“Mrs. Papineau has been ever so kind to me,” answered the girl, slowly. “That sort of thing is such a comfort, especially when––when one isn’t used to it. Nobody ever took such care of me over there in New York. I’ve had plenty to eat and a nice warm place to sleep in. I haven’t been used to much luxury where––where I came from. And––and you mustn’t mind me. It will always be time enough to go, but––but I won’t know how to thank this––this kindly woman.”
Hugo didn’t know whether these words held a reproach to him, but they sounded very hopeless and sad. The girl had sat down again, on a low stool near the fire. A chimney had been built in a corner, to supplement the stove, and she was looking intently at the bright flames leaping up and the fat curling smoke that rose in little patches, as bits of white bark twisted and crackled. Mrs. Papineau had gone back to the stove at the other end of the room, where she and her eldest girl had been washing dishes. In the rising sparks of the logs on fire Madge saw queer designs, strange moving forms her eyes followed mechanically. She felt that she was merely 172 waiting––waiting for the worst that was yet to come, but the heat was grateful.
“If that’s the case we might as well postpone the trip for a day,” Hugo acknowledged, somewhat shamefacedly. “I don’t often get played out but for some reason I’m not quite up to the mark to-day.”
“You keep still an’ rest yourself a bit,” Mrs. Papineau ordered, coming back to him and feeling his pulse gravely, whereat she made a wry face. She informed him that he undoubtedly had a fever and must remain absolutely quiet while she brewed him a decoction of potent herbs she had herself picked and stored away.
Madge looked at Hugo again, anxiously, feeling that her careless handling of that little pistol was undoubtedly responsible for his illness. Their eyes met and he managed to smile.
“A mere man can do nothing but obey when a woman commands, Miss Nelson,” he declared, with a weak attempt at jocularity. “I’m sure it’s dreadful stuff she’s going to make me swallow. Still, I’m glad of a short rest.”
He drew his chair a little nearer, and, speaking in a lower voice, went on:
“I’ll tell you, Miss Nelson. We––we 173 perhaps owe one another some explanations. It happens that I’ve found something. It’s the queerest thing ever happened. I’d like to explain....”
“What is the use, Mr. Ennis?” she replied, her voice revealing an intense discouragement. “And besides, you are ill now. It––it doesn’t really matter what has happened, I suppose. I couldn’t expect anything else, I dare say. I was a fool to come, to––to believe what I did. And––and I’m ashamed, it––it seems as if the least little pride that was left me has gone––gone for ever. Please––please don’t say anything more. It distresses me and can’t possibly do any good.”
She turned away from him to stare into the fire again and watch the little tongues of flame following threads of dry moss, till her face, which had colored for a moment, became pale again and her lips quivered at the thoughts that had returned to her. Uppermost was that feeling of shame of which she had spoken. She had realized that she had come to this man she had never met, ready to say: “Here I am, Madge Nelson, to whom you wrote in New York. If you really want me for your wife I am willing. In exchange for food, for rest, for a little peace of mind I am ready to try to learn to love you, to respect and obey 174 you, and I will be glad to work for you, to keep your home, to do my duty like a diligent and faithful wife.” But the man had looked at her with eyes genuinely surprised, because he had not really expected her. And of course she had found no favor in his sight. She was an inconvenient stranger whom he did not know how to get rid of, and on the spur of the moment he had found recourse in clumsy lies. By this time he had probably thought out some fables with which he expected to soothe her. At any rate he must despise her, in spite of the fact that he seemed to try to be civil and even kind. The important thing was that the end had come. In her little purse six or seven dollars were left, not enough to take her even half the distance to New York, to the great city she had learned to hate and fear. For nothing on earth would she have accepted money from Hugo. At least that shred of pride remained. It was therefore evident that but one way, however dark, was open before her, since the end must come.