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Keith's eyes fell on Dave Dennison, where he stood on the outer edge of
the crowd. His face was sphinx-like; but his bosom heaved twice, and
Keith knew that two men waited to meet Wickersham.

As the crowd melted away, whispering among themselves, Keith crossed
over and laid a rose on General Huntington's grave.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE CONSULTATION

Keith had been making up his mind for some time to go to Brookford. New
York had changed utterly for him since Lois left. The whole world seemed
to have changed. The day after he reached New York, Keith received a
letter from Miss Brooke. She wrote that her niece was ill and had asked
her to write and request him to see Mrs. Lancaster, who would explain
something to him. She did not say what it was. She added that she wished
she had never heard of New York. It was a cry of anguish.

Keith's heart sank like lead. For the first time in his life he had a
presentiment. Lois Huntington would die, and he would never see her
again. Despair took hold of him. Keith could stand it no longer. He went
to Brookford.

The Lawns was one of those old-fashioned country places, a few miles
outside of the town, such as our people of means used to have a few
generations ago, before they had lost the landholding instinct of their
English ancestors and gained the herding proclivity of modern life. The
extensive yard and grounds were filled with shrubbery--lilacs,
rose-bushes, and evergreens--and shaded by fine old trees, among which
the birds were singing as Keith drove up the curving road, and over all
was an air of quietude and peace which filled his heart with tenderness.

"This is the bower she came from," he thought to himself, gazing around.
"Here is the country garden where the rose grew."

Miss Brooke was unfeignedly surprised to see Keith.

She greeted him most civilly. Lois had long since explained everything
to her, and she made Keith a more than ample apology for her letter.
"But you must admit," she said, "that your actions were very
suspicious.--When a New York man is handing dancing-women to their
carriages!" A gesture and nod completed the sentence.

"But I am not a New York man," said Keith.

"Oh, you are getting to be a very fair counterfeit," said the old lady,
half grimly.

Lois was very ill. She had been under a great strain in New York, and
had finally broken down.

Among other items of interest that Keith gleaned was that Dr. Locaman,
the resident physician at Brookford, was a suitor of Lois. Keith asked
leave to send for a friend who was a man of large experience and a
capital doctor.

"Well, I should be glad to have him sent for. These men here are
dividing her up into separate pieces, and meantime she is going down the
hill every day. Send for any one who will treat her as a whole human
being and get her well."

So Keith telegraphed that day for Dr. Balsam, saying that he wanted him
badly, and would be under lasting obligations if he would come to
Brookford at once.

Brookford! The name called up many associations to the old physician. It
was from Brookford that that young girl with her brown eyes and dark
hair had walked into his life so long ago. It was from Brookford that
the decree had come that had doomed him to a life of loneliness and
exile. A desire seized him to see the place. Abby Brooke had been living
a few years before. She might be living now.

As the Doctor descended from the cars, he was met by Keith, who told him
that the patient was the daughter of General Huntington--the little girl
he had known so long ago.

"I thought, perhaps, it was your widow," said the Doctor.

A little dash of color stole into Keith's grave face, then flickered
out.

"No." He changed the subject, and went on to say that the other
physicians had arranged to meet him at the house. Then he gave him a
little history of the case.

"You are very much interested in her?"

"I have known her a long time, you see. Yes. Her aunt is a friend of
mine."

"He is in love with her," said the old man to himself. "She has cut the
widow out."

As they entered the hall, Miss Abby came out of a room. She looked worn
and ill.

"Ah!" said Keith. "Here she is." He turned to present the Doctor, but
stopped with his lips half opened. The two stood fronting each, other,
their amazed eyes on each other's faces, as it were across the space of
a whole generation.

"Theophilus!"

"Abby!"

This was all. The next moment they were shaking hands as if they had
parted the week before instead of thirty-odd years ago. "I told you I
would come if you ever needed me," said the Doctor. "I have come."

"And I never needed you more, and I have needed you often. It was good
in you to come--for my little girl." Her voice suddenly broke, and she
turned away, her handkerchief at her eyes.

The Doctor's expression settled into one of deep concern. "There--there.
Don't distress yourself. We must reserve our powers. We may need them.
Now, if you will show me to my room for a moment, I would like to get
myself ready before going in to see your little girl."

