“We would have to go away,” said Evan, gravely.
“But—but the story would follow us.”
“Such stories always follow.”
Carmel studied his face. It was Evan Pell’s face, but for the first time she saw how different it was from the pedant’s face, the schoolmaster’s face, he had worn when first she met him. The spectacles were gone; the dissatisfied, supercilious expression was gone, and, in its place, she perceived something stronger, infinitely more desirable. She saw strength, courage, sympathy, understanding. She saw what gave her hope even in this, her blackest hour. If the worst came to the worst she had found a man upon whom to rely, a man who would stand by her to the end and uphold her and protect her and love her.
Yet—she closed her eyes to shut out the imagined scenes—to be branded as a woman who could accompany a man to such a resort as the Lakeside, and to remain with him there for days and nights—carousing!... She knew how she regarded women who were guilty of such sordid affairs. Other women would look at her as she looked at them, would draw away their skirts when she passed, would peer at her with hard, hostile, sneering eyes.... That would be her life thenceforward—the life of an outcast, of a woman detected in sin.... It would be horrible, unspeakably horrible—unbearable. She had valued herself so highly, had, without giving it conscious thought, felt herself to be so removed from such affairs as quite to dwell upon a planet where they could not exist. She had been proud without knowing she was proud.... It had not been so much a sensation of purity, a consciousness of purity, as a sureness in herself, a certainty that evil could not approach her.... And now....
“Evan—Evan—I am frightened,” she said.
“If only you had not come,” he answered.
“But I am here—I am glad I am here—with you.”
He stretched out his hand toward her and she laid her hand in the clasp of his fingers.
“We have until to-morrow night,” he said. “Twenty-four hours.”