Albert sank into a feverish sleep that night, with a vague perception of
four figures in the room--Maud, her mother, Hartley, and the young
doctor. When he awoke fully in the morning his head felt prodigiously
hot and heavy.
It was early dawn, and the lamp was burning brightly. Outside, a man's
feet could be heard on the squealing snow--a sound which told how still
and cold it was. A team passed with a jingle of bells.
Albert raised his head and looked about. Hartley was lying on the sofa,
rolled up in his overcoat and some extra quilts. He had lain down at
last, worn with watching. Albert felt a little weak, and fell back on
his pillow, thinking about the strange night he had passed--a night more
filled with strange happenings than the afternoon.
As the light grew in the room his mind cleared, and lifting his muscular
arm he opened and shut his hand, saying aloud, in his old boyish manner:
"I guess I'm all here."
"What's that?" called Hartley, rolling out of bed. "Did you ask for
anything?"
"Give me some water, Jim; my mouth is dry as a powder-mill."
"How yeh feelin', anyway, pardner?" said Hartley, as he brought the
water.
"First-rate, Jim; I guess I'll be all right."
"Well, I guess you'd better keep quiet."
He threw on his coat next, and went out into the kitchen, returning soon
with some hot water, with which he began to bathe his partner's face and
hands as tenderly as a woman.
"There; now I guess you're in shape f'r grub--feel any like grub?--Come
in," he called, in answer to a knock on the door.
Mrs. Welsh entered.
"How is he?" she whispered, anxiously.
"Oh, I'm all right," replied Albert.
"I'm glad to find you so much better," she said, going to his bedside.
"I've hardly slep', I was so much worried about you. Your breakfast is
ready, Mr. Hartley. I've got something special for Albert."
A few minutes later Maud entered with a platter, followed closely by her
mother.
The girl came forward timidly, but when Albert turned his eyes on her
and called, cheerily, "Good morning!" she flamed out in rosy color and
recoiled. She had expected to see him pale, dull-eyed, and with a weak
voice, but there was little to indicate invalidism in his firm greeting.
She gave place to Mrs. Welsh, who prepared his breakfast. She was
smitten dumb by his tone, and hardly dared look at him as he sat propped
up in bed.
However, though he was feeling absurdly well, there was a good deal of
bravado in his tone and manner, for he ate but little, and soon sank
back on the bed.
"I feel better when my head is low," he explained, in a faint voice.
"Can't I do something?" asked the girl, her courage reviving as she
perceived how ill and faint he really was.
"I guess you better write to his folks," said Mrs. Welsh.
"No, don't do that," he protested, opening his eyes; "it will only worry
them, and do me no good. I'll be all right in a few days. You needn't
waste your time on me; Hartley will wait on me."
"Don't mind him," said Mrs. Welsh. "I'm his mother now, and he's goin'
to do just as I tell him to--aren't you, Albert?"
He dropped his eyelids in assent, and went off into a doze. It was all
very pleasant to be thus waited upon. Hartley was devotion itself, and
the doctor removed his bandages with the care and deliberation of a man
with a moderate practice; besides, he considered Albert a personal
friend.
Hartley, after the doctor had gone, said with some hesitation:
"Well, now, pard, I _ought_ to go out and see a couple o' fellows I
promised t' meet this morning."
"All right, Jim; all right. You go right ahead on business; I'm goin' t'
sleep, anyway, and I'll be all right in a day or two."
"Well, I will; but I'll run in every hour 'r two and see if you don't
want something. You're in good hands, anyway, when I'm gone."
* * * * *
"Won't you read to me?" pleaded Albert, one afternoon, when Maud came in
with her mother to brush up the room. "It's getting rather slow business
layin' here like this."
"Shall I, mother?"
"Why, of course, Maud."
So Maud got a book, and sat down over by the stove, quite distant from
the bed, and read to him from _The Lady of the Lake_, while the mother,
like a piece of tireless machinery, moved about the house at the
never-ending succession of petty drudgeries which wear the heart and
soul out of so many wives and mothers, making life to them a pilgrimage
from stove to pantry, from pantry to cellar, and from cellar to
garret--a life that deadens and destroys, coarsens and narrows, till the
flesh and bones are warped to the expression of the wronged and cheated
soul.
