She saw the girl’s face fall. “No,” she said slowly, “I hardly remember getting into the boat or what he said; but he didn’t say much afterwards. He scarcely spoke all the way back.”
Under her breath Mrs. Dan made uncomplimentary remarks about the absent Steve.
“He’d have seen you were worn out and didn’t want to talk,” she said.
“No,” said Ess, “it wasn’t that, because I spoke and thanked him, and he just barely answered, and no more. And I was sorry for it because I wanted to be friends with him again. I—” her voice sank till Mrs. Dan could barely hear, “I was once unkind and rather cruel to him, and he hasn’t forgiven it.”
Ess was sitting on the sofa, and Mrs. Dan crossed the room to her, and sat beside her and laid a hand on her knee.
“My dear,” she said very kindly, “I know well how cruel a girl can be; and the more she loves, the more she’s hurt, and the crueller she can be. But a man forgets the cruel parts if kindness follows.”
“But if the man doesn’t want the kindness—if he doesn’t care?” said Ess, with her voice trembling.
“My dear, my dear, can you be so foolish?” said Mrs. Dan, tenderly. “Won’t you tell me the whole story, dear? Maybe I could help you better. It won’t pass my own lips again, not even to Dan. And maybe it will help you to the tellin’ if I give you this first. Steve loves you, girl; worships the ground you tread. I’ve seen him myself start and change colour and tremble at the thought and the word of you, when I spoke it not knowin’ who it was I spoke of, but the girl the heart of him was breakin’ for. There, there now, my dear, tell me all about it an’ let me help.”
Ess was weeping quietly in her arms when she finished, but presently she sat up and dried her eyes, and steadied her voice and told the whole pitiful tale. She made no attempt to spare or excuse herself in any way. She told of her shame and anger at the proof she had found of his guilt, and of his refusal to clear himself, although he denied it. She told of the blow she had struck him—and Mrs. Dan’s eyes looked down on her bowed head with a curious hardness at the telling of that—and of her promising herself to Ned there in his hearing because—because—she hardly knew why, except, perhaps, that she was so angry with him, and thought that it might hurt him. She told, too, how the engagement had fretted her, and how she had broken it off, and how she had longed to make it up again with Steve and be friends, even if he would have her for nothing more. And Mrs. Dan’s eyes were soft and wet with tears when she finished, and she comforted her, and petted and mothered her as best she knew.
“It’ll all come right, my dear,” she said. “And now don’t let’s talk about it more for the minute. I want to think it over, and I’ve got little Danny to give his bath. Wait here while I do that—or would you like to help me?”