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Updated: May 28, 2025
"Perfectly," she answered, in a voice the control of which was in amazing contrast to the anger that blazed in the face she turned aside so that Haythorne might not see. The latter was again on the verge of asking his name, when Messner remarked: "This Dr. Womble, I've heard he was very handsome, and er quite a success, so to say, with the ladies."
"Then I hope, with God's help, to serve your majesty." He turned to the monk, and said, with a proud, commanding tone: "Brother Anastasius, listen to my commands. Go immediately to Messner, order him in my name to call all the brothers to high mass in the choir of the church; threaten him with my wrath and the severest punishment, if he dares to speak to one of the brethren.
She flashed a look at him that was more anger than appeal. Haythorne was about to ask the other's name. His mouth had opened to form the question when Messner cut him off. "Come to think of it, Doctor, you may possibly be able to satisfy my curiosity. There was a sort of scandal in faculty circles some two or three years ago.
"It's so interesting," Messner smiled at her, then returned to the doctor. "The husband seems then to have had a not very savory reputation in San Francisco?" "On the contrary, he was a moral prig," Haythorne blurted out, with apparently undue warmth. "He was a little scholastic shrimp without a drop of red blood in his body." "Did you know him?" "Never laid eyes on him.
She came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm. "You don't want me, John?" Her voice was soft and caressing, her hand rested like a lure. "If I told you I had made a mistake? If I told you that I was very unhappy? and I am. And I did make a mistake." Fear began to grow on Messner. He felt himself wilting under the lightly laid hand.
"Well?" he demanded of her. She hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. He turned upon Messner. "Enough of this. You can't stop here." "Yes, I can." "I won't let you." Womble squared his shoulders. "I'm running things." "I'll stay anyway," the other persisted. "I'll put you out." "I'll come back." Womble stopped a moment to steady his voice and control himself.
The man continued in the same position on the bed. The woman sat on the grub- box, facing him. "What are you going to do?" she asked abruptly. Messner looked at her with lazy indecision. "What do you think I ought to do? Nothing scenic, I hope. You see I am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful." She gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly.
"Why, necessarily, should I be the one to get out? I found this cabin first." "But Tess can't get out," Womble explained. "Her lungs are already slightly chilled." "I agree with you. She can't venture ten miles of frost. By all means she must remain." "Then it is as I said," Womble announced with finality. Messner cleared his throat. "Your lungs are all right, aren't they?" "Yes, but what of it?"
Messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal, what of the profundity of pity and patience with which he contrived to suffuse it. "My dear Theresa, as I told you before, I don't know. I really haven't thought about it." "Oh! You drive me mad!" She sprang to her feet, wringing her hands in impotent wrath. "You never used to be this way."
He gets a dry, hacking cough as the dead tissue sloughs away, and dies the following summer of pneumonia, wondering what it's all about. I'll stay in this cabin for a week, unless the thermometer rises at least to fifty below." "I say, Tess," he said, the next moment, "don't you think that coffee's boiled long enough!" At the sound of the woman's name, John Messner became suddenly alert.
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