Inside of a fortnight after the events just chronicled, the women came
ashore to occupy the practically completed huts.
The Doraine was deserted except for Captain Trigger and the half-dozen
sailors who remained with him. These sailors were ancient tars whose
lives had been spent at sea. They were grizzled, wizened old chaps. One
of them, Joe Sands, had been an able seaman for forty-six years, and,
despite a perpetual crick in the back, he insisted that he was still
an abler seaman than ninety-five per cent, of the thirty-year-olds
who followed the sea for a living. When Captain Trigger announced his
resolve to stay on board, where he belonged, these vainglorious old
seadogs elected to remain with him to the end.
The exodus of women was hastened somewhat by the further listing of the
Doraine. This was due primarily to the removal of thousands of tons from
the holds, the galley and the engine room. A more sinister cause for
alarm, however, was the action of the greatly lightened vessel when a
tidal wave swept into the basin from the north. This came at the tag end
of the storm,--on the third day, in fact. The Doraine seemed actually to
be afloat for a few seconds, heaving, shuddering, groaning. Her bottom,
after scraping and grinding and giving up the most unearthly sounds,
suddenly appeared to have freed itself completely from the rocks on
which it was jammed. She seemed on the point of righting herself. Then
she started to roll over on her side! Almost as abruptly she stopped,
shivered, and then lay still again. But she was not in her old position.
She was lying over at least two degrees farther than before the
upheaval.
This same, tremendous tidal wave, driven up by the strong wind that
had blown steadily and viciously out of the north for three
days,--or perhaps created by some vast internal convulsion of the
earth,--completely inundated the low-lying point of land known as Cape
Sunrise, At least two miles of the island was temporarily under water.
The high ridge lining the shore alone prevented the sea from hurtling
over into the valley to destroy the fields and gardens and even to
imperil the row of huts along the opposite slope.
Out on Cape Sunrise the waters swept over the lonely grave of Betty
Cruise, but fell back baffled when they attacked the foothills that
protected the homes of the living. There were superstitious persons who
read meaning into this startling visitation of the sea. They made ugly
romance of it. For, said they, the lonely spirit of Jimmy Cruise was
trying to reach its mate,--aye, striving to drag her body down to the
bottom of the sea to lie beside his own.
As the days went by,--long days that were not governed by any daylight
saving law,--the settlement took on the air and life of a sequestered
village. There was the general warehouse from which stores were
dispensed sparingly by agents selected for such duties. Women and
men went to market and carried home the provender. A fish market was
established; wood-yards, fruit and vegetable booths, a dispensary, and
a general store where leather, cloths of various description, and furs
were to be had by requisition.
In speaking of the dispensary, Dr. Cullen complacently announced that
the supply of medicine was limited, but that it was nothing to worry
about. He declared bluntly,--and with a twinkle in his eye,--that people
took too much medicine anyhow.
“Medicine is a luxury,” he said. “The more we stuff into people the more
they want, and the less they take the sooner they forget they're sick.
As your doctor, from this time on, I shall be delighted to set your
broken bones, sew up your gashes, and all that sort of thing, but it is
precious little medicine I'll give to you. So don't get sick. The only
epidemic we can have here, according to my judgment, is an epidemic of
good health. Am I right, gentlemen?”
The two young American doctors put aside their dignity and grinned.
The wines and liquors from the Doraine were brought ashore and locked
away in the cellar beneath the warehouse. It could be had only on the
doctor's orders.
“It won't hurt any of us to drink nothing but water for awhile,” said
Percival in discussing the matter; “and the chances are we'll be less
likely to hurt each other if we let the grog alone. There'll be no
drinking on this island if I can help it. I understand some of you
men are planning to put the pulp of the algarobo through a process of
fermentation and make chica by the barrel. Well, if I have anything to
say about it, you'll do nothing of the sort. I know that stuff. It's got
more murder in it than anything I've ever tackled. We can make flour out
of that pulp, as some of you know, and that's all we are going to make
out of it. Besides, we can be decent longer on flour than we can on
chica.
“We'll find it harder to do without tobacco than without booze, and
unless we discover something to take its place we'll be smokeless in
a few weeks. Professor Knapendyke is experimenting with a shrub he has
discovered here. He says it may be a fairly good substitute if properly
cured. But it won't be tobacco, so I guess we may as well make up our
minds to swear off smoking as well as drinking. I hope there's nothing
in the saying that the good die young. Because if there is, we're in for
an epidemic that will wipe out four-fifths of our population in no time
at all. We're going to be so good we'll die like flies.”
