“That’s all right, boy. Be good.”
And he laughed at the old man’s back as Lightning passed out on his way to the shoeing-smith.
Blanche had visited the farm in Lightning’s absence. And the news greeted him on his arrival home. His return seemed to gladden Molly, in spite of herself. She told him Blanche’s visit was in the way of a sort of farewell. She had come to tell her that she was not likely to visit her again for some time; that she would be up in the hills with her men-folk on a vacation, and did not quite know when she would quit them. Molly told him she seemed sad because she was going to be in the hills. But she said she would come again to see her when opportunity offered.
Lightning yearned to ask if she had confided her trouble to this woman friend, but discretion forbade. Instead, he asked other questions of a casual nature. Did she stop around long? And he learned that Blanche had eaten at the house and then taken her departure.
It was not until he was alone in his bunk-house that night that he realised a curiously significant thing about Blanche’s visit. She must have passed him on the trail from Hartspool. She was living somewhere around Hartspool. She must have been coming to the farm while he was leaving it. Yet they had not met. He had not seen a sign of her. Then a further thought occurred to him. Why had he so completely forgotten her when he was in Hartspool? No doubt Barney Lake could have told him just who she was and all about her. It was idiotic that he had made no inquiry. And he fell into his customary deep slumber cursing himself.
But matters relating to Blanche quickly faded out of his mind. Molly absorbed his whole concern. There was no improvement in her. She worked from daylight to dark. She ate clearly because she must. Her laugh was a thing he had forgotten. She was so changed—so utterly changed.
Her attitude towards him was pathetic in its gentleness. Sometimes there was a display of submissiveness which literally distracted him. As the weeks passed he realised, too, that her strength was failing her. She grew weary so easily. The labours with fork and hoe, which had once been child’s play to her, not only became effort, but effort she could no longer sustain. And he knew by the signs that she was steadily becoming sick, not only in mind, but also in body. Time and youth were no longer her allies. And he was haunted by the danger-signal, which, with every passing day, he saw drawing nearer.
Lightning had not the temperament to stand by indefinitely without making an effort. And so it came about that on one memorable evening, after a day of more than usual anxiety, just as he was leaving his bunk-house he precipitated things with his sympathy.
“Say, Molly, gal,” he said, no longer able to restrain the impulse, “you ain’t lookin’ good. An’, mebbe, you ain’t feelin’ good. I kind of see them pore mean cheeks o’ yours gettin’ thin like paper. An’ you ain’t got the grit you had for the work around the farm. The oats is comin’ ripe. We’ll need to be cuttin’ come a week. Now, I bin thinkin’. The season’s good. Ther’ ain’t no rain about. Ther’ ain’t no sort o’ hurry. Wal, I don’t see you need to worry with that harvest. You sure don’t. I ken do it lone-handed easy. You lie up. You set around. An’ when them cheeks has filled right out, an’ the colour’s got back to ’em——”
But the old man broke off, aghast at the result of his effort. Molly’s reply came in the midst of it. It was a repetition of that breakdown on the night of the party. She burst into a flood of tears, and fled from the room.