Staying alone was not unpleasant, in a way. The “dead line” still remained, of course, and callers did not attempt to pass it, but they came more frequently and held lengthy conversations at a respectful distance. Ellery did his own cooking, what little there was to do, but so many good things were pushed under the ropes that he was in a fair way to develop weight and indigestion. Captain Zeb Mayo drove down at least twice a week and usually brought Mrs. Coffin with him. From them and from the doctor the prisoner learned the village news. Once Captain Elkanah and Annabel came, and the young lady's gushing praise of the minister's “heroism” made its recipient almost sorry he had ever heard of the San Jose.
Dr. Parker told him of Grace Van Horne's return to the village. She had come back, so the doctor said, the day before, and was to live at the tavern for a while, at least. Yes, he guessed even she had given up hope of Captain Nat now.
“And say,” went on Parker, “how are you feeling?”
“Pretty well, thank you,” replied the minister. “I seem to be rather tired and good for nothing. More so than I was during the worst of it.”
“No wonder. A chap can't go through what you did and not feel some reaction. I expected that. Don't get cold, that's all. But what I want to know is whether you think I could leave you for a couple of days? The Ostable County Medical Society meets at Hyannis to-morrow and I had promised myself to take it in this year. But I don't want to leave you, if you need me.”
Ellery insisted that he did not need anyone, was getting along finely, and would not hear of his friend's missing the medical society's meeting. So the physician went.
“Good-by,” he called as he drove off. “I guess your term is pretty nearly over. I shall let you out of jail inside of four or five days, if you behave yourself.”
This should have been cheering news, but, somehow, John Ellery did not feel cheerful that afternoon. The tired feeling he had spoken of so lightly was worse than he had described it, and he was despondent, for no particular reason. That night he slept miserably and awoke with a chill to find a cold, pouring rain beating against the windows of the shanty.
He could not eat and he could not keep warm, even with the cook-stove top red hot and a blanket over his shoulders. By noon the chill had gone and he was blazing with fever. Still the rain and the wind, and no visitors at the ropes, not even the light-keeper.
He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep, but though he dozed a bit, woke always with a start and either a chill or fever fit. His head began to ache violently. And then, in the lonesomeness and misery, fear began to take hold of him.