CHAPTER XXXIVA Burdened Heart
THERE was no sound in the room but of the rustle of the sewing upon which Blanche was engaged. It was a blazing afternoon. Beyond the open, mosquito-netted window the nature-sounds added to the sense of general drowsiness. There was not a breath of air stirring amongst the hill-tops to temper the summer heat.
For a moment Blanche raised her eyes from her work. They were gravely contemplative as they surveyed the face of her charge, who was occupying her own luxurious bed. Molly was half sitting, propped up against a number of ample pillows, and her eyes were closed, while her face was calmly reposeful.
The pallor of her brow and cheeks robbed the girl of none of her prettiness. Her surroundings perhaps even enhanced it. Her dark hair was hidden under the embrace of a lace cap, which set a sweet framing about her rounded features. Then the ravishing dressing-jacket, which concealed her night apparel, had been carefully selected for her from Blanche’s wardrobe. Its sleeves were wide, and terminated at the elbows, which left her forearms fully exposed as they lay helplessly on the coverlet of the bed.
Blanche was more than satisfied. The child, she told herself, was sleeping easily. And it needed no word from Doc Lennox to tell her the value of such restful sleep.
It was Molly’s third day at the ranch. It was the third long, anxious day since Jim had passed her safely through the wide-open Gateway of Hope. And Blanche understood that the worst of the child’s physical trouble wasover. The thing that concerned her now was that other—that psychological reaction which she knew could so easily undo the rest. As she sat guard over the girl’s slumbers she pondered deeply the possibilities of disaster.
Blanche possessed no narrowness in her outlook upon life. Tolerance and generosity were the very essence of her nature. Human disaster never failed to wound her. And her sympathy went out without measure in response. Condemnation never entered her thought. It was the same for Molly as it had been for her own brothers. Eddie was far away beyond the reach of the penalty to which the laws of man entitled him, and she was satisfied. Jim was in hiding, no less a victim of human law. She made no excuse for either of them. She saw no need for excuse. These things were the disasters which afforded her the opportunity of indulging her devotion.
She realized something of the tremendous nature of Molly’s lonely struggle. She knew well enough that the girl could have taken the easier course of selling out at the time of her father’s death. She could have gone to a city, and taken her chance in life with others similarly situated. But she had done no such thing. And the courage of it all had caught her imagination and enlisted her sympathy. Molly had accepted the big battle for which her youth and sex found her so unfitted.
Then at the back of everything else lay the knowledge of her brother’s desire, and the memory of the thing which George Marton had done for Jim in his extremity. And so she had taken Molly to her heart like some young sister who needed the mother-care she had been so long deprived of.
Molly had spoken so very, very little, and Blanche understood. The girl’s reticence was not the result of weakness, of sickness. She had spoken her thanks for every kindness without hesitation or effort. But she hadset up a barrier beyond that which forbade any intrusion upon the suffering it concealed. Blanche had made up her mind that that barrier must be removed. And if the girl herself failed to remove it, then she must do her best to break it down. Otherwise she knew that the girl’s recovery could never reach that completeness she desired for her.
The afternoon wore on, and the hour for tea approached. The sun had shifted its position, and its beam fell athwart the bed. Blanche rose from her seat, and gently drew a curtain to shut out the offending light. She returned at once to her sewing. Resettling herself, she glanced over at the bed. Molly’s eyes were wide open.
The older woman smiled.
“Did I disturb you, dear?” she asked, in that low, hushed tone so quickly acquired in a sick-room.
For answer the lace cap moved in a negative shake of the head.
“Why, no,” Molly said. Then, a moment later: “I guess I wasn’t asleep.”
Blanche raised an admonishing finger.
“Foxing, eh?”
The smiling eyes were inviting, and Molly drew a deep breath. Blanche waited for her to speak, but the girl closed her eyes again, as though seeking to avoid the sight of the things about her.
Blanche went on with her work.
“Blanche!”
The summons came with an energy that startled the girl at the window. She looked up, and rose from her chair, and, laying her sewing aside, came swiftly to the bedside.
“Yes, dear?” she said gently.
“May I—I want to talk to you,” Molly raised herself on her pillows.
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 Iknow 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.
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 justdidn’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.”
She leant over and kissed the tearful face, and with a final squeeze of the hand, she rose from the bed to depart on her mission. In her wisdom she knew that the thing she desired would be accomplished.