“Did you call, wife?” Porter asked as he came to the door. Then he sprang quickly across the veranda at sight of his wife's blanched face, and made to catch her in his arms. But she stopped him, pointing down the drive. “It's Allis, John; oh, my God!”
“No, no,” he answered, “they're just coming back; here, sit down again, I'll see,” and he raced down the steps just as Mike pulled up.
“What's the matter, girl?” he began.
“The young gentleman's got a bit shook up, sir; nothin' bad loike,” Mike broke in hastily. The diplomatic rider, “nothin' bad,” was added for Mrs. Porter's benefit, his quick eye having seen her white face.
“Miss Allis 's not hurt at all,” he continued. “We'll help the young gintleman in, an' I'd best go for the docthor, I'm thinkin.”
Even as he was speaking they had helped Mortimer from the rig. He had not uttered a sound; his teeth were set hard against the agony that was in his side, and the queer dizziness that was over him left little beyond a consciousness that he was being looked after, and that if he could only keep going for a little, just use his legs a trifle, he would presently be allowed to sleep. Yes, that was what he wanted; he was so drowsy. As he went up the steps between the two men, a haggard face peered at him over the rail. It was familiar; he felt that some recognition was due, for it was a woman's face. He tried to smile. Then he was on a bed, and—and—sleep at last.
When the three men with the silence of disaster over them passed struggling into the house, Mrs. Porter threw herself on Allis's neck, and a passion of tears flooded down and damped the girl's shoulder.
“God be thanked, God be thanked!” gasped the troubled woman, and one hand that was over the girl's shoulder patted her with erratic rapidity. Then she interrupted herself. “What am I saying—it's wicked, and Mr. Mortimer like that. But I can't help it—I can't help it. Oh, Allis! my heart was in my mouth; I feel that some day you will come home like this.”
At that instant Gaynor dashed by them, leaped into the buggy, and called, as he drove off: “I'll have the docthor in a jiffy; the young man's all right!” He was still talking as the whirr of swift-rushing wheels smothered out his voice, and the dust rose like a steam-cloud, almost blotting him from the landscape.
“Oh, girl! I thought you'd been killed.”