Several long nights of quiet rest had built her up into a woman that was no longer the factory drudge or the recent inmate of hospitals. One of the Papineau children had come over to remain with Hugo, lest he should need anything. Madge attended him during the day, concocting things on the stove, dressing the fast closing wound and administering the drugs left by the doctor, with the greatest punctuality, and the man’s eyes followed her every motion, generally in silence. She also spoke little. It was as if, upon both of them, a timidity had come that made it hard for them to exchange thoughts. The first time he had wanted to speak of the problem of her coming she failed to encourage him.
“I know all that happened now,” she told him, “and I have long known that you were not at fault, in any way. Indeed, I feel grateful for your forbearance when I first came. But, if you don’t mind, we won’t speak of it again. It––it distresses me.”
He saw plainly that she had blushed, in spite of the fact that she turned her head swiftly away, and remained silent until she came again with a teaspoonful of something he must swallow.
So she sat down again and her mind reverted to the future, which was certainly immeasurably splendid and promising, as compared to the outlook of a fortnight before. In her pockets were the letters she had written to this man. Dr. Starr had brought them to her one day, when Hugo was already able to listen and understand.
“I think they were intended for me,” said the latter, gently.
“No!” exclaimed Madge, reddening and leaping from her stool. “Please give them to me, Dr. Starr. They were sent to an utterly unknown man. They were replies to letters you never sent and therefore they’re not yours. Please––I––I’d rather you didn’t see them!”
The young man had nodded, quietly.
“Of course they’re yours,” he acknowledged. “We––we won’t mention them again, if it’s your wish.”
“Indeed––indeed it is. They were just a cry for help––for a chance to live––perhaps for a little happiness. Dr. Starr has now 294 offered me all these things and I have accepted––ever so gratefully. I––I had taken a step that was utter folly, yes, absolute madness. But now the most wonderful good fortune has brought me the fulfilment of these desires and I want to forget all the rest––the burning shame I have felt as well as the terror with which I approached whatever was in store for me. That part of it will pass away like some bad dream, I hope. It’s––it’s kind of you not to insist on seeing these letters.”