The weeks wore on and the fields of grain were harvested. The yield was
not a heavy one, but it was sufficient to justify the rather hap-hazard
experiments. The fifty-odd acres of wheat produced a little over a
thousand bushels. The twenty-acre oat-field had averaged forty bushels.
A few acres of barley, sown broadcast in the calcareous loam along the
coast, amounted to nothing.
Primitive means for grinding the grain had been devised. This first
crop was being laboriously crushed between roughly made mill-stones, but
before another harvest came along, a mill would be in operation on the
banks of Leap Frog River.
The exploration of the island had long since been completed. In certain
parts of the dense forest covering the western section there were
magnificent specimens of the Norfolk Island pine. Fruits of the citrous
family were found in abundance; wild cherries, wild grapes, figs, and an
apple of amazing proportions and exceeding sweetness. Pigeons in great
numbers were found, a fact that puzzled Professor Knapendyke not a
little.
He finally arrived at an astonishing conclusion. He connected the
presence of these birds with the remark-able exodus of wild pigeons from
their haunts in the United States in the eighties. Millions of pigeons
at that time took their annual flight southward from Michigan, Indiana
and other states in that region, and were never seen again. What became
of this prodigious cloud of birds still remains a mystery. Knapendyke
now advanced the theory that in skirting the Gulf of Mexico on their way
to the winter roosts in Central America they were caught by a hurricane
and blown out to sea. By various stages the bewildered survivors of the
gale made their way down the east coast of South America, only to
be caught up again by another storm that carried them out into the
Atlantic. A few reached this island, hundreds of miles from the
mainland, and here they remained to propagate. At any rate, the
naturalist was preparing to put his impressions and deductions into the
form of a paper which he intended to submit to the National Geographic
Magazine as soon as he returned to the United States.
The more practical Mr. Fitts decided to start a squab farm.
A few of the giant iguanas were seen, and many smaller ones. The meat
of the iguana is a great delicacy. There were no beasts of prey, no
herbaceous animals.
Lookouts on Top o' the Morning Peak reported the presence of monstrous
birds at rare intervals. Where they came from and whither they went no
one could tell. There were unscalable cliffs and crags at the western
end of the island, and it is possible that they had their nests among
them.
Lieutenant Platt described the first of these huge birds as being at
least thirty feet from tip to tip. It flew low above the top of Split
Mountain and disappeared beyond the hills to the west. When first
descried by one of the lookouts, this bird was far out over the ocean,
approaching the island from the east. As it soared over the heads of the
men, several hundred feet above them, its wings full spread, it was more
like a small monoplane than a bird. In colour it was a dirty yellow,
with a black belly and head. Before any one could procure a gun from the
hut it was out of range, flying at an incredible speed. A few days later
another was seen, coming from the same direction. It was flying much
higher, and a few futile shots were fired at it. Then, after a week or
ten days without a single one of the monsters being seen, five of them
appeared in the west and flew eastward over the island and out to sea.
“What was the name of that passenger-carrying bird they were always
talking about in the 'Arabian Nights'?” inquired Platt.
“You mean the roc,” replied Knapendyke. “If it ever really existed
outside of the fairy tales, it is now extinct. The nearest thing to it
in size is the condor, I suppose.”
“I've seen some whopping big condors up in the Andes,” said Percival,
“but twelve feet from tip to tip was what the natives called a
full-grown specimen. What do you make of these birds, Flattner?”
“After seeing an iguana eighteen feet long, I'm ready to believe
anything. A protracted and an enforced spell of sobriety is the only
thing that keeps me from diagnosing my own case as delirium tremens.
There's one thing sure. Birds as big as these, and iguanas as huge as
the three we've seen,--to say nothing of the enormous flying fish Morris
Shine claims to have seen,--take me back to the Dark Ages. I daresay
we're seeing the tag end of the giants. God knows how old these birds
and reptiles are,--hundreds of years, at least. I'd give almost anything
to get one of those birds and stuff him. There was once a flying animal
known as the pteranodon. It has been extinct for millions of years.
Belonged to the class called pterodactyls. Who knows? If you fellows
could shoot for sour apples, I'd have one of 'em.”