Just as the Doctor reappeared, the other doctors came out of the
sick-room, the local physician, a simple young man, following the city
specialist with mingled pride and awe. The latter was a silent,
self-reliant man with a keen eye, thin lips, and a dry, business manner.
They were presented to the Doctor as Dr. Memberly and Dr. Locaman, and
looked him over. There was a certain change of manner in each of them:
the younger man, after a glance, increased perceptibly his show of
respect toward the city man; the latter treated the Doctor with
civility, but talked in an ex-cathedra way. He understood the case and
had no question as to its treatment. As for Dr. Balsam, his manner was
the same to both, and had not changed a particle. He said not a word
except to ask questions as to symptoms and the treatment that had been
followed. The Doctor's face changed during the recital, and when it was
ended his expression was one of deep thoughtfulness.

The consultation ended, they all went into the sick-room, Dr. Memberly,
the specialist, first, the young doctor next, and Dr. Balsam last. Dr.
Memberly addressed the nurse, and Dr. Locaman followed him like his
shadow, enforcing his words and copying insensibly his manner. Dr.
Balsam walked over to the bedside, and leaning over, took the patient's
thin, wan hand.

"My dear, I am Dr. Balsam. Do you remember me?"

She glanced at him, at first languidly, then with more interest, and
then, as recollection returned to her, with a faint smile.

"Now we must get well."

Again she smiled faintly.

The Doctor drew up a chair, and, without speaking further, began to
stroke her hand, his eyes resting on her face.

One who had seen the old physician before he entered that house could
scarcely have known him as the same man who sat by the bed holding the
hand of the wan figure lying so placid before him. At a distance he
appeared a plain countryman; on nearer view his eyes and mouth and set
chin gave him a look of unexpected determination. When he entered a
sick-room he was like a king coming to his own. He took command and
fought disease as an arch-enemy. So now.

Dr. Memberly came to the bedside and began to talk in a low,
professional tone. Lois shut her eyes, but her fingers closed slightly
on Dr. Balsam's hand.

"The medicine appears to have quieted her somewhat. I have directed the
nurse to continue it," observed Dr. Memberly.

"Quite so. By all means continue it," assented Dr. Locaman. "She is
decidedly quieter."

Dr. Balsam's head inclined just enough to show that he heard him, and he
went on stroking her hand.

"Is there anything you would suggest further than has already been
done?" inquired the city physician of Dr. Balsam.

"No. I think not."

"I must catch the 4:30 train," said the former to the younger man.
"Doctor, will you drive me down to the station?"

"Yes, certainly. With pleasure."

"Doctor, you say you are going away to-night?" This from the city
physician to Dr. Balsam.

"No, sir; I shall stay for a day or two." The fingers of the sleeper
quite closed on his hand. "I have several old friends here. In fact,
this little girl is one of them, and I want to get her up."

The look of the other changed, and he cleared his throat with a dry,
metallic cough.

"You may rest satisfied that everything has been done for the patient
that science can do," he said stiffly.

"I think so. We won't rest till we get the little girl up," said the
older doctor. "Now we will take off our coats and work."

Once more the fingers of the sleeper almost clutched his.

When the door closed, Lois turned her head and opened her eyes, and when
the wheels were heard driving away she looked at the Doctor with a wan
little smile, which he answered with a twinkle.

"When did you come?" she asked faintly. It was the first sign of
interest she had shown in anything for days.

"A young friend of mine, Gordon Keith, told me you were sick, and asked
me to come, and I have just arrived. He brought me up." He watched the
change in her face.

"I am so much obliged to you. Where is he now?"

"He is here. Now we must get well," he said encouragingly. "And to do
that we must get a little sleep."

"Very well. You are going to stay with me?"

"Yes."

"Thank you"; and she closed her eyes tranquilly and, after a little,
fell into a doze.

When the Doctor came out of the sick-room he had done what the other
physicians had not done and could not do. He had fathomed the case, and,
understanding the cause, he was able to prescribe the cure.

"With the help of God we will get your little girl well," he said to
Miss Abby.

"I begin to hope, and I had begun to despair," she said. "It was good of
you to come."

"I am glad I came, and I will come whenever you want me, Abby," replied
the old Doctor, simply.

From this time, as he promised, so he performed. He took off his coat,
and using the means which the city specialist had suggested, he studied
his patient's case and applied all his powers to the struggle.

