“Shirley,” he whispered. “Where’s Shirley?”
She was sitting on the porch just outside the open window, and when she entered, tears were on her face. The doctor drew back silently; but when Valiant would have done so, the major called him nearer.
“No,” he panted; “I like to see you two together.” His voice was very weak and tired.
As she leaned and touched his hand, he smiled whimsically. “It’s mighty curious,” he said, “but I can’t get it out of my head that it’s Beauty Valiant and Judith that I’m really talking to. Foolish—isn’t it?” But the idea seemed to master him, and presently he began to call Shirley by her mother’s name. An odd youthfulness crept into his eyes; a subtle paradoxical boyishness. His cheek tinged with color. The deep lines about his mouth smoothed miraculously out.
“Judith,” he whispered, “—you—sure you told me the truth a while ago, when you said—you said—”
“Yes, yes,” Shirley answered, putting her young arm under him, thinking only to soothe the anxiety that seemed vaguely to thread some vague hallucination.
He smiled again. “It makes it easier,” he said. He looked at Valiant, his mind seeming to slip farther and farther away. “Beauty,” he gasped, “you didn’t go away after all, did you! I dreamed it—I reckon. It’ll be—all right with you both.”
He sighed peacefully, and his eyes turned to Shirley’s and closed. “I’m—so glad,” he muttered, “so glad I—didn’t really do it, Judith. It would have—been the—only—low-down thing—I—ever did.”
The doctor went swiftly to the door and beckoned to Jereboam. “Come in now, Jerry,” he said in a low voice, “quickly.”
The old negro fell on his knees by the couch. “Mars’ Monty!” he cried. “Is yo’ gwine away en leab ol’ Jerry? Is yo’? Mars’?”