Albert's selfishness was in a way excusable. He enjoyed beyond measure
the sound of the girl's soft voice and the sight of her graceful head
bent over the page. He lay, looking and listening dreamily, till the
voice and the sunlit head were lost in a deep, sweet sleep.
The girl sat with closed book, looking at his face as he slept. It was a
curious study to her, a young man--_this_ young man, asleep. His brown
lashes lay on his cheek as placid as those of a child. As she looked she
gained courage to go over softly and peer down on him. How boyish he
seemed! How little to be feared! A boy outside uttered a shout, and she
hurried away, pale and breathless. As she paused in the door and looked
back at the undisturbed sleeper, she smiled, and the pink came back into
her thin face.
Albert's superb young blood began to assert itself, and on the afternoon
of the fifth day he was able to sit in his rocking-chair before the fire
and read a little, though he professed that his eyes were not strong, in
order that Maud should read for him. This she did as often as she could
leave her other work, which was "not half often enough," the invalid
grumbled.
"More than you deserve," she found courage to say.
Hartley let nothing interfere with the book business. "You take it
easy," he repeated. "Don't you worry--your pay goes on just the same.
You're doing well right where you are. By jinks! biggest piece o' luck,"
he went on, half in earnest. "Why, I can't turn around without taking an
order--fact! Turned in a book on the livery bill, so that's all fixed.
We'll make a clear hundred dollars out o' that little bump o' yours."
"Little bump! Say, now, that's--"
"Keep it up--put it on! Don't hurry about getting well. I don't need you
to canvass, and I guess you enjoy being waited on." He ended with a sly
wink and cough.
Yes, convalescence was delicious, with Maud reading to him, bringing his
food, and singing for him; all that marred his peace was the stream of
people who came to inquire how he was getting along. The sympathy was
largely genuine, as Hartley could attest, but it bored the invalid. He
had rather be left in quiet with Walter Scott and Maud. In the light of
common day the accident was hurrying to be a dream.
At the end of a week he was quite himself again, though he still had
difficulty in wearing his hat. It was not till the second Sunday after
the accident that he appeared in the dining-room for the first time,
with a large travelling-cap concealing the suggestive bandages. He
looked pale and thin, but his eyes danced with joy.
Maud's eyes dilated with instant solicitude. The rest sprang up in
surprise, with shouts of delight, as hearty as brethren.
"Ginger! I'm glad t' see yeh!" said Troutt, so sincerely that he looked
almost winning to the boy. The rest crowded around, shaking hands.
"Oh, I'm on deck again."
Ed Brann came in a moment later with his brother, and there was a
significant little pause--a pause which grew painful till Albert turned
and saw Brann, and called out:
"Hello, Ed! How are you? Didn't know you were here."
As he held out his hand, Brann, his face purple with shame and
embarrassment, lumbered heavily across the room and took it, muttering
some poor apology.
"Hope y' don't blame me."
"Of course not--fortunes o' war. Nobody to blame; just my
carelessness.--Yes; I'll take turkey," he said to Maud, as he sank into
the seat of honor.
The rest laughed, but Brann remained standing near Albert's chair. He
had not finished yet.
"I'm mighty glad you don't lay it up against me, Lohr; an' I want to say
the doctor's bill is all right; you un'erstand, it's _all right_."
Albert looked at him a moment in surprise. He understood that this,
coming from a man like Brann, meant more than a thousand prayers from a
ready apologist. It was a terrible victory, and he was disposed to make
it as easy for his rival as he could.
"Oh, all right, Ed; only I'd calculated to cheat him out o' part of
it--I'd planned to turn in a couple o' Blaine's _Twenty Years_ on the
bill."
Hartley roared, and the rest joined in, but not even Albert perceived
all that it meant. It meant that the young savage had surrendered his
claim in favor of the man he had all but killed. The struggle had been
prodigious, but he had snatched victory out of defeat; his better nature
had conquered.
No one ever gave him credit for it; and when he went West in the spring,
people said his passion for Maud had been superficial. In truth, he had
loved the girl as sincerely as he had hated his rival. That he could
rise out of the barbaric in his love and his hate was heroic.
When Albert went to ride again, it was on melting snow, with the slowest
horse Troutt had. Maud was happier than she had been since she left
school, and fuller of color and singing. She dared not let a golden
moment pass now without hearing it ring full, and she dared not think
how short this day of happiness might be.