The great city doctor recorded the case among his cures; but in his
treatment he did not reckon the sleepless hours that that country doctor
had sat by the patient's bedside, the unremitting struggle he had made,
holding Death at bay, inspiring hope, and holding desperately every
inch gained.

When the Doctor saw Keith he held out his hand to him. "I am glad you
sent for me."

"How is she, Doctor? Will she get well?"

"I trust so. She has been under some strain. It is almost as if she had
had a shock."

Keith's mind sprang back to that evening in the Park, and he cursed
Wickersham in his heart.

"Possibly she has had some strain on her emotions?"

Keith did not know.

"I understand that there is a young man here who has been in love with
her for some time, and her aunt thinks she returned the sentiment."

Keith did not know. But the Doctor's words were like a dagger in his
heart.

Keith went back to work; but he seemed to himself to live in darkness.
As soon as a gleam of light appeared, it was suddenly quenched. Love was
not for him.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE MISTRESS OF THE LAWNS

Strange to say, the episode in which Keith had figured as the reliever
of Norman Wentworth's embarrassment had a very different effect upon
those among whom he had moved, from what he had expected. Keith's part
in the transaction was well known.

His part, too, in the Wickersham matter was understood by his
acquaintances. Wickersham had as good as absconded, some said; and there
were many to tell how long they had prophesied this very thing, and how
well they had known his villany. Mrs. Nailor was particularly
vindictive. She had recently put some money in his mining scheme, and
she could have hanged him. She did the next thing: she damned him. She
even extended her rage to old Mrs. Wickersham, who, poor lady, had lost
her home and everything she had in the world through Ferdy.

The Norman-Wentworths, who had moved out of the splendid residence that
Mrs. Norman's extravagance had formerly demanded, into the old house on
Washington Square, which was still occupied by old Mrs. Wentworth, were,
if anything, drawn closer than ever to their real friends; but they were
distinctly deposed from the position which Mrs. Wentworth had formerly
occupied in the gay set, who to her had hitherto been New York. They
were far happier than they had ever been. A new light had come into
Norman's face, and a softness began to dawn in hers which Keith had
never seen there before. Around them, too, began to gather friends whom
Keith had never known of, who had the charm that breeding and kindness
give, and opened his eyes to a life there of which he had hitherto
hardly dreamed. Keith, however, to his surprise, when he was in New
York, found himself more sought after by his former acquaintances than
ever before. The cause was a simple one. He was believed to be very
rich. He must have made a large fortune. The mystery in which it was
involved but added to its magnitude. No man but one of immense wealth
could have done what Keith did the day he stopped the run on Wentworth &
Son. Any other supposition was incredible. Moreover, it was now plain
that in a little while he would marry Mrs. Lancaster, and then he would
be one of the wealthiest men in New York. He was undoubtedly a coming
man. Men who, a short time ago, would not have wasted a moment's thought
on him, now greeted him with cordiality and spoke of him with respect;
women who, a year or two before, would not have seen him in a ball-room,
now smiled to him on the street, invited him among their "best
companies," and treated him with distinguished favor. Mrs. Nailor
actually pursued him. Even Mr. Kestrel, pale, thin-lipped, and frosty as
ever in appearance, thawed into something like cordiality when he met
him, and held out an icy hand as with a wintry smile he congratulated
him on his success.

"Well, we Yankees used to think we had the monopoly of business ability,
but we shall have to admit that some of you young fellows at the South
know your business. You have done what cost the Wickershams some
millions. If you want any help at any time, come in and talk to me. We
had a little difference once; but I don't let a little thing like that
stand in the way with a friend."

Keith felt his jaws lock as he thought of the same man on the other side
of a long table sneering at him.

"Thank you," said he. "My success has been greatly exaggerated. You'd
better not count too much on it."

Keith knew that he was considered rich, and it disturbed him. For the
first time in his life he felt that he was sailing under false colors.

Often the fair face, handsome figure, and cordial, friendly air of Alice
Lancaster came to him; not so often, it is true, as another, a younger
and gentler face, but still often enough. He admired her greatly. He
trusted her. Why should he not try his fortune there, and be happy?
Alice Lancaster was good enough for him. Yes, that was the trouble. She
was far too good for him if he addressed her without loving her utterly.
Other reasons, too, suggested themselves. He began to find himself
fitting more and more into the city life. He had the chance possibly to
become rich, richer than ever, and with it to secure a charming
companion. Why should he not avail himself of it? Amid the glitter and
gayety of his surroundings in the city, this temptation grew stronger
and stronger. Miss Abby's sharp speech recurred to him. He was becoming
"a fair counterfeit" of the men he had once despised. Then came a new
form of temptation. What power this wealth would give him! How much good
he could accomplish with it!

