It was then the courage came to her. She would not be there to be told of it. An apparent elopement, why had she never thought of that before? That would cement their bond. Her scruples could grow on the road. Oh, she could manage Godfrey! They would startle the world, a continent! Godfrey was well known. It would seem splendid; they would believe her happy. She would be happy! When she could get away from them all, she would forget the look that sobered Rickard’s eyes when they fell on Innes. That still had power to sting her. Away, she would find that it was only anger. She did not care for him—she hated them all. If Godfrey gave her happiness, she would keep him transported. She knew she could. If only she did not feel so tired! So strangely old!
She blew out the candle, and went to the door of the tent-house. A low line of smoke clouds shut out the river. Lines of hatred took possession of her face. No one could have called it childish or pretty then. There they all were, the people who had wrecked her life, the Hardins, Rickard, Godfrey even, whom they would take from her if they got the chance. She would not give them that chance! She would go with him. She whipped herself into a pale imitation of excitement, telling herself that Godfrey’s importance would make their affair internationally conspicuous.
She was going to be happy. Perhaps that would cloud the mockery of Rickard’s quizzical eyes. She was quite sure that she hated him. And Tom? She would not let herself think of him! Had he not sacrificed her youth, taken her into a country which ravages a woman’s beauty, keeping her there until her chance to escape, her youth, is almost gone? Her years smote her. She remembered that she must go to bed if she were to have any looks in the morning.
When Godfrey came to her the next afternoon, penitent, refreshed after a long morning’s sleep, he found a charming hostess. Self-controlled, she listened to the story of the capture, and deflected his apology. Serpent-wise, she smiled at him and called him a great foolish boy! She was shy about his telegram. She fled through a forest of phrases and he found he was running after her.
“You must go!” Enchantingly distant when he tried to reach her hand! “We can’t keep this up.” How tired she felt!
“I can’t go without you,” he cried. He had discovered her interpretation of his telegram, and it delighted him; he began to believe it his own intention. “I can’t leave you. You will elude me. I shall carry you off with me. I can’t leave you to your scruples, Gerty, dear. I respect you for them, darling, you know that. But I’ve got to keep near you to strengthen your will.”
She shut her eyes because she could not force fervor into them; his were demanding it. How easy it had been! He was as plastic clay in her hands. He thought that she was suffering. Life had been hard on her. Poor little girl!
“I know. You shrink from it all. Don’t you think I know, dear? You dread the steps that will free you—for he has been your husband—you remember that; you will forget how he has treated you. You need me beside you to help you. Let’s cut the knot. That makes it all easy. To-night!”
“Not to-night. Maybe, to-morrow,” whispered Gerty, and then she managed a few tears, and he was allowed to kiss her. It was all arranged before he left the ramada. They were to leave together the next day.
She had let him sketch their trip to New York. She did not tell him that she was going to stay in Los Angeles until the divorces were obtained, unless she had to go to Reno. Plenty of time for scruples to send forth long branches of regret between Yuma and Los Angeles; her object would be accomplished by their leaving together. He would feel that he owed her his name.