Lucy did not reply, but buried her face deeper in the pillow. An oppressive silence ensued, during which Marjorie racked her brain as to what she had best say next. What ailed Lucy? She was even queerer than Marjorie had supposed.
With a convulsive jerk Lucy suddenly sat upright. Marjorie was relieved to observe no indication of tears in the probing green eyes. She had feared Lucy might be crying. Why she should cry was a mystery, however.
“If you had made a mistake about someone and then done a perfectly dreadful thing and afterward found out that it was all a mistake, what would you do?” Lucy queried with nervous intensity.
“I—that’s a hard question to answer. It would depend a good deal on what I had done and who the person was.”
“But if the person didn’t know that it was you who did it, would you tell them?” continued Lucy.
“If I had hurt them very much, I think my conscience would torment me until I did,” Marjorie said slowly. “It would be hard, of course, but it would be exactly what I deserved. But why do you ask me such strange things?”
“Because I must know. I’ve done something wrong and I’ve got to face it. I’ve just found out that I have a very lively conscience. What you said is true. I deserve to suffer. I am the Observer.” Lucy dropped back on her pillow, her long, black lashes veiling her peculiarly colored eyes.
Undiluted amazement tied Marjorie’s tongue. Staring at the pitifully white, small face against the pillow, she came into a flashing, emotional knowledge of the embittered spirit that had prompted the writing of those vexatious letters. “You poor little thing!” she cried out compassionately. The next instant her soft hands held one of Lucy’s in a caressing clasp.
Lucy’s heavy lids lifted. “I don’t wonder your friends love you,” she said somberly. Her free hand came to rest lightly on Marjorie’s arm. “I know now that I could have been your friend, too.”
“But you shall be from this minute on,” Marjorie replied, her pretty face divinely tender. “You’ve proved your right to be. It was brave in you to tell me. If you hadn’t been the right sort of girl you might have decided to like me and kept what you told me to yourself. I would never have known the difference. I am glad that I do know. It takes away the shadow. I understand that you must have suffered a great deal. I blame myself, too. I’m afraid I’ve thought too much about my own pleasure and seemed snobbish.”