“No, it cannot!” Mary-Clare tried to draw away, but she felt the hold tighten on her hands; “it cannot stand dishonour. That’s what kills it.”
“Dishonour! What is dishonour?” Northrup asked bitterly. “I’m going to prove as far as I can, in my book, that the right kind of man and woman with a big enough love can throttle life; cheat the cheater.” This came defiantly.
But the book no longer served its purpose; it seemed to fall at the feet of the man and woman, standing with clasped hands and hungry, desperate eyes.
The words that might have changed their lives were never spoken, for, down the trail gaily, joyously, came the sound of Noreen’s voice, shrilly singing one of the songs Northrup had taught her.
“That’s what I mean by honour,” Mary-Clare whispered. “Noreen and all that she is! You, you do understand about some women, don’t you? You will help, not hurt, such women, won’t you?”
“For God’s sake, Mary-Clare, don’t!”
Northrup bent and touched his lips to the small work-stained hands. The song down the trail rose joyously.
“I have thought of you”––Mary-Clare was catching her breath sharply––“as Noreen has––a man brought by the haunted wind. It has all been like a wonderful play. I have not thought of the place where you belong, but I know there are those in that place who are like Noreen.”
“Yes!” Northrup shivered and flinched as a cold, wet leaf fell upon his hands and Mary-Clare’s.