“Yes, you have been very ill,” I replied, “but you are better.”
He smiled feebly, adding: “At least, I am grateful that I did not die at sea.” Then he closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them, and said, looking at Justine: “You have helped to nurse me, have you not?” His wasted fingers moved over the counterpane towards her.
“You have more than paid your debt to me,” he gently replied. “For I live, you see, and poor Hector died.”
She shook her head gravely, and rejoined: “Ah no, I can never pay the debt I owe to you and to God--now.” He did not understand this, I know. But I did. “You must not talk any more,” I said to him.
But Justine interposed. “He must be told that the nurse who has done most for him is Mrs. Falchion.” His brows contracted as if he were trying to remember something. He moved his head wearily.
“Yes, I think I remember,” he said, “about her being with me, but nothing clearly--nothing clearly. She is very kind.”
Justine here murmured: “Shall I tell her?”
I was about to say no; but Roscoe nodded, and said quietly, “Yes, yes.”
Then I made no objection, but urged that the meeting should only be for a moment. I determined not to leave them alone even for that moment. I did not know what things connected with their past--whatever it was--might be brought up, and I knew that entire freedom from excitement was necessary. I might have spared myself any anxiety on the point. When she came she was perfectly self-composed, and more as she seemed when I first knew her, though I will admit that I thought her face more possible to emotion than in the past.
It seems strange to write of a few weeks before as the past; but so much had occurred that the days might easily have been months and the weeks years.
She sat down beside him and held out her hand. And as she did so, I thought of Boyd Madras and of that long last night of his life, and of her refusal to say to him one comforting word, or to touch his hand in forgiveness and friendship. And was this man so much better than Boyd Madras? His wild words in delirium might mean nothing, but if they meant anything, and she knew of that anything, she was still a heartless, unnatural woman, as I had once called her.
Roscoe took her hand and held it briefly. “Dr. Marmion says that you have helped to nurse me through my illness,” he whispered. “I am most grateful.”