Christmas and New Year's day, long since past, had been celebrated in
a mild, half-hearted way on board the Doraine. Easter was drawing
near, and Ruth Clinton took upon herself the task of arranging special
services for the children. She was going ahead with her plans when
her aunt, with some bitterness, advised her to consult the “King of
Babylon”--(a title surreptitiously accorded Percival by the unforgiving
lady)--before committing herself too deeply to the enterprise.
“It would be just like him to cut Easter out of the calendar
altogether,” said she.
“He cannot possibly have any objection to an Easter service,” protested
Ruth, her brow puckering.
“There's no telling what he will object to,” said Mrs. Spofford.
“He is really quite tenderhearted, and awfully fond of children, you
know. I am sure he will be very much pleased with the--Besides,” she
broke off to say with considerable heat, “Mr. Percival is not as high
and mighty as he imagines himself to be. Other people have something
to say about the management of this camp. You forget,--and so does he
perhaps,--that we have a council of ten. I rather fancy--”
“Pooh!” sniffed her aunt. “He is worse than all the Tammany bosses put
together. The other men on the council of ten eat out of his hand, as
Abel Landover says. His word is law,--or, I should have said, his smile
is law. All he has to do is to grin and the argument is over. I've
never seen anything like the way people give in when he smiles. It is
disgusting.”
“Please don't forget, Auntie, that he did not smile on Saturday when
Manuel Crust stopped him in front of the meeting-house and said he was
going to take Sunday off from work up in the woods. He didn't smile
then, did he? And there were a dozen men planning to take the day off
with Manuel Crust, too.”
“I confess I was frightened,” admitted Mrs. Spofford, with a slight
shudder. “That Manuel Crust is a--a dangerous man. He carries a knife. I
saw it.”
“Were your sympathies with Manuel Crust or Mr. Percival? Answer,
please.”
“Naturally, my dear, I--why, of course, they were with Percival. He was
one man against a dozen. Besides, he does represent law and order. I
have never questioned that, have I?”
“Weren't you a weeny, teeny bit proud of him yesterday, Aunt Julia?”
“Weren't you?” countered the other.
“I could have hugged him,” exclaimed Ruth, her eyes sparkling. “I hate
him,--mind you,--but I could have hugged him, just the same.”
Mrs. Spofford looked searchingly into the girls clear, shining eyes.
“I wish I knew just how much you hate him, Ruth.”
“Be honest, Auntie. What you mean is, how little I hate him; isn't that
so?”
“I don't believe you hate him at all.”
“Well, the first chance you get, ask him how much I hate him. He will
tell you. Now let's talk about Easter Sunday. I don't in the least see
why I should go down on my knees to Mr. Percival in order to--”
“Manuel Crust went down on his knees, didn't he?”
“Don't be silly! Manuel Crust was leading a strike. I am arranging a
sacred entertainment.”
“Still, if I were you, my dear, I would ask him what he thinks about
it.”
“All right,” cried Ruth, “I'll ask him. And what's more, I shall ask him
to sing in the choir. He will love it.”
Not only did Percival promise to sing in the choir, but he eagerly
offered to help her with the decorations. But when she announced that
she was going up into the hills in quest of the little red winter
berries that grew in profusion, he flatly put his foot down on the
project.
“I don't feel any too sure of Manuel Crust and his gang,” said he.
“They're in an ugly mood and they are brutes, Miss Clinton. Don't be
alarmed. They're not likely to molest you or any one else, but I don't
believe in taking chances. Just at present they're pretty sore at me
and they're doing all they can to stir up discord. It will work out all
right in the end, of course. They may be beasts but they're not fools.”
“Is it true that Manuel Crust claims that every man should have his
woman?” she asked steadily.
He was surprised by the frank, unembarrassed question. “Crust is about
as vile as they make them, Miss Clinton. Most of these fellows are
decent, however.”
“But you have not answered my question.”
“I will answer it by saying that if he has any such notion as that in
his mind he will have it taken out of him in short order if he attempts
to put it into practice. The women on this island will be protected,
Miss Clinton, if we have to kill Manuel Crust and his fol-lowers. It
is true he has been preaching that sort of gospel among the vicious
and ignorant Portugees and half-casts, but it's all talk. Don't pay any
attention to it.”
