There was a long silence in which neither of us moved. At last he turned his face towards the window, and, not looking at me, said lingeringly: "This is a pleasant place."
I knew that he would remain.
I had not seen Mrs. Falchion during Roscoe's illness; but every day Justine came and inquired, or a messenger was sent. And when, this fortunate day, Justine herself came, and I told her that the crisis was past, she seemed infinitely relieved and happy. Then she said:
"Madame has been ill these three days also; but now I think she will be better; and we shall go soon."
"Ask her," said I, "not to go yet for a few days. Press it as a favour to me." Then, on second thought, I sat down and wrote Mrs. Falchion a note, hinting that there were grave reasons why she should stay a little longer: things connected with her own happiness. Truth is, I had received a note that morning which had excited me. It referred to Mrs. Falchion. For I was an arch-plotter—or had been.
I received a note in reply which said that she would do as I wished.
Meanwhile I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of some one.
That night a letter came to Roscoe. After reading it shrinkingly he handed it to me. It said briefly:
I'm not sorry I did it, but I'm glad I hevn't killed you. I was
drunk and mad. If I hadn't hurt you, I'd never hev forgive myself.
I reckon now, there's no need to do any forgivin' either side.
We're square—though maybe you didn't kill her after all. Mrs.
Falchion says you didn't. But you hurt her. Well, I've hurt you.
And you will never hear no more of Phil's pal from Danger Mountain.
Immediately after sunset of this night, a storm swept suddenly down the mountains, and prevented Ruth and her father from going to Viking. I left them talking to Roscoe, he wearing such a look on his face as I like to remember now, free from distress of mind—so much more painful than distress of body. As I was leaving the room, I looked back and saw Ruth sitting on a stool beside Roscoe's chair, holding the unmaimed hand in hers; the father's face shining with pleasure and pride. Before I went out, I turned again to look at them, and, as I did so, my eye fell on the window against which the wind and rain were beating. And through the wet there appeared a face, shocking in its paleness and misery—the face of Mrs. Falchion. Only for an instant, and then it was gone.
I opened the door and went out upon the verandah. As I did so, there was a flash of lightning, and in that flash a figure hurried by me. One moment, and there was another flash; and I saw the figure in the beating rain, making toward the precipice.