“I should say that you will simply have to, if his life is to be saved, or at least if he’s to have a fair chance. I shall be compelled to go pretty soon. As it is I won’t get back home before noon and there are several bad cases I must see to-day. I’ll return the day after to-morrow; it’s the best I can do, for it is absolutely impossible for me to remain here. Now just listen to me very carefully while I give you the necessary directions. I think I’d better write some of them out so that you will 257 be sure not to forget them. See if you can find me a bit of paper somewhere.”
On one of the shelves there was a small homemade desk in which she rummaged. She found a number of loose bits of paper, some of them scribbled over in pencil and others with ink. They were apparently accounts, notes concerning various supplies and a few letters from various places. Finding a clean sheet she brought it to the doctor who rapidly wrote at length upon it. At this moment Stefan awoke, with a portentous yawn, but a second later he had leaped to his feet and was scanning their faces anxiously.
“I tank mebbe I doze for a moment,” he informed them. “How is Hugo gettin’ long?”
“For the present he looks to me somewhat better,” answered the doctor. “There doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger, and I’ll have to start back in a few minutes. We’ve had a cup of tea, but you’d better make some breakfast ready.”
Stefan bestirred himself and presently a potful of rolled oats was being stirred carefully for fear of burning, and bacon was sputtering in the pan. The kettle was singing again and Madge was cutting slices from a loaf left by Mrs. Papineau. The three sat 258 down to the table and ate hungrily, abundantly, as people have to who make stern demands upon their vitality.
The doctor made a few more remarks about the treatment of his patient. He had carefully laid on the table the little tablets of medicine, the bottle containing an antiseptic, the cotton and gauze that must be used to renew the dressing. Then he went out, breathing deeply of the sharp and aromatic air, and a moment later he and Stefan were gone, the latter promising to return at once, with a few needed supplies from the store. Madge was alone now with Hugo, who was again sleeping quietly. She read over the doctor’s directions carefully while she stood by the little window, as the lamp had been extinguished.
A few minutes later she decided to place the paper in the little desk again, for safe-keeping. Without the slightest curiosity her eyes fell again upon some of the writing on loose sheets. But presently she was staring at it hard as a strong conviction made its way into her brain. After this she went to the other shelf where some books had been placed and opened one of them, and then another. On the flyleaf was written, in bold characters, “Hugo Ennis.” The writing was exactly the same as that which appeared on the 259 scattered leaves, for she compared them carefully.
“There can be no doubt––he never wrote those letters,” she decided. “But––but I knew very well he couldn’t have written them. It––it isn’t like him.”
The idea came again that he could have obtained some one to write for him, but it was immediately cast aside. The man would not engage in dirty work himself––far less would he get others to do it for him. She––she had abused and insulted him––called him a liar, as far as she could remember, and again her face felt hot and burning.
Once more she sat down by the bunk, after she had given Maigan a big feed of oats, with a small remnant of the bacon grease. She felt humbled now, as if her accusations constituted some unforgivable, despicable sin. This man had never intended to do her the slightest harm. He really never knew that she was coming. And through her stupid clumsiness his life was now ebbing. The doctor’s long words sounded dreadfully in her ears: general sepsis, blood poisoning, a system overwhelmed by the toxines of virulent microbes; they reverberated in her ears like so many sentences of death. Was there any hope that this outflowing life would ever turn in 260 its course and return like an incoming tide? Would she again see him able to lift up his head, to speak in words no longer dictated by the vagaries of delirium? She would give anything to be able to ask his pardon humbly after his mind cleared again. Oh, it was unthinkable that he should die, that the end might be coming soon, and that she must go forth with that unspeakable load of misery in her heart.