Part 35 (1/2)

The hour was full of that peculiar Sunday afternoon quiet which seems to subdue even the crickets and the birds. There was a breath of fragrance from some fresh-cut gra.s.s, still wet from a noon thunder shower, which had left the air crystal-clear and fresh. Their shadows stretched far ahead along the road, where the dust was still damp, though the setting sun poured a flood of yellow light behind them. Lois walked as though very tired; she scarcely noticed her companion, and did not speak except to answer his questions.

”Isn't there any change in Mrs. Forsythe?” he asked, with anxious sympathy.

Lois shook her head. ”No,” she said.

”Hasn't the rector gotten word to her son yet?”

”No,” Lois said again. ”We telegraphed twice, but he seems to be out of town, and n.o.body knows his address.”

Gifford made no comment.

”I wish he would come!” the girl cried pa.s.sionately. ”It would be a relief to have him reproach me.”

”I hope there will be no need of reproaches. I do hope his mother will get well.”

”Oh, no, no,” Lois said, ”she won't! I know it.”

”Try to be more hopeful,” he urged. ”The doctor said there was absolutely no injury except the shock. I believe she will get well, Lois.”

”Oh, you don't know her,” Lois answered. ”You don't know how frail she is. And then there's Mr. Denner! It is the responsibility of it that kills me, Giff! I cannot get away from it for one single minute.”

They had walked along the road where the accident had taken place, and Lois s.h.i.+vered as she saw the trampled gra.s.s, though it had been her wish that they should come this way.

”Oh,” she said, putting her hands over her eyes, ”life can never look the same to me, even if they get well!”

”No,” Gifford said, ”I understand that. But it may have a new sweetness of grat.i.tude, Lois.”

When they came to the gap in the hedge which was the outlet for the rectory path, Gifford held aside the twigs for her to enter.

”Let us sit down on the stone bench a little while,” he said. ”This is where poor little Mr. Denner sat that afternoon. Oh,” he added in a lower tone, ”just think from what a grief he may have saved us! I feel as though I could never be able to show him my grat.i.tude.” Then he looked at the transplanted bunch of violets, which was fresh and flouris.h.i.+ng, and was silent.

Lois sat down a little reluctantly. The memory of that June night, nearly a year ago, flashed into her mind; she felt the color creep up to her forehead. ”Oh,” she thought, ”how contemptible I am to have any thought but grief,--how shallow I am, how cruel!”

And to punish herself for this, she rushed into speaking of her responsibility again.

Gifford noticed her nervousness. ”She is afraid of me,” he said to himself. ”She wouldn't be, if she cared.”

”You see, Gifford,” she began, ”I keep saying to myself every moment, 'I did it--it was my carelessness--all, all my fault.' Father tried to comfort me, and so did Mrs. Forsythe as soon as she could speak, and Mr.

Denner has sent word that I must not give him a thought (dear Mr.

Denner!), but oh, I know!”

Gifford looked at her pale face, with the sweet trembling lip. ”It is awfully hard for you,” he said.

”Every one said I was not to blame,” she went on unsteadily, ”that it was not my fault; but, Gifford, if they die, I shall have been their murderer!”

She pressed her hands tight together to keep her self-control.

”No, Lois,” he answered gently, ”it is not right to feel that; your will would be to die now for either of them” (”Oh, yes, yes!” she said), ”so don't blame yourself any more than you must.”

”Than I must?” she repeated slowly, looking at him with questioning eyes.

”How do you mean? They say there is no blame, Gifford.”