“We can't help being worried. Suppose his following is much larger than
you think. They are a rough, lawless crowd, and--”
“Ninety-five per cent, of the men here are decent. That's the only
comfort I can give you.” He smiled his whimsical smile. “I think you
will find that you will be courted in the regular, old-fashioned way,
and proposed to with as much solemnity and uncertainty as if you were
back at home, and it will be left for you to choose your own husband. We
have two ministers of the gospel here, you know. I predict some rather
violent courtships, and perhaps a few ill-advised marriages, but you may
rest assured that no man is going to claim you until you claim him.”
He was looking straight into her eyes. She felt the blood mounting to
her cheek,--and was conscious of a strange, delicious sensation as of
peril stealing over her.
“You are most reassuring,” she managed to say, scarcely above a whisper,
and then paused expectant.
Afterwards she was shamed by the exquisite pain of anticipation that
had coursed through her in that moment of waiting. She never could quite
account for the temporary weakness that assailed her and left her mute
and helpless under the spell of his eyes. She only knew that she waited
expectant,--for something that never came! What she might have said in
response, what she might have done if he had uttered the words she was
prepared to hear, she did not care to contemplate, even in the privacy
of her own thoughts. She only knew that she was ashamed of the thrill
that went over her and strangely bitter toward him for being the cause
of it. She would not admit to herself that disappointment had anything
to do with it,--for she found herself arguing, nothing could have been
more distressing than to rebuff him when he seemed so eager to help her
in her plans for Easter Sunday.
The fact remains, however, that Percival held his tongue, and she never
quite understood why he did.
The time and the place of this encounter invited confession. There was
a full moon in the heavens, the night was still, the air crisp with the
tang of October in the north,--and they were alone in the shadow of the
“tabernacle.” Lights gleamed in the little windows that stretched to
the right and left of them. Far off somewhere in the dark, an unseen
musician was gently thrumming a fandango on his Spanish guitar. She had
been on her way home from Careni-Amori's cabin, where she had gained the
prima-donna's promise to sing, when she saw him, walking slowly across
the “Green.” His hands were clasped behind his back, his head was bent.
She experienced a sudden rush of pity for him,--she knew not why, except
that he looked lonely and forgotten. It was she who turned aside from
her course and went out across the Green to join him.
“You are most reassuring,” she had said. The dusky light of the moon
fell full upon her upturned face; her shadowy, limpid eyes were looking
straight into his; enchantment charged the air with its soft and
languorous breath,--and yet he looked away!
After a moment he spoke. His voice was steady and,--to her,--almost
sardonic.
“The day of the cave-man is past. Likewise the cannibal. I think I can
promise that you will neither be beaten nor eaten,--but you do run a
little risk in being abroad on such a night as this,--and alone.”
She stiffened. “I don't think there is the slightest danger, Mr.
Percival.”
“I wasn't thinking of danger,” he said. “There is a lot of difference
between danger and consequences. You see, you might have been mistaken
in your man. I might have turned out to be Manuel Crust.”
“I--I--I was sure it was you,” she stammered, and wished she had not
said it. It was a confession that she knew his figure so well that she
could recognize it in the gloom of the night and at a distance that
should have rendered him almost invisible.
“Even so, I am Manuel's brother under the skin,” he said. “Like Judy
O'Grady and the Colonel's lady, you know. However, all's well that ends
well, so what's the use of magnifying the peril that stalks through the
land.”
“You were brought up on the good, old-fashioned novels, I see. That's
the language of heroes,--and heroes live only in novels, where they are
perfectly safe from harm, thanks to the benevolent author.”
“You're right. I was brought up among the old-fashioned heroes. I lived
through every adventure they had, I longed for every girl they loved,
I envied everything they did, and I dreamed the most beautiful dreams
about prowess and virtue and love. I rather fancy I'm a better man
for having been a swashbuckling boy. I acquired the generous habit of
falling in love with every heroine I read about, and in my thoughts I
performed even more prodigious deeds of valour in her behalf than the
hero to whom she inevitably plighted her troth in the final chapter. In
real life, however, I've never been in a position to do anything more
heroic than give up my seat in trolley-cars to ladies of all ages,--By
the way, have you never longed desperately to be a heroine?”
“Of course, I have,” she cried, smiling in spite of herself. Her eyes
were sparkling again, for the danger was past. “And I have loved a
hundred heroes,--madly.” She hesitated and then went on impulsively: “We
haven't been very friendly, Mr. Percival. Perhaps I am to blame. In any
case, you have been very generous and forbearing. That is more than I
have been. I never thought I could bring myself to the point of saying
this to you. Can't we be friends again?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Do you mean to go back to where we were before--Well, before we
clashed?”
