Slowly the weeks passed. Besides François' mother, two of Richard's patients died. Slowly the pendulum of time swung the rest of the sick ones toward recovery. Nancy and Sulie and Milly changed the rooms at Crossroads back to their original uses. The nurses, no longer needed, packed their competent bags, and departed. Beulah at the Playhouse had her first square meal, and smiled back at Eric.
The strain had told fearfully on Richard. Yet he persisted in his efforts long after it seemed that the countryside was safe. He tried to pack into twelve short weeks what he would normally have done in twelve long months. He spurred his fellow physicians to increased activities, he urged authorities to unprecedented exertions. He did the work of two men and sometimes of three. And he was so exhausted that he felt that if ever his work was finished he would sleep for a million years.
It was in September that he began to wonder how he would square things up with Eve. At first she had written to him blaming him for his desertion. But not for a moment did she take it seriously. "You'll be coming back, Dicky," was the burden of her song. He wrote hurried pleasant letters which were to some extent bulletins of the day's work. If Eve was not satisfied she consoled herself with the thought that he was tearingly busy and terribly tired.
In her last letter she had said, "Austin doesn't know what to do without you. He told Pip that you were his right hand."
Austin had said more than that to Anne. He had found her one hot day by the fountain. Nancy had written to her of the death of François' mother. The letter was in her hand.
Austin had also had a letter. "Brooks is a fool. He writes that he is going to stay."
Anne shook her head. "He is not a fool," she said; "he is doing what he had to do. You would know if you had ever lived at Crossroads. Why, the Brooks family belongs there, and the Brooks doctors."
"So you have encouraged him?" Austin said.
"I have had nothing to do with it. I haven't heard from him since he left, and I haven't written."
"And you think he is—right to—bury—himself?"