CHAPTER XVII
“A Millstone and the Human Heart”
During the days that Mahala lay approaching the culmination of the final test as to whether her physical forces were strong enough to endure the ravages of the fever and leave her only sufficient strength to go on breathing, Jason worked frantically. For the first time in his life he found himself doing the thing that was popular. Every one was willing to help him. Carpenters would work over hours and on holidays; painters and paper hangers were equally accommodating. The neighbours on the farms surrounding Mahala’s forty acres came to his rescue. Without being asked, they mowed weeds, burned brush heaps, trimmed the orchard, and rebuilt tottering fences. They made a day of straightening the leaning stable on its foundations and staying its framework, so that with new roof and sheathing, it would be a tenable building for many years to come.
Jason superintended everything, but he confined his personal work to the house. While the men were nailing shingles and laying flooring, he was peeling off rotten plastering, tearing away broken lathing, working wherever he could lend a hand in most swiftly furthering the task he had undertaken. Every morning he stood at the foot of Mahala’s bed looking down at her a few moments before he went to work. All day her tortured face was the spur that drove him to accomplishments worthy of the best efforts of two men. Jemima kept assuring him that he need not be so terribly anxious. There would be a crisis, but she and Doctor Grayson and the nurse were watching for it; they would be prepared; they would save Mahala.
But there came a day when Jason staggered into the little house wearing a ghastly face. He paid no attention to the food Jemima set out for him. He made his way to Mahala’s room, and clinging to the foot of the bed, he stood staring down at her, an agony of doubt, of fear, written over his face and figure. Finally, Jemima could endure it no longer. She put her arm around him and helped him from the room. He went out and sat down on the back steps, where Jemima followed him.
“Don’t feel so badly, Jason,” she said. “You’re working so hard that your nerve is givin’ way. All of us feel that Mahala is holdin’ her own. She’s goin’ to come out of this. You needn’t be so afraid. We won’t let her die.”
The face that Jason lifted to hers was so ghastly that Jemima never forgot it.
“You haven’t stopped to consider,” he said, “that death might be the best thing that could happen to her.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Jemima stoutly, “because I don’t think it. She’s young, and she’s strong, and she’s innocent.”
Jason sat so still that it occurred to Jemima that he had stopped breathing; and then he said quietly: “One man said she was innocent. Eleven say that she is guilty. That is a stain that is going to mark her the remainder of her life. I’m not sure that life is the best thing for her.”