The patient rallied under the physician’s treatment. Slowly, but with palpable effect, Dr. Malbone dragged him a little way from the brink of death. The doctor’s coat was off, but sweat streamed down his face. His wife—silent, intelligent, and alert—gave him all the help that he required, and neither of them looked toward the suffering woman sitting crushed and miserable in the chair. Thus the time passed until the intense anxiety in the physician’s face began to relax; and at last, with a sigh, he sank wearily into a chair, remarking to his wife,—
“There is nothing more to do for the present. He is rallying. Give him time. The chances are a hundred to one against him.”
He rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes, while his wife went to discharge her duties in another part of the house. Soon he raised his head, and in his old kindly manner said to the young woman,—
“I am sorry for the way in which I talked just now, and I ask you to forgive me. You will understand my outburst and be more inclined to forgive me when I tell you something of my poor friend’s life; for I am certain that he has told you nothing. Has he?”
“No,” she answered, weakly and humbly.
“He has suffered so cruel a wrong in the past that when I see the least approach to imposition upon his noble unselfishness it maddens me. I ought not to have blamed you. You were not conscious of imposing upon him. I believe that he is dying. If so, there will be no harm in my telling you his story. If he lives, I can trust you with it.
“I had known him in San Francisco, but I came to these mountains long before him. It was less than two years ago that he came to me, and you can never realize the shock that his condition gave me. After a while he told me of his trouble as he understood it. It was this: Through giving violin lessons to a young lady of wealth and of great loveliness of character, he became deeply attached to her, and in return she gave him her whole affection. She was willing and anxious to marry him, even though she knew that her parents and friends would disown her if she did. He hesitated, from pure unselfishness, to bring upon her any distress that their marriage might cause. The poor fool could not understand that she would have gladly given up everything in life for him. He was called away to fill a lucrative engagement, and in his absence her heart changed toward him. Soon afterward she died. When he came to me he was broken in spirit and body, and it was my privilege to start him aright in a chastened and nobler life. He and I built the cabin, and there he was to pass the winter in unremitting study and self-mastery.
“That was the story as he told it to me and as he believed it to be. But I saw that something was behind it that in his sweetness and generosity he had never suspected. I myself learned the truth. By means of a few inquiries made by letter to a friend in San Francisco, I found that an old school-friend of the girl had made the trouble. It was a case of malicious revenge. The girl whom my friend loved had innocently and unconsciously received the love of a man for whom she cared nothing, as her whole affection was with my friend. This man was very rich, and for that and other reasons was regarded as a prize. It appears that before losing his heart to this loveliest of girls he had been devoted to her old school-friend, a beautiful and dashing belle, who expected to marry him. When she found that she had lost him, she planned revenge. She was utterly without heart or principle. So she traded on her old school-mate’s confidence in her, and used that friendship to separate the lovers with lies and cunning. She succeeded. The girl died of a broken heart, and my friend’s life was ruined.”
A look of unutterable horror settled upon the young woman’s face, and she sat upright and rigid, staring helplessly at him.
“I never told him what I had learned,” resumed the physician. “It might have broken his heart, and he had suffered enough. I did not want him to know that malice, revenge, and murder had played their part in his story.”