“She has been here several times, but I would not have you disturbed.”
“Bless her!” said Scarlett softly. “Jack you are my one friend, the only one to whom I ever opened my heart, I trust you, Jack, with everything.”
“My dear old boy,” said the doctor warmly, grasping his hands, “I hope I deserve it. Heaven knows, I try.”
“You do deserve it, Jack. I can never repay you for hat you’ve done for me.”
“Tchah, man, stuff! Why, I owe you a debt for letting me try to cure you.”
“Now let me be more in your debt, Jack,” said Scarlett.
“As much as you like, old fellow. I’ll do all I can.”
Scarlett paused, and his face flushed almost feverishly as he gazed earnestly at his friend. At last he spoke. “I have been weak—unstrung; and that, made me what I was, Jack,” he said piteously. “You saw the weak side of my character last night. I had hidden it so well before; but when you came to me then, I was half mad, and—well, I need not confess—you must have seen the turn my thoughts took. You don’t wish me to degrade myself again—to make confession?”
“No, no—say nothing,” said Scales quietly. “My dear old fellow, believe me, I am your friend.”
“You are, Jack; you are more—my very brother at heart; and if you ever think again of my cruel sacrilegious doubts, set them down as a sick man’s fancies, and then bury them for ever. And—Jack, old friend—let last night’s outburst be a thing that’s dead.”