She listened intently, with sudden, little glances from a momentarily lifted gaze. He grew impatient at the absence of the flattering responses to which he was largely accustomed. And, dropping abruptly his artificial courtesy, he maintained a sullen silence, quickened his stride. He drew some satisfaction from the observation that his reticence hurt her. Her hands caught and strained together; she looked at him with a longer, questioning gaze.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said finally, with palpable difficulty, “how sorry I am about ... about things; your home, and—and I heard of the stage, too. It was a shame, you drove beautifully, and took such care of the passengers.”
“It was that care cost me the place,” he answered with brutal directness; “old Simmons did it; him and his precious Buckley.”
She stopped with an expression of instant, deep concern. “Oh! I am so sorry ... then it was my fault. But it’s horrid that they should have done that; that they should be able; it is all wrong—”
“Right nor wrong don’t make any figure I’ve ever discovered,” he retorted; “Valentine Simmons has the power, he’s got the money. That’s it—money’s the right of things; it took my house away from me, like it’s taken away so many houses, so many farms, in Greenstream—”
“But,” she objected timidly, “didn’t they owe Mr. Simmons for things? You see, people borrow, borrow, borrow, and never pay back. My father,” she proceeded with more confusion, “has lost lots of money in that way.”
“I can tell you all about that,” he informed her bitterly, proceeding to mimic Simmons’ dry, cordial tones, “‘Take the goods right along with you, pay when you like, no hurry between old friends.’ Then, when Zebener Hull’s corn failed, ‘I’ll trouble you for that amount,’ the skinflint says, and sells Zebener out. And what your father’s lost,” he added more directly still, “wouldn’t take you on the stage to Stenton. Your father and Simmons have got about everything worth getting in the county; they’ve got the money, they’ve got the land, they’ve got the men right in their iron safes. Right and wrong,” he sneered, “it’s money—”
“Oh! please,” she begged, “please don’t be so unhappy, so hard. Life isn’t as dreadful as that.”
“It’s worse,” he declared somberly. They turned by Simmons’ store, but continued in the opposite direction from the one-time Makimmon dwelling. They passed a hedge of roses; the perfume hung heavy-sweet, poignant; there was apparently no sky, no earth, only a close, purple envelopment, imminent, palpable, lying languidly, unstirring, in a space without form or limit and of one color.
Lettice walked silently by his side; he could hear her breathing, irregular, quick. She was very close to him, then moved suddenly, consciously, away; but, almost immediately, she drifted back, brushing his shoulder; it seemed that she returned inevitably, blindly; in the gloom her gown fluttered like the soft, white wings of a moth against him.