“I wonder! If I ever knew, I’ve forgotten. I dare say I had something in my head. Now I think of it, I was always making up some foolish tale or other, in those days.”
Yes; he had forgotten. “I have often tried to make up a story about that ship,” she said gravely, “out of odds and ends of the stories you used to tell. I don’t think I ever had the gift to invent anything on my own account. But at last, after a long while—”
“The story took shape? Tell it to me, please.”
She hesitated, and broke into a bitter little laugh. “No,” said she, “you never told me yours.” Again it came to her with a pang that he and she had changed places. He had taken her forthrightness and left her, in exchange, his dreams. They were hers now, the gaily coloured childish fancies, and she must take her way among them alone. Dreams only! but just as a while back he had started to confess his dream and had broken down before her, so now in turn she knew that her tongue was held.
Humility rose as they entered the kitchen together. A glance as Honoria held out her hand for good-bye told her all she needed to know.
“And you are leaving in a day or two?” Honoria asked.
“Thursday next is the day fixed.”
“You are very brave.”
Again the two women’s eyes met, and this time the younger understood. Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God—that which the Moabitess said for a woman’s sake women are saying for men’s sakes by thousands every day.
Still holding her hand, Humility drew Honoria close. “God deal kindly with you, my dear,” she whispered, and kissed her.