“Aye,” cried Varney. “He’s as big a fool as you.”
And Motley said, “I voted against this, Evered. The bull’s yours, if you’re a mind to kill him. I’m not for making you. It’s your own affair, you mind. And—the ways of a bull are the ways of a bull. The brute’s not overmuch to be blamed.”
Evered nodded and turned his back on them; and after a time they went away. But when Evered went into the house he met Ruth, and the girl stopped him and asked him huskily, “You’re not going to kill that red beast?”
Evered hesitated; then he said, with something like apology in his tones, “No, Ruth.”
She began to tremble, and he saw that words were hot on her lips; and he lifted one hand in a placating gesture. She turned into the other room, and the door shut harshly at her back. Evered’s eyes rested on the door for a space, a curious questioning in them, a wistful light that was strange to see.
All that day Ruth was still, saying little. No word passed between her and Evered, and few words between her and John. But that night, when they were alone, John spoke to her in awkward comfort and endearment.
“Please, Ruthie,” he begged. “You’re breaking yourself. You’ll be sick. You must not be so hard.”
He put an arm about her, as though he would have kissed her; but the girl’s hands came up against his chest, and the girl’s eyes met his in a fury of horror and loathing, and she flung him away.
“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried in a voice that was like a scream. “Don’t ever! You—his son!”
John, inexpressibly hurt, yet understanding, left her alone; he told himself she was not to be blamed, with the agony of grief still scourging her.