He winced and was silent.
“They were nothing,” she went on, “but to be forgotten, forsaken by—by—”
“Clay?” he helped her say.
“Oh,” she flushed—“yes,—that was part of it, and then to see—to see—you so different—with this strange look on you—something which says so plainly to me that—that—oh, forgive me, but do you know I seem to see you dying—dying all the time, and now you are so changed—indeed—oh please understand me—I feel differently toward you—as I would toward one dying for sympathy and love.”
She hid her face again. He felt his face grow hot. He sat perfectly still, listening. At last she said:
“When I came here to-night and saw it all—empty—I thought: 'This means I am deserted by all—he has brought me here to see it—to know it. What can I do but go with him? It is all that is left. Did I make myself? Did I give myself this fatal beauty—for you say I am beautiful. And did I make you with your strength—your conquering strength, and—Oh, could I overcome my environment?' But now—now—it is different—and if I am lost, Richard Travis—it will be your fault—yours and God's.”
He stroked her hair. He was pale and that strange light which Jud Carpenter had seen in his eyes that afternoon blazed now with a nervous flash.
“That is my story,” she cried. “It is now too late even for God to come and tell me through you—now since we—you and I—oh, how can I say it—you have taken me this way—you, so strong and brave and—grand—”
He flushed hot with shame. He put his hand gently over her mouth.
“Hush—hush—child—my God—you hurt me—shame me—you know not what you say.”