Blanche turned from the man in disgust. She left the room, and walked out to breathe the fresh air. Mrs. Morris, worn out with watching at the bedside of her son, was sleeping soundly in her room upstairs. Max lay with his eyes fixed upon the wall, seemingly buried in his own reflections. A shadow darkened the doorway, and, turning his eyes, Max beheld Bessie gliding stealthily toward him. Her dusky hair hung like a midnight cloud around her sloping shoulders, and contrasted strangely with the marble whiteness of her lovely face. The wild gleam in her blue eyes had given place to a soft look of tender pity.
“Darling,” she said, seating herself near the bed, “I am so sorry.”
Max looked a moment at the beautiful face ere he spoke. He hardly knew whether he felt safe in the presence of a maniac or not, even though she was a frail woman.
“What for?” he asked, at length.
“I am sorry for you because you see you are going away to the spirit land. There will be, oh so many ghosts to dance about your grave, and perhaps I will come, too. I will not keep you waiting so long. I waited and waited until I grew, oh so very tired. You see I thought you would come, and I waited so long, I cried every day, and my heart was broken, yes, broken.”
“Hush, Bessie.”
“No, I won’t hush. I came to tell you all about my beautiful little baby; she lies out under the rose tree. Some night when the storm comes on you can go and ask the ghosts to show you where she sleeps. I am 290 not mad, just tired. Oh, you do not know how tired I get waiting for him. He said he loved me and would marry me. He said my hair and eyes were lovely, and you know I believed him.”
“So they are, Bessie.”
“Don’t you say that again. I would never believe it if you did. All men are devils—devils.”
“Then I am as good as the rest,” said Max, carelessly.