Northrup had recovered himself; he was able to think. He knew he must act quickly, emphatically, and he generously tried to be just.
Keen to take advantage of what she believed was guilt, Kathryn responded, dragging her lures along with her.
“Please, dear Brace, do not look at me so sternly. I could not help what happened and I suffered so, although I never meant to let you know. You see, I walked in the woods that day that I went to King’s Forest to tell you about your mother. A queer-looking girl told me that you lived at the inn, but were then in the woods. I went to find you; to meet you––can you not understand?”
The tears stood in Kathryn’s eyes, her mouth quivered. Northrup softened.
“Go on, Kathryn. I do understand.”
“Well, I came to a cabin in the woods, I don’t know why, but something made me think it was yours. You would be so likely to take such a place as that, dear. I went in––to wait for you; to sit and think about you, to calm myself––and then–––”
“Yes, Kathryn!” Northrup was seeing it all––the cabin, the silent red-and-gold woods.
“And then––she came! Oh! Brace, a man can never know how a woman feels at such a moment––you see there were some sheets of your manuscript on the table––I was looking at them when the girl came in. Brace, she was quite awful; she frightened me terribly. She asked who I was and I told her––I thought that would at least make her see my side; explain things––but it did not! She was––she was”––Kathryn ventured a bolder dash––“she was quite violent. I cannot remember all she said––she said so much––a girl does when she realizes what she must have realized. Oh! Brace, I tried to be kind, but I had to take your part and she turned me out!”
In all this Northrup felt his way as one does along a narrow 246 passage beset on either side with dangers. Characteristically he saw his own wrong in originally creating the situation. Not for an instant did he doubt Kathryn’s story; indeed, she rose in his regard; for he felt for her deeply. He had, unwittingly, set a trap for her innocent, girlish feet; brought her to bay with what she could not possibly understand; and the belief that she had been merciful, had accepted, in silence, at a time when his trouble absorbed her, touched and humiliated him; and yet, try as he did to consider only Kathryn, he could not disregard Mary-Clare. He could not picture her in a coarse rage; the idea was repellent, but he acknowledged that the dramatic moment, lived through by two stranger-women with much at stake, was beyond his powers of imagination. The great thing that mattered now was that his duty, since a choice must be made, was to Kathryn. By every right, as he saw it, she must claim his allegiance. And yet, what was there to be done?
Northrup was silent; his inability to express himself condemned him in her eyes, and yet, strangely enough, he had never been more desirable to her.