And then Northrup recalled Mary-Clare as he had seen her that day as she emerged from the woods to meet him and her child. The glory of Peneluna’s story was in her soul, the autumn sunlight on her face. That lovely, smiling, untouched face of hers! Again and again that memory of her held his fancy.
“The cursed brute––hasn’t got her, thank God. She’s out of the trap.”
And, all unconsciously, while this moral indignation had its way, Northrup was drawing nearer to Mary-Clare; understanding her, appropriating her! God knew he meant no wrong. After all she had suffered he wasn’t going to mess her life more––but he’d somehow make up to her what she’d a perfect right to. All men were not low and bestial. He had a duty––he would be above the touch of idle chatter; he would take a hand in the game!
And just then Northrup, controlled by the force of attraction, turned his head and looked at the face of Mary-Clare upon the couch near him!
In all his life Northrup had never looked upon the face of 120 a sleeping woman, and it stirred him deeply. He became as rigid as marble; the heat beat upon him as it might have upon stone. And then––as such wild things do occur, his old, familiar dream came to him; he seemed in the dream. He had at last opened one of those closed doors and was seeing what the secret room held! He was part of the dream as he was of his book in the making.
He breathed lightly; he did not move––but he was overcome by waves of emotion that had never before even lapped his feet.
At that instant Mary-Clare’s eyes opened. For a moment they held his; then she turned, sighed, and he believed that she had not really awakened.
Northrup rose stiffly and made his way to his room.
“She was asleep!” he fiercely thought until he was safe behind his locked door!
“Was she?” He had to face that in the silence of the hours after. “I’ll know when I next meet her.” This was almost a groan.