“We might as well admit out loud that neither of us feels—well,
exactly jolly about it.”
“That’s true,” I replied inanely.
We were silent again.
“What—what are we going to do about it, Mr. Pitt?”
“There is nothing much to do; we are safe for the time being. So long
as we keep out of Brack’s sight we are safe. For the present we could
do just that—and hope.”
Betty heard me without a word. Once more she bowed her face upon her
hands, and her girlish shoulders trembled. I was at her side in an
instant.
“Don’t, Betty, please don’t!” I pleaded. “You mustn’t give way. It’s
rough, and it’s hard, specially hard for a girl like you, but don’t
give way for—for my sake. It’s been your fine courage and cheerfulness
that’s kept me from showing that I’m really a coward. Yes, it is;
you’ve kept me from being a coward. Don’t—please don’t be afraid.
We’ll get out of this all right somehow, sure.”
She looked at me, her eyes moist, but with her old thoughtful look in
them.
“Do you really believe we will, in your heart, Mr. Pitt?”
“Most emphatically I do.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you only hope——?”
“No; I believe.”
“Oh!” she cried suddenly. “I hope—I pray—that you’re right; because
it’s all my fault, all my fault, and I’d never forgive myself if I’d
brought harm to you—or George.”
Once more the sound of George’s name on her tongue shocked me. Could
she never get the man out of her head?
I picked aimlessly at a birch bough over my head, and each little
budding leaf that I plucked away seemed like the tiny dreams which
unconsciously had been in my mind all morning, and which now were
driven away. The dreams that come to a man willy-nilly, without
reason, without basis of hope. It probably was the stress of
yesterday, the natural romance of a cave in the wilderness that were
responsible. Well, I had that, anyhow; hours with Betty, in the
sunlit, primitive woods. The memory of that would remain. Why, I was
rich, richer than I had ever been in my life.
“Will you allow me to say something serious, Betty?”
Her look was startled, apprehensive, but her eyes gave consent.
“These hours have been the biggest of my life.”
I stopped. Betty was looking at the ground. And suddenly all the winds
of the world seemed to be drawing me toward her, urging me to throw
myself beside her, and a stream of words was upon my tongue.
I reached up, plucked a twig of pine from its cleft, and when I had
stripped its needles one by one my self-control had returned.
“So you see I’m a winner,” I laughed. “You mustn’t worry one little
worry about me. Whatever happens I’m ahead of the game.”
It was a long time before she spoke, and then she did so without
looking up.
“Is—that—true?”
“Can’t you see it is?”
She nodded without looking to see.
“And—is that—all?”
“Isn’t that plenty? The biggest hours of my life—to have and
remember?”
She poked her white toe into the moss, but still her eyes were on the
ground.
“I feel awf’ly guilty,” she said faintly. “It’s all my fault. The
whole thing is my fault. Poor George! If it hadn’t been for me he
never would have met Brack, and then all this would not have
happened.”
“George probably is all right by this time. He is under Dr. Olson’s
care, and the doctor is one of us.”
“I’ve made him suffer terribly, haven’t I?”
“No. If he hadn’t—” I checked myself. “You haven’t made him suffer.
And he’ll be a wiser man when you see him again, and you’ll both
forget and be happy together.”
Betty lifted her eyes and studied me closely. Her expression was
puzzling; she seemed incredulous. A quizzical smile touched her lips;
she suppressed it and looked away.
“And George,” she said, as if her thoughts had wandered away from him,
“I must make up for it all to him—if I can.”
“If you can! Of course you can. You will!”
Again she lifted her head and looked me squarely in the eyes. And this
time when she looked away I knew that I was a fool, though I did not
know just why.