During the first week of Ogilvie's illness Rosamund went once or twice
to the house at the Summit where he lay. Doctor Blake had heard the
story of the fire, and in the deliberate courtesy of his manner
Rosamund suspected a veiled distrust; she imagined that he was
wondering, whenever he looked at her, what manner of woman it was for
whom Ogilvie had risked his life, and whether she were worthy of his
possible sacrifice. She told herself that she would have felt the
same, in his place; while, in her humility, she secretly reiterated her
own unworthiness. But she knew herself guiltless of actual blame or
wrong-doing, and found it hard to endure Doctor Blake's scrutiny, which
seemed both to accuse and weigh and find wanting. Yet even that was
easier to bear than the tolerant manner of the young woman in the white
dress and coquettish cap, who came out of Ogilvie's room to assure her,
with the tolerant air that seems to be an attribute of street-car
conductors, policemen and trained nurses, that there was really no
immediate prospect of change in the patient's condition, as pneumonia
had to run its definite course.
For all the longing of her heart, and for all the courage with which
she started out, Rosamund allowed herself to be snubbed into retreat.
Mother Cary alone braved the authoritative one whenever she pleased, or
whenever Pap would take her across the valley; and it was on the ninth
night after the fire that she did what Rosamund and Ogilvie always
declared to be the most merciful and courageous act of all her
beautiful life.
"Now," she said, after supper, when Pap had gone out to the barn to
harness the horse for his nightly pilgrimage, "Now, honey, this bein'
the night when he'll come to, or--when he'll come to, surely--don't you
think he ain't goin' to come to, 'cause he is--and you're goin' over
with Pap to be there!"
Rosamund rose from her place beside the table, her hands clasped
against her heart, pale, then flushed, then pale again.
Mother Cary looked up at her. "Darlin', come here to yo' Ma Cary," she
said, and, when the girl knelt beside her, she put her arms about her
and laid her withered, soft old cheek against Rosamund's hair.
"Honey," she said, "Ma Cary knows how you're feelin'! You're a young
maid, an' by words unasked; but he's your man, an' you're his woman, in
the sight o' God and the knowledge o' your own hearts. Ain't it so?
Yes--but don't cry, my lamb! Don't cry like that! This ain't the time
to cry. Look at me, dearie! That's right! Well, I didn't tell you to
go, before to-night, because I knew 'twasn't for the best; but now your
place is over there, alongside o' him. Let him open his eyes on you,
ef so be it he is to open them knowin'ly in this world again. An' ef
he ain't to be permitted to do that--then, my lamb, it's for you to be
there to close 'em. There! That's right! Put it all back--grief
keeps, an' maybe you won't need it, after all. Sho'! Hyear me
talkin'! Why, I jest downright know you won't need it!"
Rosamund lifted her white, white face. "But----" she began.
"I know what you're thinkin'," Mother Cary said. "I once thought that
a way, too, befo' Pap made me see what was right. Put all sech doubts
away from you. Your love an' his love are worth more than that. Look
Ma Cary in the face, lamb, an' tell me--ain't they? There, there, now
don't let the tears rise up again. You ain't got time for tears
to-night."
"But the nurse--Doctor Blake--what will they--Oh, how can I?"
"It'll be all right with Doctor Blake. He knows you're comin'! An' as
for the nurse, she's a paid hirelin', and you're his woman. Jest you
bear that in mind, honey--hurry, there's Pap's wheels!"
So it came to pass, in that critical hour before dawn when souls so
often waver upon the threshold of life, when John Ogilvie's breathing
became less labored and his eyes opened--tired, to be sure, but with
unmistakable consciousness in them--it was Rosamund who was bending
over him, while the strange woman in the white gown and cap looked at
him, felt his pulse, smiled as if satisfied, and went out and closed
the door behind her. It was Rosamund whose eyes smiled into his with
the pitiful, brave effort of trying to make believe that there had
never been any danger at all to frighten her. His hand moved toward
her, his lips formed her name; and it was Rosamund's warm palm which
closed over his hand, and her cheek which rested against his as he went
to sleep.
[Illustration: "It was Rosamund whose eyes smiled into his."]