She looked toward John then, for decision or for reassurance. His eyes answered her; they bade her listen; they told her there was no work for the doctor here. So she turned back to Evered again. He was speaking slowly; she caught his words bending above him.
It was thus that the man told the story at last, without heat or passion, neither sparing himself nor condemning himself, but as though he spoke of another man. And he spoke of little things that he had not been conscious of noticing at the time—how when he took down his revolver to go after the bull the cats were frightened and ran from him; how as he passed through the barnyard the horse whinnied from its stall; how he was near stumbling over a ground sparrow’s nest in the open land above the woodlot; how a red squirrel mocked at him from a hemlock as he went on his way. It was as though he lived the day over while they listened. He told how he had come out above the spring; how he saw Mary and Dane Semler there.
“I believed she loved him,” he said.
And Ruth cried, “Oh, she never loved anyone but you.” She was not condemning, she was reassuring him; and he understood, his hand tightening on hers.
“I know,” he said. “And my unbelief was my great wrong to Mary; worse than the other.”
He went on steadily enough. “There was time,” he told her. “I could have turned him, stopped him, shot him. But I hated her; I let the bull come on.”
The girl scarce heard him. His words meant little to her; her sympathy for him was so profound that her only concern was to ease the man and make him happier.
She cried, “Don’t, don’t torment yourself! Please, I understand.”
“I killed her,” he said.
And as one would soothe a child, while the tears ran down her cheeks she bade him never mind.