Late, very late, Cale rose, put a chunk into the soapstone, and said good night. I followed him into the kitchen. I wanted to speak with him, for I saw something was out of gear.
"What's the matter, Cale?" I whispered, as he fumbled about for the candle somewhere on the kitchen dresser.
"Marcia," he whispered in turn, "I 've pretty nigh lied myself inter hell for you ter-night. On the way over ter the junction the Doctor put his probe inter what's 'twixt you an' me mighty deep; but I was a match fer him! An' then I come home jest ter hear you give yourself all away! What in thun—"
"Sh, Cale! Somebody 's coming—"
"Wal, a gal's 'bout the limit when—" I heard him say in a tone of utter disgust, and, laughing to myself, I ran up stairs.
XXIII
After the Doctor's departure on the Saturday of that week, I wrote to Delia Beaseley, telling her how far I had ventured upon the disclosure of the fact that I was the daughter of her whom she had helped to save, and that she was now free to tell him whatever he might ask in regard to me, as far as she could answer; but that on no consideration was she to speak of the papers in his possession; and if he spoke to her of them, she was to say that he must settle that with me; that on no account was she to learn anything of their contents. I wrote her this as a precautionary measure only, for I was convinced the Doctor would not mention those papers. They belonged to me, to me alone. It was a matter of business.
She wrote in answer that she would do as I requested.
The spring was both long and late in coming. Day after day, week after week the wind held steadily from the east or northeast. When, at last, it turned right about face, and the sun, climbing high in the north, warmed the breast of mother-earth, already swelling with its hidden abundance, the waters were loosened and the great river and all its tributaries were in ice-throes, travailling for deliverance.