“Yes,--if you will put it in that way.”
“I can't go back to that stage,” he said, shaking his head. “You may
have stood still, Miss Clinton, but I have progressed.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“You will, after you reflect awhile,” he said.
She drew back, in a sudden panic. She spoke hurriedly, her composure
wrecked.
“I--at least, Mr. Percival, I have done my part. If you do not care
to be friends, I--I have nothing more to say. We must go on just as we
were,--and I am sorry. I have done my part.”
“I do not want to distress you,” he said huskily. “If I were to tell
you why it is best for us to go on as we are, you would lose what little
faith you may still have in me. I have not always been able to conceal
my feelings. You do not care as I do,--and I have been pretty much of
a rotter in showing you just how I feel from time to time,--an ordinary
bounder, and God knows I hate the word,--so there's nothing more I can
say without distressing and offending you. I want you to feel perfectly
secure so far as I am concerned. We are out here alone in the night. If
I were to let go of myself now and say what I want to say to you,--well,
you would be frightened and hurt and,--God knows I wouldn't hurt you for
the world. I hope you understand, Miss Clinton.”
She had had time to fortify herself.
“Yes,--I understand,” she said, but not without a strange wonder filling
her mind.
He was fair,--and yet he was baffling. She had not expected this rare
trait in him. Men she had known were not like this. The men who loved
her,--and they had been many,--were impetuous and insistent, demanding
much and offering everything,--vain-glorious warriors who counted
confidently on easy conquest. She had come in contact with but one class
of men: the spoiled, cocksure sons of the rich who love in haste and
have it over with while there is yet time to love again. She caught
herself guiltily wondering how many men of her acquaintance would have
allowed this engaging opportunity to pass without making the most of it!
And why should this man be different from the others? She experienced a
sharp feeling of irritation, and out of that sprang the wilful desire to
hurt him because he was different. So she lifted her chin, and looking
straight into his eyes, said: “I understand perfectly. You prefer that I
should not put you in the class with Manuel Crust.”
“I'm not quite certain that Manuel's way of handling women isn't the
best after all,” he said musingly. “Ride over 'em rough-shod, trample
them under foot, kick them to one side and then ask them whether they
love you or not. If they say they don't, all you have to do is to behave
like a gentleman and leave them alone.”
She laughed. “But suppose they were to say they did love you,--what
then?”
“That, I understand, is what they generally do say,--and it causes a
great deal of trouble for the unfortunate gentleman.”
“Are you never in earnest, Mr. Percival?”
“I was very much in earnest a moment ago. You knew how much in earnest I
was or you wouldn't have said that nasty thing about Manuel Crust.”
“I am sorry I said it,” she cried. “It was uncalled for,--and I was
deliberately trying to be mean.”
“I knew it,” he said quietly. “I don't think any the worse of you for
it. A woman plays fair until you get her into a corner,--and then she
plays fairer than ever to make up for what she did when cornered. Am I
not right?”
She did not reply. She was staring past him, down the line of huts. The
door of Olga Obosky's cabin had opened and closed, projecting for an
instant an oblong block of light into the darkness. The figure of a
woman, emerging into the full light of the moon, had caught Ruth's
attention. Percival turned quickly. Together they watched the figure
move swiftly across the Green toward them. Suddenly it stopped, and
then, after a moment, whirled and made off down the line of cabins, soon
to be swallowed up by the gloom.
“Were you expecting some one?” inquired Ruth, icily.
He was still looking intently into the far-reaching gloom. Neither had
spoken for many seconds. He started, and looked searchingly into her
eyes.
“That was Madame Obosky,” he said.
“I know. I recognized her,” said she evenly.
“And you believe she was coming out here to meet me,--isn't that so?”
She drew herself up. “I shall have to say good night, Mr. Percival. No!
It is not necessary for you to walk home with me.”
He placed himself in front of her. “Would you mind answering my
question?”
“Yes,” she flashed, “I think she was coming out here to meet you. Permit
me to pass, please.”
He stood aside. “Good night, Miss Clinton.”
He watched her until the door of her cabin swung open,--and he smiled
as she stood revealed for an instant in the square of light, for she had
obeyed the impulse to glance over her shoulder.
