Her hand was on the latch. She met Ruth's harassed, unhappy gaze with her indolent, almost insolent, smile. Suddenly the American girl snatched up her jacket and the little fur collar she had thrown across a chair in the corner.
“If you don't mind, I will walk part of the way home with you,” she said.
Olga opened the door and looked out. “Thank you,—I am not afraid. Pray do not think of it,—I cannot permit you to come. It is late,—and the moon is under the clouds. Good night,—good night, Mrs. Spofford.”
CHAPTER VII.
She quickly closed the door behind her and sped off down the line of now lightless cabins. A man stepped out of the black shadow beyond the second cabin and stood in her path. She did not pause, but walked swiftly, fearlessly up to him, her heart quickening under the thrill of exultation. He was waiting for her! He had been waiting for her all the long evening. The time had come!
The night was dark now; a strong wind had sprung up to drive the black and storm-laden clouds across the moonlit sky. She held out her hands with a little moan of ecstasy,—and then she was in his strong, crushing arms, pressed fiercely to his breast.
“God, can I believe,—is it true? You have come,—you have come of your own free will,—you are here in my arms!” His hot lips found hers in a wild, passionate kiss. “Speak to me! Tell me it is all real,—that I am not dreaming. Oh, Ruth, Ruth,—darling!”
Her body stiffened. A convulsive shudder raced over her, and then, for an instant, she was limp and heavy in his embrace. Then suddenly she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him furiously, savagely, again and again,—breaking away at last with a low, suffocating laugh.
“Now,—now,-” she cried, “now, what are you going to do with me?”