When the temptation grew too overpowering he left his office and went
down into the country. It always did him good to go there. To be there
was like a plunge in a cool, limpid pool. He had been so long in the
turmoil and strife of the struggle for success--for wealth; had been so
wholly surrounded by those who strove as he strove, tearing and
trampling and rending those who were in their way, that he had almost
lost sight of the life that lay outside of the dust and din of that
arena. He had almost forgotten that life held other rewards than riches.
He had forgotten the calm and tranquil region that stretched beyond the
moil and anguish of the strife for gain.

Here his father walked with him again, calm, serene, and elevated, his
thoughts high above all commercial matters, ranging the fields of lofty
speculation with statesmen, philosophers, and poets, holding up to his
gaze again lofty ideals; practising, without a thought of reward, the
very gospel of universal gentleness and kindness.

There his mother, too, moved in spirit once more beside him with her
angelic smile, breathing the purity of heaven. How far away it seemed
from that world in which he had been living!--as far as they were from
the worldlings who made it.

Curiously, when he was in New York he found himself under the allurement
of Alice Lancaster. When he was in the country he found that he was in
love with Lois Huntington.

It was this that mystified him and worried him. He believed--that is, he
almost believed--that Alice Lancaster would marry him. His friends
thought that she would. Several of them had told him so. Many of them
acted on this belief. And this had something to do with his retirement.
As much as he liked Alice Lancaster, as clearly as he felt how but for
one fact it would have suited that they should marry, one fact changed
everything: he was not in love with her.

He was in love with a young girl who had never given him a thought
except as a sort of hereditary friend. Turning from one door at which
the light of happiness had shone, he had found himself caught at another
from which a radiance shone that dimmed all other lights. Yet it was
fast shut. At length he determined to cut the knot. He would put his
fate to the test.

Two days after he formed this resolve he walked into the hotel at
Brookford and registered. As he turned, he stood face to face with Mrs.
Nailor. Mrs. Nailor of late had been all cordiality to him.

"Why, you dear boy, where did you come from?" she asked him in pleased
surprise. "I thought you were stretched at Mrs. Wentworth's feet in
the--Where has she been this summer?"

Keith's brow clouded. He remembered when Wickersham was her "dear boy."

"It is a position I am not in the habit of occupying--at least, toward
ladies who have husbands to occupy it. You are thinking of some one
else," he added coldly, wishing devoutly that Mrs. Nailor were
in Halifax.

"Well, I am glad you have come here. You remember, our friendship began
in the country? Yes? My husband had to go and get sick, and I got really
frightened about him, and so we determined to come here, where we should
be perfectly quiet. We got here last Saturday. There is not a man here."

"Isn't there?" asked Keith, wishing there were not a woman either. "How
long are you going to stay?" he asked absently.

"Oh, perhaps a month. How long shall you be here?"

"Not very long," said Keith.

"I tell you who is here; that little governess of Mrs. Wentworth's she
was so disagreeable to last winter. She has been very ill. I think it
was the way she was treated in New York. She was in love with Ferdy
Wickersham, you know? She lives here, in a lovely old place just outside
of town, with her old aunt or cousin. I had no idea she had such a nice
old home. We saw her yesterday. We met her on the street."

"I remember her; I shall go and see her," said Keith, recalling Mrs.
Nailor's speech at Mrs. Wickersham's dinner, and Lois's revenge.

"I tell you what we will do. She invited us to call, and we will go
together," said Mrs. Nailor.

Keith paused a moment in reflection, and then said casually:

"When are you going?"

"Oh, this afternoon."

"Very well; I will go."

Mrs. Nailor drove Keith out to The Lawns that afternoon.

In a little while Miss Huntington came in. Keith observed that she was
dressed as she had been that evening at dinner, in white, but he did
not dream that it was the result of thought. He did not know with what
care every touch had been made to reproduce just what he had praised, or
with what sparkling eyes she had surveyed the slim, dainty figure in the
old cheval-glass. She greeted Mrs. Nailor civilly and Keith warmly.

