Justine Caron came to the house, pale and anxious, to inquire. Mrs. Falchion, she said, was not going away until she knew how Mr. Roscoe’s illness would turn.
“Miss Caron,” I said to her, “do you not think it better that she should go?”
“Yes, for him; but she grieves now.”
“For him?”
“Not alone for him,” was the reply. There was a pause, and then she continued: “Madame told me to say to you that she did not wish Mr. Roscoe to know that she was still here.”
I assured her that I understood, and then she added mournfully: “I cannot help you now, monsieur, as I did on board the ‘Fulvia’. But he will be better cared for in Miss Devlin’s hands, the poor lady!... Do you think that he will live?”
“I hope so. I am not sure.”
Her eyes went to tears; and then I tried to speak more encouragingly.
All day people came to inquire, chief among them Mr. Devlin, whose big heart split itself in humanity and compassion. “The price of the big mill for the guarantee of his life!” he said over and over again. “We can’t afford to let him go.”
Although I should have been on my way back to Toronto, I determined to stay until Roscoe was entirely out of danger. It was singular, but in this illness, though the fever was high, he never was delirious. It would almost seem as if, having paid his penalty, the brain was at rest.