She hastened to comfort him—the more emotionally; perhaps, because her own heart was very full.
“There’s nobody—indeed there isn’t.”
“I heard voices.”
“It was only ours—Mr Trix’s and mine.”
He sank back, with the sigh of a reprieved soul; but was up again almost immediately, stroking and fondling the girl’s hand. His eyes had grown flushed and maudlin out of relief. The sensuous fever of him was uppermost.
“Dear little nurse!” he murmured; “dear kind little Molly! You never fail to frighten the dreams away. I think you could cure me altogether if you would.”
She sat on the bed, suffering his caresses, because, as she wilfully told herself, they were lavished on her as another’s proxy. Would she could act so indeed, in the manner of those Eastern enchantments of which she had read, and secure that other’s compromise without hurt to herself! He was emboldened by her passiveness.
“Molly,” he whispered: “if you would only put your face—here, down by mine, on the pillow.”
She did not stir. He stole an arm about her.
“We could make it all right afterwards,” he said, with a thick little laugh. “If I once had that reason, as I have the power, to mend something I’d done, I think I could face the world like a giant. It’s only shadows that upset me. Perfection, I’ve come to see, was never meant for men. It’s better to sin a little, if one does penance for it—better than being a saint. We know that on good authority, Molly, don’t we? I’ll promise amendment—I will, on my honour—and—and—are you fond of jewels, Molly?”