He paused to steady his voice. “And I took the hand of the child and she held its other hand, and together we found the way back—for me. And now—she has gone out among strangers—enemies—gone with her mind all awry. She will be robbed, abused, abandoned, she will suffer cold and hunger, and she will die miserably—if I don’t go to her.”
He went over and stood beside her. “Look at me!” he commanded, and she obeyed. “Low as the depth was from which she brought me up, it would be high as heaven in comparison with the depth I’d lie in, if I did not go. And I say to you that if you gave me the choice, told me you would cut me off from you forever if I went—I say to you that still I would go!”
As she faced him, her breath came fast and her eyes seemed to widen until all of her except them was blotted out for him. “I understand,” she said. “Yes—you would go—nothing could hold you. And—that’s why I—love you.”
He gave a long sigh of relief and joy. “I had thought you would say that, when I knew what I must do. And then—when you protested—I was afraid. Everything crumbles in my hands. Even my dreams die aborning.”
“When do you sail?” she asked. “To-morrow?”
“Yes. I’ve arranged my affairs. I—I look to you to take care of Mary. There is no one else to do it.”
“If there were, no one else should do it,” she said, with a gentle smile.
He gave her a slip of paper on which were the necessary memoranda. “And now—I must be off.” He tried to make his tone calm and business-like. He put out his hand and, when she gave him hers, he held it. For an instant each saw into the depths of the other’s heart.
“No matter how long you may be away,” she said in a low voice, “remember, I shall be—” She did not finish in words.
He tried to speak, but could not. He turned and was almost at the door before he stopped and came back to her. He took her in his arms, and she could feel his heart beating as if it were trying to burst through his chest. “No matter how long,” she murmured. “And I shall not be impatient, my love.”