She was angry, hurt, disgusted as she slammed the door behind her.
“Where have you been?” cried out an accusing voice, and Ruth's gaze fell
upon the figure in one of the deck chairs beside the fire. “I have been
waiting for you for--”
“How long have you been here?” cried the girl, stock-still and staring.
“If Mrs. Spofford had not been so entertaining, I should say for hours
and hours,” said Madame Obosky.
“As a matter of fact,” said Mrs. Spofford from her side of the
fireplace, “it hasn't been more than an hour. Madame Obosky came soon
after you went out, dear.”
“But--but I saw you just now coming out of your cabin,” cried Ruth
blankly. She had a queer sensation as of the floor giving way beneath
her.
“You saw--Oh, now I understand!” cried the Russian, with a laugh. “Zose
girls of mine! Zey--they are like so many grandmothers. They will not go
to bed until zey know I am safely tucked in myself. Alas, Mrs. Spofford,
zose girls do not trust me, I fear. If I go out at night alone, zey
instantly put their heads together and shake zem all at the same time.
So that is what has happen, Miss Clinton. One of them,--Alma, I suspect,
because she had a sister who,--Yes, it would be Alma, I am sure,--in any
case, one of zem comes out to get me, so like a policeman. But still I
do not understand something. I have told them I was coming here to see
you. If it was one of my girls, why has she not come?”
Ruth had turned away, ostensibly to pull down the little window shade
but really to send a swift searching glance out across the Green.
“She went the other way,” she replied, rather breathlessly.
Olga sprang to her feet. “Now, what is zat little fool up to?” she
cried, angrily. “If I catch her running out to meet men at zis hour
of--”
Ruth interrupted her. “She started in this direction but when she saw
us, she turned and went the other way. I was talking to Mr. Percival
out near the meeting-house. About the Easter services, Auntie,” she made
haste to say as Mrs. Spofford looked up in surprise.
Olga was looking at her fixedly, an odd expression in her eyes, her lips
slightly parted.
“He has promised to help me. He is delighted to sing in the choir.
Madame Careni-Amori will sing two solos. She promises to make Joseppi
sing one or two. I--I was discussing the arrangements with Mr.
Percival.”
“Now I understand,” said Olga, gaily, but with the odd, inquiring look
still in her eyes. “Alma thought it was I. I have zem very well-trained,
those girls. She sees me with a man,--zip! She runs the other way as
fast as she can! That is the height of propriety,--is it not, Mrs.
Spofford?”
“I do not quite understand what you mean, Madame Obosky.”
“Why did he say it was you?” cried Ruth, hot with chagrin.
Olga shrugged her shoulders. “He is so very amiable,” said she. “I dare
say he thought it would please you.”
Ruth bit her lip. There was no mistaking the challenge in the Russian's
remark, however careless it may have sounded.
“I came to see you about Mr. Percivail's birthday,” said Olga, abruptly
changing the subject. “Some one has suggested zat we all join in giving
him a grand great big celebration. Bonfires, fire-works, a banquet with
speeches, and all zat kind of thing. What do you think, eh?”
“He wouldn't like it at all,” said Ruth promptly. “Moreover, why should
we celebrate his birthday? He doesn't deserve it any more than scores of
other--”
“Oh, then we must drop it altogether,” broke in Olga, rather
plaintively. “I thought every one would be in favour of it. But, of
course, if there is the slightest opposition--”
“I do not oppose it,” said Ruth coldly. “Pray do not let me upset your
plans.”
“It is not my plan. Zat nice, sarcastic Mr. Fitts, and Mr. Malone, and
Captain Trigger, they have proposed it, Miss Clinton, not I. But men
never quite get over being boys. They do not stop to question whether
a thing is right or wrong. I dare say after they have thought a little
longer over it, zey will agree with you that it is foolish to be so
enthusiastic about this fellow Percivail,--and the whole project will
dissolve into thin air.”
Her hand was on the latch. She met Ruth's harassed, unhappy gaze
with her indolent, almost insolent, smile. Suddenly the American girl
snatched up her jacket and the little fur collar she had thrown across a
chair in the corner.
“If you don't mind, I will walk part of the way home with you,” she
said.
Olga opened the door and looked out. “Thank you,--I am not afraid. Pray
do not think of it,--I cannot permit you to come. It is late,--and the
moon is under the clouds. Good night,--good night, Mrs. Spofford.”