'Are you the man who took me out of the river?' she said.
'God forbid!' says I.
'I'm only the doctor who was fool enough to meddle with you afterward.'
She turned to the landlady.
'Who took me out of the river?' she asked.
The landlady told her, and mentioned your name.
'Germaine?' she said to herself;
'I know nobody named Germaine; I wonder whether it was the man who spoke to me on the bridge?'
'Yes,' says the landlady;
'Mr. Germaine said he met you on the bridge.' Hearing that, she took a little time to think; and then she asked if she could see Mr. Germaine.
'Whoever he is,' she says, 'he has risked his life to save me, and I ought to thank him for doing that.'
'You can't thank him tonight,' I said; 'I've got him upstairs between life and death, and I've sent for his mother: wait till to-morrow.'
She turned on me, looking half frightened, half angry.
'I can't wait,' she says; 'you don't know what you have done among you in bringing me back to life.
I must leave this neighborhood; I must be out of Perthshire to-morrow: when does the first coach southward pass this way?'
Having nothing to do with the first coach southward, I referred her to the people of the inn.
My business (now I had done with the lady) was upstairs in this room, to see how you were getting on.
You were getting on as well as I could wish, and your mother was at your bedside.
I went home to see what sick people might be waiting for me in the regular way.
When I came back this morning, there was the foolish landlady with a new tale to tell
'Gone!' says she.
'Who's gone?' says I.
'The lady,' says she, 'by the first coach this morning!'"
"You don't mean to tell me that she has left the house?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, but I do!" said the doctor, as positively as ever.
"Ask madam your mother here, and she'll certify it to your heart's content.
I've got other sick ones to visit, and I'm away on my rounds.
You'll see no more of the lady; and so much the better, I'm thinking.
In two hours' time I'll be back again; and if I don't find you the worse in the interim, I'll see about having you transported from this strange place to the snug bed that knows you at home.
Don't let him talk, ma'am, don't let him talk."
With those parting words, Mr. MacGlue left us to ourselves.
"Is it really true?" I said to my mother.
"Has she left the inn, without waiting to see me?"
"Nobody could stop her, George," my mother answered.
"The lady left the inn this morning by the coach for Edinburgh."
I was bitterly disappointed.
Yes: "bitterly" is the word—though she was a stranger to me.
"Did you see her yourself?" I asked.
"I saw her for a few minutes, my dear, on my way up to your room."
"What did she say?"
"She begged me to make her excuses to you.
She said,
'Tell Mr. Germaine that my situation is dreadful; no human creature can help me.
I must go away.
My old life is as much at an end as if your son had left me to drown in the river.
I must find a new life for myself, in a new place.
Ask Mr. Germaine to forgive me for going away without thanking him. I daren't wait! I may be followed and found out.
There is a person whom I am determined never to see again—never! never! never!
Good-by; and try to forgive me!'
She hid her face in her hands, and said no more.