“No ‘fear’ for her?” yelled Conover, catching but a single phrase in the other’s attempt at comfort, “Who the hell is fearin’ for her? That girl’s fit to look on God’s own face an’ live. It’s for me that I’m afraid. For me that I’m afraid. For me that she’d leave to live on without her through all the damned dreariness of the years. What’d there be in it for me to know she was in heaven? I want her. I want her here. With me! An’ she’d rather be with me. I know she would. I’d make her happier’n all the angels that ever—”
“You don’t mean to blaspheme,” said the clergyman, “You are not yourself. She is brave. She knows no dread. Can’t you be as brave as she is,—for her sake? She is learning that Death is no longer terrible when one is close enough to see the kind eyes behind the mask. I know how black an hour this is for you. But God will help you if only you will carry your grief to Him. When man can endure no more, He sends Peace. If—”
The door of the inner room opened, and a bearded man emerged. He paused on the threshold at sight of Caleb. The Fighter thrust him bodily aside, without ceremony; entered the room the doctor had just quitted and closed the door behind him.
The light burned low. In the centre of the big white bed,—a pathetically tiny figure,—lay Desirée. Her wonderful hair flowed loose over the pillow. The little face, white, pain-drawn, yet smiling joyous welcome from its great eyes, turned eagerly toward her lover. With an effort whose anguish left her lips gray she stretched forth her arms to him.
An inarticulate, sobbing cry that rent his whole body burst from the Fighter. The dear arms closed above his heaving shoulders and his head lay once more on the girl’s breast. Through the hell of his agony stole for the moment that old, weirdly sweet sense of being at last safe from all the noise and battle of the world;—at home. And, as a mother might hush a frightened child, the stricken girl soothed and comforted him; whispering secret love-words of their own; lulling to rest the horror that was consuming him.
And after a time the shock passed, bringing the man’s inborn optimism back with a rush. This girl who spoke so bravely, who even laughed a little in her eagerness to comfort him,—she could not be at death’s door. This local pill-mixer who had pulled so long a face,—he and the parson chap whose business it was to speed earth’s parting guests,—between them they had cooked up a fine alarm. They had scared him,—they and that fool boy who knew nothing about accidents and whose own minor injuries no doubt made him think Desirée must be incurably hurt.
Caleb had seen many men who had been injured in railroad smashups. They had writhed clumsily, emitting raucous screams ’way down in their throats;—or had lain senseless in queer-shaped heaps, from the first. Not one of them had been coherent, calm,—yes, even cheerful,—like this worshipped little sweetheart of his. The first shock was bringing its normal reaction to the Fighter’s brain and nerves. As ever, it was imparting to them a redoubled power to cast off depression.
He raised his head; and, by the dim light, studied Desirée’s face. The brave, beautiful eyes met his with a message of deathless love. The tortured lips were parted in a smile.
All at once he knew he was right. She would get well. The enginery that had made his fortune would not crush out her life. The railroad that had brought him wealth was not to bring him desolation as well. The foreknowledge set his blood to tingling.