He told himself the facts carefully, going over them with a patient emphasis to point them at himself.
"Margaret may die; it 's very likely she will, with only a fool like me to see how she looks. I never called her Margaret till to-day—but it 's yesterday now. And here 's this damned story about her, which every one knows wrongly and adds lies to when he tells it. It would look queer on the stage—Kamis doctoring her like this. But the point is—she may die."
The sky was full of stars, white and soft and misty, like tearful eyes, and the Southern Cross, in which he had never been able to detect anything like a cross, rode high. He could not hold his thoughts from wandering to it and the absurdity of calling a mere blotch like that a cross. Heaps of other stars that did make crosses—neat and obvious ones. The sky was full of crosses, for that matter. Astronomers were asses, all of them. But the point was, Margaret might die.
"That you, Ford?"
Mr. Samson was coming up the steps and with him were Christian du Preez and his wife.
"These good people are anxious to help," explained Mr. Samson. "Very good of 'em—what? And young Paul 's gone off on a little stallion to send Dr. Van Coller. Turned out at the word like a fire engine and was off like winkin'. Never saw anything smarter. If the doctor 's half as smart he 'll be here in four hours."
"That's good," said Ford.
"And Mrs. du Preez 'll stay with Miss Harding an' do what she can," said Mr. Samson.
"I 'll do any blessed thing," declared Mrs. du Preez with energy.
Mr. Samson stood aside to let his companions enter the house before him. He whispered with buoyant force to Ford.