Part 36 (1/2)

While Roscoe hovered between life and death, Mr. Devlin, who persisted that he would not die, was planning for a new hospital and a new church, of which Roscoe should be president and padre respectively. But the suspense to us all, for many days, was very great; until, one morning when the birds were waking the cedars, and the snow on Mount Trinity was flas.h.i.+ng coolness down the hot valley, he waked and said to me: ”Marmion, old friend; it is morning at last.”

”Yes, it is morning,” said I. ”And you are going to live now? You are going to be reasonable and give the earth another chance?”

”Yes, I believe I shall live now.”

To cheer him, I told him what Mr. Devlin intended and had planned; how river-drivers and salmon-fishers came every day from the valley to inquire after him. I did not tell him that there had been one or two disturbances between the river-drivers and the salmon-fishers. I tried to let him see that there need be no fresh change in his life. At length he interrupted me.

”Marmion,” he said, ”I understand what you mean. It would be cowardly of me to leave here now if I were a whole man. I am true in intention, G.o.d knows, but I must carry a crippled arm for the rest of my life, must I not?.... and a crippled Padre is not the kind of man for this place.

They want men straight on their feet.”

”Do you think,” I answered, ”that they will not be able to stand the test? You gave them--shall I say it?--a crippled mind before; you give them a crippled body now. Well, where do you think the odds lie? I should fancy with you as you are.”

There was a long silence in which neither of us moved. At last he turned his face towards the window, and, not looking at me, said lingeringly: ”This is a pleasant place.”

I knew that he would remain.

I had not seen Mrs. Falchion during Roscoe's illness; but every day Justine came and inquired, or a messenger was sent. And when, this fortunate day, Justine herself came, and I told her that the crisis was past, she seemed infinitely relieved and happy. Then she said:

”Madame has been ill these three days also; but now I think she will be better; and we shall go soon.”

”Ask her,” said I, ”not to go yet for a few days. Press it as a favour to me.” Then, on second thought, I sat down and wrote Mrs. Falchion a note, hinting that there were grave reasons why she should stay a little longer: things connected with her own happiness. Truth is, I had received a note that morning which had excited me. It referred to Mrs.

Falchion. For I was an arch-plotter--or had been.

I received a note in reply which said that she would do as I wished.

Meanwhile I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of some one.

That night a letter came to Roscoe. After reading it shrinkingly he handed it to me. It said briefly:

I'm not sorry I did it, but I'm glad I hevn't killed you. I was drunk and mad. If I hadn't hurt you, I'd never hev forgive myself.

I reckon now, there's no need to do any forgivin' either side.

We're square--though maybe you didn't kill her after all. Mrs.

Falchion says you didn't. But you hurt her. Well, I've hurt you.

And you will never hear no more of Phil's pal from Danger Mountain.

Immediately after sunset of this night, a storm swept suddenly down the mountains, and prevented Ruth and her father from going to Viking. I left them talking to Roscoe, he wearing such a look on his face as I like to remember now, free from distress of mind--so much more painful than distress of body. As I was leaving the room, I looked back and saw Ruth sitting on a stool beside Roscoe's chair, holding the unmaimed hand in hers; the father's face s.h.i.+ning with pleasure and pride. Before I went out, I turned again to look at them, and, as I did so, my eye fell on the window against which the wind and rain were beating. And through the wet there appeared a face, shocking in its paleness and misery--the face of Mrs. Falchion. Only for an instant, and then it was gone.

I opened the door and went out upon the verandah. As I did so, there was a flash of lightning, and in that flash a figure hurried by me. One moment, and there was another flash; and I saw the figure in the beating rain, making toward the precipice.

Then I heard a cry, not loud, but full of entreaty and sorrow. I moved quickly toward it. In another white gleam I saw Justine with her arms about the figure, holding it back from the abyss. She said with incredible pleading:

”No, no, madame, not that! It is wicked--wicked.”

I came and stood beside them.

The figure sank upon the ground and buried a pitiful face in the wet gra.s.s.

Justine leaned over her.