Molly’s tone was almost pleading. It was the humility of it that troubled the other most.
“Sure,” Blanche said. “Talk all you need. But you haven’t to tire or excite yourself. You see, dear, I’m your nurse, and you’ve got to do as I say.”
It was all very gentle and almost playful. It was intended to soothe. For Blanche had detected at once the excitement lying behind the girl’s eyes. She felt that the moment had come when the barrier must be passed, and she knew that on the manner of its passing depended the whole of Molly’s future. But the girl gave no heed. Her eyes were fixed on the other’s face, and it was more than doubtful if she realised the words so solicitously intended.
“You see,” she cried in a tone that was slightly strident, “you couldn’t ever be like me. You couldn’t ever feel the way I do. You don’t need to. You haven’t done— But I’ve got to talk. I’ve got to tell you. I’ve got to say it all, or I’ll go crazy. You see, Blanche, I just loved him. I sort of loved him to death. We were fixed to be married before summer was out. And then—and then I—I just wanted to die. I—I wanted to kill myself. I tried. Oh, if I’d only had grit enough. But I hadn’t. I got scared. I thought of father. I thought of the priest in Hartspool, and the things he used to say when father took me in to Mass. I got scared worse. Then the water was so black and deep, and I knew I hadn’t the grit. And then—and then—something seemed to happen, and I didn’t know anything any more at all.”
“You were worn out and ill, dear,” Blanche said soothingly. “You’d been in the saddle hours and hours. I guess you’d been in the saddle all night. Lightning told me. You dropped in a faint at the water’s edge. But do you want to talk of it? Will it help you? Won’t it bring back all your sorrows and trouble—that don’t need ever to hurt you again? You see, Molly, I think I know it all. I think I know all you felt—all your trouble. You loved Andy McFardell, and—and that’s the whole of it.”
Molly gazed long and fixedly into Blanche’s face. And the older woman realised a swift hardening in her eyes. It was curious, subtle. They were so unfitted for such an expression.
At last the sick girl drew a deep breath, and the fixity of her regard passed. Her gaze fell away, and sought the carefully-shaded window, where the sunlight shone about its edges.
“I couldn’t tell anyone else,” she said, all the sharpness gone from her tone. “But you—you understand, Blanche. You’re not blaming me? You—you don’t feel badly for those who—who—— Oh, Blanche, I loved him. Why did God make us like that? I didn’t think. I didn’t care. He seemed to me the whole world. So fine and strong, and so kind to me. No one else mattered a thing. Lightning was nobody. And even you. But—but it’s diff’rent now.”
“Different?”
Blanche watched. Just for an instant a tinge of colour dyed the girl’s cheeks. It mounted even to her brows. Then it receded, and her eyes had become hard and cold, and, to Blanche’s imagination, merciless.