"I am very glad to see you. What in the world brought you here to this
out-of-the-way place?" she said, turning to the latter and giving him
her cool, soft hand, and looking up at him with unfeigned pleasure, a
softer and deeper glow coming into her cheek as she gazed into his eyes.

"A sudden fit of insanity," said Keith, taking in the sweet, girlish
figure in his glance. "I wanted to see some roses that I knew bloomed in
an old garden about here."

"He, perhaps, thought that, as Brookford is growing so fashionable now,
he might find a mutual friend of ours here?" Mrs. Nailor said.

"As whom, for instance?" queried Keith, unwilling to commit himself.

"You know, Alice Lancaster has been talking of coming here? Now, don't
pretend that you don't know. Whom does every one say you are--all in
pursuit of?"

"I am sure I do not know," said Keith, calmly. "I suppose that you are
referring to Mrs. Lancaster, but I happened to know that she was not
here. No; I came to see Miss Huntington." His face wore an expression of
amusement.

Mrs. Nailor made some smiling reply. She did not see the expression in
Keith's eyes as they, for a second, caught Lois's glance.

Just then Miss Abigail came in. She had grown whiter since Keith had
seen her last, and looked older. She greeted Mrs. Nailor graciously, and
Keith cordially. Miss Lois, for some reason of her own, was plying Mrs.
Nailor with questions, and Keith fell to talking with Miss Abigail,
though his eyes were on Lois most of the time.

The old lady was watching her too, and the girl, under the influence of
the earnest gaze, glanced around and, catching her aunt's eye upon her,
flashed her a little answering smile full of affection and tenderness,
and then went on listening intently to Mrs. Nailor; though, had Keith
read aright the color rising in her cheeks, he might have guessed that
she was giving at least half her attention to his side of the room,
where Miss Abigail was talking of her. Keith, however, was just then
much interested in Miss Abigail's account of Dr. Locaman, who, it
seemed, was more attentive to Lois than ever.

"I don't know what she will do," she said. "I suppose she will decide
soon. It is an affair of long standing."

Keith's throat had grown dry.

"I had hoped that my cousin Norman might prove a protector for her; but
his wife is not a good person. I was mad to let her go there. But she
would go. She thought she could be of some service. But that woman is
such a fool!"

"Oh, she is not a bad woman," interrupted Keith.

"I do not know how bad she is," said Miss Abigail. "She is a fool. No
good woman would ever have allowed such an intimacy as she allowed to
come between her and her husband; and none but a fool would have
permitted a man to make her his dupe. She did not even have the excuse
of a temptation; for she is as cold as a tombstone."

"I assure you that you are mistaken," defended Keith. "I know her, and I
believe that she has far more depth than you give her credit for--"

"I give her credit for none," said Miss Abigail, decisively. "You men
are all alike. You think a woman with a pretty face who does not talk
much is deep, when she is only dull. On my word, I think it is almost
worse to bring about such a scandal without cause than to give a real
cause for it. In the latter case there is at least the time-worn excuse
of woman's frailty."

Keith laughed.

"They are all so stupid," asserted Miss Abigail, fiercely. "They are
giving up their privileges to be--what? I blushed for my sex when I was
there. They are beginning to mistake civility for servility. I found a
plenty of old ladies tottering on the edge of the grave, like myself,
and I found a number of ladies in the shops and in the churches; but in
that set that you go with--! They all want to be 'women'; next thing
they'll want to be like men. I sha'n't be surprised to see them come to
wearing men's clothes and drinking whiskey and smoking tobacco--the
little fools! As if they thought that a woman who has to curl her hair
and spend a half-hour over her dress to look decent could ever be on a
level with a man who can handle a trunk or drive a wagon or add up a
column of figures, and can wash his face and hands and put on a clean
collar and look like--a gentleman!"

"Oh, not so bad as that," said Keith.

"Yes; there is no limit to their folly. I know them. I am one myself."

"But you do not want to be a man?"

"No, not now. I am too old and dependent. But I'll let you into a
secret. I am secretly envious of them. I'd like to be able to put them
down under my heel and make them--squeal."

Mrs. Nailor turned and spoke to the old lady. She was evidently about to
take her leave. Keith moved over, and for the first time addressed Miss
Huntington.

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