“We did our best, and he was very patient,” I said. And the surgeon answered:
“I have no doubt you did, and it speaks well for your comrade’s fortitude. You need not blame yourselves, however, for from the first he could not have got better.”
“I’ll take first watch,” said Harry, when, after giving us full instructions, the surgeon departed. “Miss Carrington has already insisted on helping. I’ve sampled Wilson’s wardrobe, but his things would split up if you tried to get into them. Go out and borrow or buy some anywhere. You can’t expect to meet Miss Carrington in that most fantastic disarray. I’ve taken quarters at the Burrard House, and it’s not your turn until to-morrow. The Colonel has graciously signified his approval of our arrangements.”
When my watch commenced the next day Ormond seemed pleased to see me, and Grace, who was spreading southern flowers in the room, withdrew. Then Calvert and Colonel Carrington came in with a lawyer, and I raised Ormond so that he could see them. Outside, and not far below the window, bright sunlight beat down upon the sparkling inlet, and across it the mountains rose in a giant wall. Ormond glanced at them and sighed. Then he said with slow distinctness:
“Put it down in your own fashion. This is the gist of it: I, Geoffrey Ormond, being now at least perfectly 288 sound in mind, bequeath my gray horse at Day Spring, all my guns and rifles, with my silver harness and two pedigree hunters at Carrington, to Ralph Lorimer, in token of friendship and gratitude for a courageous attempt at my rescue when by accident I fell from a rock. I especially desire this inserted, Mr. Solicitor. You quite understand what I am saying, Colonel Carrington?”
There was a significant smile in his eyes as they met mine, and something rose in my throat threatening to choke me when he added aside: “You will accept these things as a memento of our last march, I hope? With this exception, I bequeath my property in stocks and lands of all and every kind—I do not enumerate, or appoint other executor—to Colonel Carrington of Carrington Manor, the balance remaining after his death to revert to his daughter Grace. Set it all out in due form, and give me the paper to sign.”
Remembering what Grace once told me I fancied that an expression of unutterable relief smoothed out the wrinkles of anxiety on the legatee’s brow, but I may have been mistaken in this. There was a curious look in Ormond’s face, and I understood the depth of his loyalty to Grace. It struck me with a shock that Ormond, in spite of his apparent carelessness, realized how far matters had drifted, and hoped to spare her the painful discovery. Then he lay back struggling for breath, when, after the will was signed, at a signal from the doctor the others withdrew. Perhaps an hour passed while I kept watch alone before he spoke again, saying very faintly:
“It’s strange, Lorimer, that circumstances should constitute you my protector. It’s not the usual ending of a very old story. A rich man and a poor man loved the same woman, and—this is where the strangeness happens, perhaps because of all women she was most worthy to be loved—she 289 looked kindly upon the poorer man. The other had all that fortune could give him save what he most desired, and being older he waited patiently, trusting her heart would turn toward him, and when at last he learned the truth he had not courage to give her up, but waited still, hoping, he hardly knew for what, against hope. Then circumstances held them closer together in a bond that even for her sake he dare not break, until at last the knot was cut. Lorimer, we fought it out fairly, you and I. Now you have won, and I am dying. I only ask you to be good to her.”
I turned my head aside, for I could say nothing appropriate, and he added:
“I should like you to keep those rifles, and when some day Grace receives the reversion she will find it but little. We made some heavy losses in joint ventures, her father and I—you will tell her to remember that. I think now all is settled. God bless her!”