“Then you must come with me, Nella-Rose.” Truedale set his lips grimly; there was no time to lose. Between three and nine o’clock surely they could locate a minister or a justice of the peace. “Come!”
“But why, Mister Man?” She laughed up at him. “Where?”
“It doesn’t matter. To New York if necessary. Jump up!” He turned to the horse, holding the girl close.
“Me go away—in this? Me shame you before—them-all?”
Nella-Rose stood her ground and throwing the rough coat back displayed her shabby, shrunken dress.
“I went home—they-all were away. I got my warm things, but I have a white dress and a pink ribbon—I’ll get them to-morrow. Then—But why must we go—away?”
For the first time this thought caught her—she had been whirled along too rapidly before to note it.
“I have had word that my uncle is dead. I must go at once, my dear, and you—you must come with me. Would you let a little thing like a—a dress weigh against our love, and honour?”
Above the native’s horror of being dragged from her moorings was that subtle understanding of honour that had come to Nella-Rose by devious ways from a source that held it sacred.
“Honour?” she repeated softly; “honour? If I thought I had to go in rags to make you sure; if I thought I needed to—I’d—”