Lightning was feeling more content than the condition of things seemed to indicate. He was on the saddle of his binder, ruminating behind the stout quarters of Jane and Blue Pete while he cut the oat crop. There was something very satisfying to him in the operation. The season was good. The air was hot and bracing under a perfect sun. The straw was sturdy, and not too long. The ear was heavy. Then there had been no summer storms to “lay” the dancing grain that rustled about him. There were feed and seed to spare in the crop. There would be many quarters for the Hartspool market.
These things undoubtedly influenced him, but there were others as well. Molly had voluntarily fallen in with his suggestion. She had left the oat harvest entirely to him. She had remained to look after the lighter affairs of the farm. Then, on this first day of the cutting, Blanche had arrived on her first visit in two months. He had left her now with Molly, and somehow he was hoping much from her visit.
She had ridden up to the farm more than usually early, having arrived just after breakfast. Now it was nearing noon, and a big cut of oats lay sprawled in sheaves to Lightning’s credit. He meant to cut till eating-time, and spend the afternoon stooking. His temper was easy as the machine passed up and down the crop. Jane and Blue Pete were having a peaceful time, and seemed to approve. From the creek to the bluff, which shut them out of sight of their barn, they moved on steadily, comfortably encircling the ever-diminishing patch of standing grain.
He was nearing the woodland bluff when Blanche appeared. She came through the woods, clearly prepared for departure. It was also obvious to Lightning that she had come specially to talk to him. Were it not so she would surely have departed the way she had come, which way lay farther down the creek, where he had broken the new five acres earlier in the year.
He drew up his team as he approached the spot at which she was awaiting him. His eyes betrayed the question in his mind, and his first words displayed his anxiety.
“Mebbe you ken tell me, ma’am, now you’ve seen her,” he said eagerly. “I’m figgerin’ that pore kid’s sick. Sick to death. An’ I’m wonderin’. I feel like it’s right up to me. An’—an’ I heven’t a notion of the thing I need to do. It ain’t a case o’ salts fer Molly gal’s sickness. Mebbe her body’s sick. I guess it surely is. But I sort o’ feel it’s her mind’s the trouble, ma’am. An’ I guess ther’ ain’t no dope merchant in Hartspool ken fix that. You’re a swell leddy, with knowledge, an’ I guess she’s a woman like you. It’s since ever that party, an’ that skunk of a boy ain’t showed up.”
Blanche’s eyes were grave as she looked down on the man from her saddle. She was observing him closely, looking for an answer to the many questions in her own mind. Apparently her observation satisfied her, for an indefinable expression slowly eased her gravity.
“She’s sick,” she said. Then she added: “She’s more sick than you guess.”
The full significance of what she said lay in Blanche’s tone. And Lightning’s old heart sank within him.