“Oh! go on, do! Really this is too utterly ridiculous.” Kathryn laughed impatiently. “We’ll take for granted the beauty of the book.”
“No, I cannot go on. You would not understand. It does not matter. What I want you to know is this––he could not do an ugly, low thing. If you wrong him there, you will never be forgiven, for it would hurt the soul of him; the part of him that no one––not even you who will be his wife––has a right to hurt or touch. You must make him believe in women. 193 Oh! I wish I could make you see––that was the matter with his beautiful book––I can understand now. He did not know women; but if you believe what I am saying, all will be right; you can make him know the truth. I can imagine how you might think wrong––it never occurred to me before––the woods, the loneliness, all the rest, but, because everything has been right, it makes him all the finer. You do believe me! You must! Tell me that you do!”
Mary-Clare was desperate. It was like trying to save someone from a flood that was carrying him to the rapids. The unreality of the situation alone made anything possible, but Kathryn suddenly reduced the matter to the deadly commonplace.
“No, I do not believe you,” she said bitterly. “I am a woman of the world. I hate to say what I must, but there is so little time now, and there will be no time later on, so you’ll have to take what you have brought upon yourself. This whole thing is pitifully cheap and ordinary––the only gleam of difference in it is that you are rather unusual––more dangerous on that account. I simply cannot account for you, but it doesn’t really interest me. When Mr. Northrup writes his books, he always does what he has done now. It’s rather brutal and cold-blooded but so it is. He has used you––you have been material for him. If there is nothing worse”––Kathryn flushed here––“it is because I have come in time. May I ask you now to leave me here in Mr. Northrup’s”––Kathryn sought the proper word––“study?” she said lamely. “I will rest awhile; try to compose myself. If he comes I will meet him here. If not, I will go to the inn later.”
Kathryn rose. So did Mary-Clare. The two girls faced each other. The table lay between them, but it seemed the width of the whole world.
“I would have helped you and him, if I could.” Mary-Clare’s voice sounded like the “ghost wind” seeking wearily, in a lost way, rest. “But I see that I cannot. This is not Mr. Northrup’s Place––it is mine. I built it myself––no foot but mine––and now yours––has ever entered here. I have always come here to––to think; to read. I wonder if 194 I ever will be able to again, for you have done something very dreadful to it. You will do it to his life unless God keeps you from it.” Mary-Clare was thinking aloud, taking no heed of her companion.
“How dare you!” Kathryn’s face flamed and then turned pale as death.
Mary-Clare was moving toward the door. When she reached it she stood as a hostess might while a guest departed.
“Please go!” she said simply, but it had the effect of taking Kathryn by the shoulders and forcing her outside. With flaming face, dyeing the white anger, she flung herself along. Once outside she turned, looking cheap and mean for all the trappings of her station in life.
“I want you to understand,” she said, “that you are dealing with a woman of the world, not a sentimental fool.”