she answered, half uneasily. After a pause she said, ”Then he has told you his name and all about himself?”
”Yes, it's nothing at all! He was a stranger just arrived from the States, going to the mines--the old story; had no near relations, of course; wasn't missed or asked after; remembers walking along the ridge and falling over; name, John Baxter, of Maine.” He paused, and relaxing into a slight smile, added, ”I haven't spoiled your romance, have I?”
”No,” she said, with an answering smile. Then as the doctor walked briskly away she slightly knitted her pretty brows, hung her head, patted the ground with her little foot beyond the hem of her gown, and said to herself, ”The man was lying to him.”
CHAPTER III
On her return to the house, Josephine apparently contented herself with receiving the bulletin of the stranger's condition from the servant, for she did not enter his room. She had obtained no theory of last night's incident from her parents, who, beyond a querulous agitation that was quickened by the news of his return to reason, refrained from even that insidious comment which she half feared would follow. When another day pa.s.sed without her seeing him, she nevertheless was conscious of a little embarra.s.sment when his attendant brought her the request that she would give him a moment's speech in the porch, whither he had been removed.
She found him physically weaker; indeed, so much so that she was fain, even in her embarra.s.sment, to a.s.sist him back to the bench from which he had ceremoniously risen. But she was so struck with the change in his face and manner, a change so virile and masterful, in spite of its gentle sadness of manner, that she recoiled with a slight timidity as if he had been a stranger, although she was also conscious that he seemed to be more at his ease than she was. He began in a low exhausted voice, but before he had finished his first sentence, she felt herself in the presence of a superior.
”My thanks come very late, Miss Forsyth,” he said, with a faint smile, ”but no one knows better than yourself the reason why, or can better understand that they mean that the burden you have so generously taken on yourself is about to be lifted. I know all, Miss Forsyth. Since yesterday I have learned how much I owe you, even my life I believe, though I am afraid I must tell you in the same breath that THAT is of little worth to any one. You have kindly helped and interested yourself in a poor stranger who turns out to be a n.o.body, without friends, without romance, and without even mystery. You found me lying in the road down yonder, after a stupid accident that might have happened to any other careless tramp, and which scarcely gave me a claim to a bed in the county hospital, much less under this kindly roof. It was not my fault, as you know, that all this did not come out sooner; but while it doesn't lessen your generosity, it doesn't lessen my debt, and although I cannot hope to ever repay you, I can at least keep the score from running on. Pardon my speaking so bluntly, but my excuse for speaking at all was to say 'Good-by' and 'G.o.d bless you.' Dr. d.u.c.h.esne has promised to give me a lift on my way in his buggy when he goes.”
There was a slight touch of consciousness in his voice in spite of its sadness, which struck the young girl as a weak and even ungentlemanly note in his otherwise self-abnegating and undemonstrative att.i.tude. If he was a common tramp, he wouldn't talk in that way, and if he wasn't, why did he lie? Her practical good sense here a.s.serted itself.
”But you are far from strong yet; in fact, the doctor says you might have a relapse at any moment, and you have--that is, you SEEM to have no money,” she said gravely.
”That's true,” he said, quickly. ”I remember I was quite played out when I entered the settlement, and I think I had parted from even some little trifles I carried with me. I am afraid I was a poor find to those who picked me up, and you ought to have taken warning. But the doctor has offered to lend me enough to take me to San Francisco, if only to give a fair trial to the machine he has set once more a-going.”
”Then you have friends in San Francisco?” said the young girl quickly.
”Those who know you? Why not write to them first, and tell them you are here?”
”I don't think your postmaster here would be preoccupied with letters for John Baxter, if I did,” he said, quietly. ”But here is the doctor waiting. Good-by.”
He stood looking at her in a peculiar, yet half-resigned way, and held out his hand. For a moment she hesitated. Had he been less independent and strong, she would have refused to let him go--have offered him some slight employment at the ranch; for oddly enough, in spite of the suspicion that he was concealing something, she felt that she would have trusted him, and he would have been a help to her. But he was not only determined, but SHE was all the time conscious that he was a totally different man from the one she had taken care of, and merely ordinary prudence demanded that she should know something more of him first. She gave him her hand constrainedly; he pressed it warmly.