She saw him shudder.
“If you can help it,” he said, “don’t
make me see the brand I have put on you. Don’t,
for Heaven’s sake, cringe to me if you can help
it.”
“Very well,” she said.
He struck his clenched hand against his face.
“It’s the price,” he declared through
his teeth, “and I accept it.” He spoke
more to himself than to her, and then directly:
“Will you let me walk up with you?”
“Yes.”
He took her passive arm. They went slowly, slowly
up the stairs, for at each landing it seemed her strength
gave out, and she had to pause for a brief rest; when
she paused he spoke with difficulty, but with his heart
in every word.
“You remember the old Greek fable, Ruth?
The story about all the pains and torments which flew
out of Pandora’s box, and how Hope came out
last—that blessed Hope—and healed
the wounds? Here, a moment after the blow has
fallen, I am hoping again like a fool. I am hoping
that I shall teach you to forget; or, if I cannot
teach you to forget, than I shall even make you glad
of what you have done tonight.”
The door closed on her, and she was alone. Raising
her head she found she was looking straight across
the street to the lighted windows of the rooms of
Ronicky Doone and Bill Gregg. While she watched
she saw the silhouette of a man and woman running
to each other, saw them clasped in each other’s
arms. Ruth dropped to her knees and buried her
face in her hands.
Unhappy Freedom
Once out in the street Caroline had cast one glance
of terror over her shoulder at the towering facade
of the house of John Mark, then she fled, as fast
as her feet would carry her, straight across the street
and up the steps of the rooming house and frantically
up the stairs, a panic behind her.
Presently she was tapping hurriedly and loudly on
a door, while, with her head turned, she watched for
the coming of some swift-avenging figure from behind.
John Mark had given her up, but it was impossible
for John Mark to give up anything. When would
he strike? That was the only question.
Then the door opened. The very light that poured
out into the dim hall was like the reach of a friendly
hand, and there was Ronicky Doone laughing for pure
joy—and there was Bill Gregg’s haggard
face, as if he saw a ghost.
“I told you, Bill, and here she is!”
After that she forgot Ronicky Doone and the rest of
the world except Gregg, as he took her in his arms
and asked over and over: “How did it come
about? How did it come about?”
And over and over she answered: “It was
Ronicky, Bill. We owe everything to him and Ruth
Tolliver.”
This brought from Ronicky a sudden question:
“And what of her? What of Ruth Tolliver?
She wouldn’t come?”
It pricked the bubble of Caroline’s happiness,
that question. Staring at the frowning face of
Ronicky Doone her heart for a moment misgave her.
How could she tell the truth? How could she admit
her cowardice which had accepted Ruth’s great
sacrifice?
