One day, she did not know what day, for she had lost count of the days,
Marjorie set the kettle to boil and opened the door of the hut to look
out, and the snow was ablaze with diamonds, and the air was sweet and
still. It occurred to her that it would be well to take Trafford out
into that brief brightness. She looked at him and found his eyes upon
the sunlight quiet and rather wondering eyes.
"Would you like to get out into that?" she asked abruptly.
"Yes," he said, and seemed disposed to get up.
"You've got a broken leg," she cried, to arrest his movement, and he
looked at her and answered: "Of course--I forgot."
She was all atremble that he should recognize her and speak to her. She
pulled her rude old sledge alongside his bunk, and kissed him, and
showed him how to shift and drop himself upon the plank. She took him in
her arms and lowered him. He helped weakly but understandingly, and she
wrapped him up warmly on the planks and lugged him out and built up a
big fire at his feet, wondering, but as yet too fearful to rejoice, at
the change that had come to him.
He said no more, but his eyes watched her move about with a kind of
tired curiosity. He smiled for a time at the sun, and shut his eyes, and
still faintly smiling, lay still. She had a curious fear that if she
tried to talk to him this new lucidity would vanish again. She went
about the business of the morning, glancing at him ever and again, until
suddenly the calm of his upturned face smote her, and she ran to him
and crouched down to him between hope and a terrible fear, and found
that he was sleeping, and breathing very lightly, sleeping with the deep
unconsciousness of a child....
When he awakened the sun was red in the west. His eyes met hers, and he
seemed a little puzzled.
"I've been sleeping, Madge?" he said.
She nodded.
"And dreaming? I've a vague sort of memory of preaching and preaching in
a kind of black, empty place, where there wasn't anything.... A fury of
exposition ... a kind of argument.... I say!--Is there such a thing in
the world as a new-laid egg--and some bread-and-butter?"
He seemed to reflect. "Of course," he said, "I broke my leg. Gollys! I
thought that beast was going to claw my eyes out. Lucky, Madge, it
didn't get my eyes. It was just a chance it didn't."
He stared at her.
"I say," he said, "you've had a pretty rough time! How long has this
been going on?"
He amazed her by rising himself on his elbow and sitting up.
"Your leg!" she cried.
He put his hand down and felt it. "Pretty stiff," he said. "You get me
some food--there _were_ some eggs, Madge, frozen new-laid, anyhow--and
then we'll take these splints off and feel about a bit. Eh! why not? How
did you get me out of that scrape, Madge? I thought I'd got to be froze
as safe as eggs. (Those eggs ought to be all right, you know. If you put
them on in a saucepan and wait until they boil.) I've a sort of muddled
impression.... By Jove, Madge, you've had a time! I say you _have_ had a
time!"
His eyes, full of a warmth of kindliness she had not seen for long
weeks, scrutinized her face. "I say!" he repeated, very softly.
All her strength went from her at his tenderness. "Oh, my dear," she
wailed, kneeling at his side, "my dear, dear!" and still regardful of
his leg, she yet contrived to get herself weeping into his coveted arms.
He regarded her, he held her, he patted her back! The infinite luxury to
her! He'd come back. He'd come back to her.
"How long has it been?" he asked. "Poor dear! Poor dear! How long can it
have been?"