Chapter 20

AFTER THE STORM

I was sitting on the verandah, writing a letter to Belle Treherne. The
substantial peace of a mountain evening was on me. The air was clear, and
full of the scent of the pines and cedars, and the rumble of the rapids
came musically down the canon. I lifted my head and saw an eagle sailing
away to the snow-topped peak of Trinity, and then turned to watch the
orioles in the trees. The hour was delightful. It made me feel how grave
mere living is, how noble even the meanest of us becomes sometimes--in
those big moments when we think the world was built for us. It is half
egotism, half divinity; but why quarrel with it?

I was young, ambitious; and Love and I were at that moment the only
figures in the universe really deserving attention! I looked on down a
lane of cedars before me, seeing in imagination a long procession of
pleasant things; of--As I looked, another procession moved through the
creatures of my dreams, so that they shrank away timidly, then utterly,
and this new procession came on and on, until--I suddenly rose, and
started forward fearfully, to see--unhappy reality!--the body of Galt
Roscoe carried towards me.

Then a cold wind seemed to blow from the glacier above and killed all the
summer. A man whispered to me: "We found him at the bottom of the ravine
yonder. He'd fallen over, I suppose."

I felt his heart. "He is not dead, thank God!" I said.

"No, sir," said the other, "but he's all smashed." They brought him in
and laid him on his bed. I sent one of the party for the doctor at
Viking, and myself set to work, with what appliances I had, to deal with
the dreadful injuries. When the doctor came, together we made him into
the semblance of a man again. His face was but slightly injured, though
his head had received severe hurts. I think that I alone saw the marks on
his throat; and I hid them. I guessed the cause, but held my peace.

I had sent round at once to James Devlin (but asked him not to come till
morning), and also to Mrs. Falchion; but I begged her not to come at all.
I might have spared her that; for, as I afterwards knew, she had no
intention of coming. She had learned of the accident on her way to
Viking, and had turned back; but only to wait and know the worst or the
best.

About midnight I was left alone with Roscoe. Once, earlier in the
evening, he had recognised me and smiled faintly, but I had shaken my
head, and he had said nothing. Now, however, he was looking at me
earnestly. I did not speak. What he had to tell me was best told in his
own time.

At last he said faintly: "Marmion, shall I die soon?"

I knew that frankness was best, and I replied: "I cannot tell, Roscoe.
There is a chance of your living."

He moved his head sadly. "A very faint chance?"

"Yes, a faint one, but--"

"Yes? 'But'?" He looked at me as though he wished it over.

"But it rests with you whether the chance is worth anything. If you are
content to die, it is gone."

"I am content to die," he replied.

"And there," said I, "you are wrong and selfish. You have Ruth to live
for. Besides, if you are given the chance, you commit suicide if you do
not take it."

There was a long pause, and then he said: "You are right; I will live if
I can, Marmion."

"And now YOU are right." I nodded soothingly to him, and then asked him
to talk no more; for I knew that fever would soon come on.

He lay for a moment silent, but at length whispered: "Did you know it was
not a fall I had?" He raised his chin and stretched his throat slightly,
with a kind of trembling.

"I thought it was not a fall," I replied.

"It was Phil's pal--Kilby."

"I thought that."

"How could you--think it? Did--others--think so?" he asked anxiously.

"No, not others; I alone. They thought it accident; they could have no
ground for suspicion. But I had; and, besides, there were marks on your
throat."

"Nothing must happen to him, you understand. He had been drinking,
and--and he was justified. I wronged him in Samoa, him and Mrs.
Falchion."

I nodded and put my fingers on my lips.

Again there was silence. I sat and watched him, his eyes closed, his body
was motionless. He slept for hours so, and then he waked rather sharply,
and said half deliriously: "I could have dragged him with me, Marmion."

"But you did not. Yes, I understand. Go to sleep again, Roscoe."

Later on the fever came, and he moaned and moved his head about his
pillow. He could not move his body--it was too much injured.

There was a source of fear in Kilby. Would he recklessly announce what he
had done, and the cause of it? After thinking it over and over, I
concluded that he would not disclose his crimes. My conclusions were
right, as after events showed.

As for Roscoe, I feared that if he lived he must go through life maimed.
He had a private income; therefore if he determined to work no more in
the ministry, he would, at least, have the comforts of life.

Ruth Devlin came. I went to Roscoe and told him that she wished to see
him. He smiled sorrowfully and said: "To what end, Marmion? I am a
drifting wreck. It will only shock her." I think he thought she would not
love him now if he lived--a crippled man.

"But is this noble? Is it just to her?" said I.

After a long time he answered: "You are right again, quite right. I am
selfish. When one is shaking between life and death, one thinks most of
one's self."

"She will help to bring you back from those places, Roscoe."

"If I am delirious ever, do not let her come, will you, Marmion? Promise
me that." I promised.

I went to her. She was very calm and womanly. She entered the room, went
quietly to his bedside, and, sitting down, took his hand. Her smile was
pitiful and anxious, but her words were brave.

"My dearest," she said, "I am so sorry. But you will soon be well, so we
must be as patient and cheerful as we can."

His eyes answered, but he did not speak. She leaned over and kissed his
cheek. Then he said: "I hope I may get well."

"This was the shadow over you," she ventured. "This was your presentiment
of trouble--this accident."

"Yes, this was the shadow."

Some sharp thought seemed to move her, for her eyes grew suddenly hard,
and she stooped and whispered: "Was SHE there--when--it happened, Galt?"

He shrank from the question, but he said immediately: "No, she was not
there."

"I am glad," she added, "that it was only an accident."

Her eyes grew clear of their momentary hardness. There is nothing in life
like the anger of one woman against another concerning a man.

Justine Caron came to the house, pale and anxious, to inquire. Mrs.
Falchion, she said, was not going away until she knew how Mr. Roscoe's
illness would turn.

"Miss Caron," I said to her, "do you not think it better that she should
go?"

"Yes, for him; but she grieves now."

"For him?"

"Not alone for him," was the reply. There was a pause, and then she
continued: "Madame told me to say to you that she did not wish Mr. Roscoe
to know that she was still here."

I assured her that I understood, and then she added mournfully: "I cannot
help you now, monsieur, as I did on board the 'Fulvia'. But he will be
better cared for in Miss Devlin's hands, the poor lady! . . . Do you
think that he will live?"

"I hope so. I am not sure."

Her eyes went to tears; and then I tried to speak more encouragingly.

All day people came to inquire, chief among them Mr. Devlin, whose big
heart split itself in humanity and compassion. "The price of the big mill
for the guarantee of his life!" he said over and over again. "We can't
afford to let him go."

Although I should have been on my way back to Toronto, I determined to
stay until Roscoe was entirely out of danger. It was singular, but in
this illness, though the fever was high, he never was delirious. It would
almost seem as if, having paid his penalty, the brain was at rest.

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
flashing 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, God
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 shining 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
grass.

Justine leaned over her.

She sobbed as one whose harvest of the past is all tears. Nothing human
could comfort her yet.

I think she did not know that I was there. Justine lifted her face to me,
appealing.

I turned and stole silently away.