I nodded and put my fingers on my lips.
Again there was silence. I sat and watched him, his eyes closed, his body was motionless. He slept for hours so, and then he waked rather sharply, and said half deliriously: “I could have dragged him with me, Marmion.”
“But you did not. Yes, I understand. Go to sleep again, Roscoe.”
Later on the fever came, and he moaned and moved his head about his pillow. He could not move his body—it was too much injured.
There was a source of fear in Kilby. Would he recklessly announce what he had done, and the cause of it? After thinking it over and over, I concluded that he would not disclose his crimes. My conclusions were right, as after events showed.
As for Roscoe, I feared that if he lived he must go through life maimed. He had a private income; therefore if he determined to work no more in the ministry, he would, at least, have the comforts of life.
Ruth Devlin came. I went to Roscoe and told him that she wished to see him. He smiled sorrowfully and said: “To what end, Marmion? I am a drifting wreck. It will only shock her.” I think he thought she would not love him now if he lived—a crippled man.
“But is this noble? Is it just to her?” said I.
After a long time he answered: “You are right again, quite right. I am selfish. When one is shaking between life and death, one thinks most of one’s self.”
“She will help to bring you back from those places, Roscoe.”