“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said. “Take my hand.”
He did so, gently. Her voice was scarcely more than a musical murmur, and between phrases she gasped for breath. “Don’t talk!” he begged. “Let me talk to you, Marian.”
“No,” she said, “I must talk to you, Stacey. Not much—only a little.” She paused, panting.
Stacey was wrenched with pain. This was unbearable. His forehead was damp with sweat.
“I wanted—to tell you,” she went on almost inaudibly, “oh, lots of things! Not to worry—for one. It’s just—as well. Only—isn’t it like me,” she said, with a faint smile, “to fail—even in this?”
“Marian—please!” he muttered, tightening his hold on her hand for an instant. It was the pathos of her frail attempt at cynicism that shook him. For now she no longer looked the weary, perfect, grown-up woman; she seemed a little girl. To watch her die was like watching a child die—or a dream.
“I hurt you, Stacey. I—didn’t mean to,” she said softly, and managed to stroke his hand, ever so faintly.
It was perhaps the first time he had found tenderness in her. He set his teeth hard.
“I must say—what I have to—quickly,” she went on. “You are not to—blame yourself, Stacey. You have—nothing—to—do—with—it.” She paused for a moment, struggling for breath. “I was—all wrong—twisted. You were right. You couldn’t love me—or I you—not even you. I could not bear—life—any longer—having made—such a mess—of it.”
She closed her eyes weakly, and he thought that she slept or—had died. But presently they fluttered open again. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “that I said—what I did—to you—the other day. It was not—true—and I did not mean it—even then.”