Ten minutes after Sweetwater's arrival in the village streets, he was athome with the people he found there. His conversation with Doris in thedoorway of her home had been observed by the curious and far-sighted,and the questions asked and answered had made him friends at once. Ofcourse, he could tell them nothing, but that did not matter, he had seenand talked with Doris and their idolised young manager was no worse andmight possibly soon be better.
Of his own affairs--of his business with Doris and the manager, theyasked nothing. All ordinary interests were lost in the stress of theirgreat suspense.
It was the same in the bar-room of the one hotel. Without resorting tomore than a question or two, he readily learned all that was generallyknown of Oswald Brotherson. Every one was talking about him, and eachhad some story to tell illustrative of his kindness, his courage andhis quick mind. The Works had never produced a man of such variedcapabilities and all round sympathies. To have him for manager meant thegreatest good which could befall this little community.
His rise had been rapid. He had come from the east three years before,new to the work. Now, he was the one man there. Of his relationshipseast, family or otherwise, nothing was said. For them his life began andended in Derby, and Sweetwater could see, though no actual expressionwas given to the feeling, that there was but one expectation in regardto him and Doris, to whose uncommon beauty and sweetness they all seemedfully alive. And Sweetwater wondered, as many of us have wondered, atthe gulf frequently existing between fancy and fact.
Later there came a small excitement. The doctor was seen riding byon his way to the sick man. From the window where he sat, Sweetwaterwatched him pass up the street and take the road he had himself solately traversed. It was so straight a one and led so directly northwardthat he could follow with his eye the doctor's whole course, and evenget a glimpse of his figure as he stepped from the buggy and proceededto tie up the horse. There was an energy about him pleasing toSweetwater. He might have much to do with this doctor. IfOswald Brotherson died--but he was not willing to consider thispossibility--yet. His personal sympathies, to say nothing of hisprofessional interest in the mystery to which this man--and this manonly--possibly held the key, alike forbade. He would hope, as theseothers were hoping, and if he did not count the minutes, he at leastsaw every move of the old horse waiting with drooping head and theresignation of long custom for the re-appearance of his master with hisnews of life or death.
And so an hour--two hours passed. Others were watching the old horsenow. The street showed many an eager figure with head turned northward.From the open door-ways women stepped, looked in the direction of theiranxiety and retreated to their work again. Suspense was everywhere;the moments dragged like hours; it became so keen at last that someimpatient hearts could no longer stand it. A woman put her baby intoanother woman's arms and hurried up the road; another followed, thenanother; then an old man, bowed with years and of tottering steps, beganto go that way, halting a dozen times before he reached the group nowcollected in the dusty highway, near but not too near that house. AsSweetwater's own enthusiasm swelled at this sight, he thought of theother Brotherson with his theories and active advocacy for reform, andwondered if men and women would forego their meals and stand for hoursin the keen spring wind just to be the first to hear if he were to liveor die. He knew that he himself would not. But he had suffered much bothin his pride and his purse at the hands of the Brooklyn inventor;and such despoliation is not a reliable basis for sympathy. He wasquestioning his own judgment in this matter and losing himself in themazes of past doubts and conjectures when a sudden change took place inthe aspect of the street; he saw people running, and in another momentsaw why. The doctor had shown himself on the porch which all werewatching. Was he coming out? No, he stands quite still, runs his eyeover the people waiting quietly in the road, and beckons to one of thesmaller boys. The child, with upturned face, stands listening to what hehas to say, then starts on a run for the village. He is stopped, pulledabout, questioned, and allowed to run on. Many rush forth to meet him.He is panting, but gleeful. Mr. Brotherson has waked up conscious, andthe doctor says, HE WILL LIVE.