_ 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. _