"No….No…" she cried. "Not that—Oh, don't believe that."
She spoke the truth, and Bonbright could not doubt it. Truth was in her words, her tone, her face….It was a thing she was incapable of, and he knew it. She could not be mean, contemptible. He drew her to him and kissed her, and she did not resent it. A surge of happiness filled him….She had been dismayed because of him. There was no other interpretation of her words and actions. She was conscience stricken because she had brought misfortune upon him.
He laughed boyishly. "Don't worry about me. I don't care," he said, gayly, "so long as I have you. You're worth it a dozen times….I'm glad, Ruth—I'm glad I had to pay for you dearly. Somehow it makes me seem worthier—you understand what I mean…."
She understood—understood, too, the interpretation he had put on her words. It brought a flush to her white cheeks….She disengaged herself gently.
"If we're not going away," she said, "I can lie down—and rest."
"Of course."
"Alone? In the next room?"
He opened the door for her. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse," he said. "Have a good sleep. I'll sit here and read." She read in his eyes a plea for affection, for another kiss, as she left him, but she had not the strength to give it. She went into the adjoining room, and shut the door after her. Then she stood there silently regarding the door—regarding the KEY…. If she locked it she was safe from him. He could not come in…. She could lock him out.
Her hand went to the key, but came away without turning it. No…. She had no right. She had made her bargain and must abide by it. Bonbright was her husband and she was his wife, and as such she must not turn locks upon him…. Marriage gave him the right of free access.
Dressed as she was, in the suit that had been her wedding dress, she threw herself upon the bed and gave up her soul to torment. She had taken her all and paid it for a thing desirable in her eyes—and her all had bought her nothing. She had wrenched her love from the man to whom she had given it, and all her life must counterfeit love for a man whom she did not love—and in return she would receive—nothing. She had seen herself a Joan of Arc. That dream was blown away in a breath…. But the bargain was made. That she did not receive what she had thought to receive was no fault of Bonbright's—and she must endure what was to be endured. She must be honest with him—as honesty showed its face to her. To be honest with him meant to her to deceive him daily, hourly, to make her life a lie. He was cheated enough as matters stood—and he did not deserve to be cheated. He was good, gentle, a man. She appreciated him—but she did not love him. … And appreciating him, aware of his strength and his goodness to her, she could not keep her eyes off the door. She lay there eying it with ever increasing apprehension—yet she did not, would not, could not, rise to turn the key….