"On my honor I do not."
"I mean my reputation--the loss of my good name."
"Oh, Ruth! Why you--oh--don't say that!"
Calmly, but with an obvious effort at self control she answered:
"Do you think there is no gossip in Longfields, no comment on my
unexpected arrival? Do you think an unmarried woman can travel about
the world alone with a young man as I did, and keep her good name?"
"I never thought of it--in that way. On my honor--I did not."
"Do you know of any other respectable young woman of your acquaintance
who has done anything like it?"
"But it was all my doing. You couldn't help it. Don't they all know
that?"
"No. Why should they know it? Will they believe that you, whom they
have known from boyhood, whom they respect and like, would carry me
off by force, entirely against my will?" Then with a bitter little
laugh: "Oh, no! They are not so simple! And some woman has started a
story that we----" Her face became crimson and she covered it for a
moment with her hands--"Oh, I can't bear to think of it."
Cyrus closed his eyes. His head drooped. "I never thought of all that.
I was stupid. I can see it now. I don't blame you for hating me."
Ruth went on, speaking with nervous haste. "A pleasanter bit of scandal
never happened in this village. I could not bear to live here. It would
kill me to live here."
"You are not going away!"
"Indeed I am!"
"Where?"
"To Worcester, to earn my living as a nurse."
"Listen, Ruth. Let me do something, no matter what. Let me take you, or
send you back to the Convent."
"The Convent! The Convent!" she repeated, and her cheeks reddened. "Do
you think the Convent a refuge for women who leave it as I did?--for
women who elope with--oh! It's for better women than that! They would
never allow me within its gates."
"Then let me atone in some way."
"Indeed! And how?"
"In any way you say--there's all my money--take some of it--all of it.
Not as a gift, but in some business way. Let me buy something at a----"
"Clever thought! Regild my reputation with Cyrus Alton's money!"
"Then marry me. Be my wife, only in name. I swear to you--I--will never
see you if you wish it. Or--or trouble you in any way. Only let me do
something. I had no idea of--of what--of what all this meant to you."
"Your wife!" she laughed a scornful, tragic, broken-hearted little
laugh. "Never in this world. Never! Never that!"
She turned and walked away.
He walked beside her. "Please listen. I will do anything you say. I
know I deserve it all, but that afternoon at the convent I was not
myself. After what happened I was all wrought up. My brain----"
She stopped, turned about and faced him.
"Yes, there is one thing you can do. Leave me now. And let us not be
seen together again--ever."
For a brief moment they stood confronting each other. And Cyrus
looked deep into the eyes that once had been his guiding stars; the
friendly eyes in whose depths his boy heart had sought--and never in
vain--encouragement, or consolation. Now, he was finding in their
contemptuous beauty only the cold ashes of their childhood devotion.
Then, once more, she turned her back upon him. Erect and with decisive
steps, the little figure departed. He stood watching her as she
walked--walking out of his life. In his brain and in his heart was a
numbing pain--the knowledge that his highest hopes were dead--killed,
and by himself!
There and there he made a decision, a decision of vital import to
himself. And why not? Who in the world, except Joanna would mourn, or
even miss him? If there be such a thing as consolation when hope is
dead, he found it in a great resolve.