There was a movement of the head. It was a quick, decided inclination.
“Yes, quite diff’rent,” Molly said, in a voice that was without emotion. “Have you ever hated, Blanche?” she went on quickly. Then she shook her head. “No, you haven’t. You couldn’t. It’s only girls like me can hate. Girls who’ve been wicked. Girls who’re bad. I loved Andy. Oh, I can’t say all I felt. He made the world so good to me. The sun never shone so fine as when he was around. Hope? Why, Blanche, I just didn’t need to think of hope. Life was a swell garden, and work looked like real playtime. Then I had it all figgered. The farm should be his. And we’d build it right up into a swell proposition. And it was all for him—just him. And then I’d raise his children, and they’d surely be boys like him. And they’d have dark eyes like his, not pale things like mine. Then their laugh would be his, too. And I’d nurse and love them for him, and there wouldn’t be a moment in life that I didn’t know real happiness. Oh, I dreamed it all fine. I reckoned we’d have our troubles. I figgered on set-backs that would need grit to face. But I was glad to think of them. It would make it so I could show him the grit I was made of. It was a dream—just a fool dream. Maybe most girls have dreamed the same, and then wakened up the same as I have. Blanche, I’m bad. I’m wicked. He’s made me that way. I hate him. I hate him as bad as once I loved him. Never, never, never as long as God makes me live will I ever see him again. If he came near me I think I’d—kill him.”
The girl’s final words came in a fierce whisper, and Blanche’s decision was taken on the instant. There was much she could have said. There was so much her inclination prompted her to.
“That’s the way I’d feel,” she said quietly.
She sat herself on the edge of the bed and took possession of one of Molly’s hands. Her eyes were smiling as they looked into the startled face of the other.
“Why not?” she went on. “Love and hate run side by side. There’s nothing in between that’s of any account. Dear, you reckon you’ve been wicked. You reckon you’re bad.” She shook her head. “You’re neither. You’re just a good woman who’s loved as God made us capable of loving, and I thank Him with all that’s in me that the waters were so dark and deep that they scared you. Maybe there’s folk would say, don’t hate. But I’m not one of them. Hate him, Molly, if you feel that way. I should. And no good man or woman will ever blame you. But, dear, there’s something better. Forget. The man who could do as he’s done is a poor sort of creature. He isn’t good enough to be a villain. He’s just a mean thing, that’s only fit for a woman’s contempt. Don’t let him stay a day longer in your mind than you can help. Forget him utterly, and remember only that God moulds our disasters as well as our happiness. Remember that He fashioned all things for His own purposes. Out of this terrible experience and grief with which He’s afflicted you happiness may yet come. It will come. I’m dead sure. Forget, dear, and sure, sure, you’ll come to a greater happiness for the courage with which you sweep your disasters out of your mind.”
Blanche felt the responsive pressure of Molly’s hand as she finished speaking. She knew that she had won her complete confidence. Then she saw tears gather and slowly roll down the pale cheeks.
“Oh, think of it!” the girl cried out in a choking voice. “Think of it, with all my life ahead.”
Blanche stroked the hand she was still holding.
“There, there, dear,” she said caressingly. “It’s just great to think you have that life before you. But we’ve talked enough for now, sure. We’re going to do no more. I’m here all the time, and when you feel things beating you down, why, just pass them on to me. Forget, child. Forget as hard as you can. And remember the folk who’re looking after you just love you all they know. Now, don’t worry while I fix your tea.”