Still he did not answer her.
“Philip! I demand it. It is my right as a woman.”
“Very well. I submit. I will not hold you against your will. You are free.”
She went up to him then and took both his hands in hers.
“Thank you, dear!” she said. “You are so good. You were always good to me. You have never been kinder to me than you have been to-night. You have never been dearer to me than you are at this moment.”
Holding his hands thus she lifted her face to his and kissed him.
Buffeting the wind and snow as he journeyed homeward that night, Westgate thought little of the December blasts. His mind was filled with the tragic climax of his one great love. He knew that she looked upon her act as irrevocable, as the definite parting of ways that would never again be joined, and that he had no right to consider it otherwise. But, out of the clouds and darkness that surrounded him, one momentous fact thrust itself in upon his memory: in the midst of her cruelty to him she had kissed him. She had not declared that she would be his friend; she had not hoped that he would be happy; she had not promised to pray for him; she had not said any of the inane things that most girls feel it incumbent on them to say on such occasions, and for that he was duly grateful; but—she had kissed him.
The breaking of the engagement between Westgate and Ruth Tracy was more than a nine days’ wonder. As the fact became known, and no attempt was made to conceal it, the parish was stirred anew. Every one surmised correctly the causes that had led to it, and all were agreed that it was a most unfortunate ending to an ideal romance. Ruth’s mother, when she was told of it, collapsed. For three days she housed herself and was inconsolable. She had grown to be very fond of Westgate. And for once Ruth’s father dropped his reticence, and expressed himself in language which, though fluent, was not quite fit for Ruth to listen to, and certainly would have been entirely inappropriate for public repetition. For he, too, was fond of his junior partner, he had great respect for the young man’s proved ability, and he had looked forward with intense satisfaction to his coming marriage with Ruth.
By no one was the news of the broken engagement received with approval, unless, possibly, by the rector of Christ Church. Not that he was indifferent to the disappointment or suffering of others; by no means. But the separation cleared the way for Ruth’s progress toward higher realms of Christian service. It would permit her to give her undivided allegiance to the work in which he himself was so vitally interested. That it was a selfish consideration on his part did not occur to him. That the event was the first logical calamity, the first tragic result of an ill-considered crusade, or that it was the forerunner of still more tragic events which the future was bound to bring, never once crossed his mind. One of his former friends, commenting on the minister’s failure to see the trend of circumstances, said that the man was living in a fool’s paradise.
But the fact of the breaking of the engagement was food and drink to Jane Chichester. Not that she personally had anything at stake. But she loved a sensation. She would almost have given her chance of salvation to have heard the conversation between Westgate and Ruth on the night of the separation. From every one whom she met, either by chance or design, she gleaned what information she could concerning the unhappy event; and, not even then filled to repletion, she resolved to call at the first decent opportunity on Ruth herself, and learn at first hand, if possible, the intimate details of the tragedy. Mary Bradley too was interested; and not only interested but deeply concerned. Not that she deprecated the breaking of the engagement. Quite the contrary. She had never felt that a woman with Ruth Tracy’s ideals could be happy with a man like Westgate, apostle of conservatism, pledged to the perpetuation of the present iron-clad social order, a man toward whom her resentment had never waned since the day he had compassed her defeat in a court of law. But for Miss Tracy she had an ever-growing respect, and admiration, and fondness. While she regarded her as still bound, in a way, by religious superstition, and the conventions of society, she nevertheless gave her credit for having noble aspirations, and for seeking by every possible means to realize them. And especially did she give her credit for having cast off such a drag on her ambitions as Westgate was and always would have been. It was a fine and courageous thing to do, and more fine and courageous because she undoubtedly loved him. Mary Bradley felt that she wanted to tell her so; that she wanted to give her a word of encouragement and comfort and hope. In spite of many invitations from Ruth to do so, she had never yet called at the Tracy house. She had felt that such action would be not quite consistent, either with her social position or her present vocation. But the time had come now to cast these considerations aside, to visit Ruth Tracy in her home, to invade the precincts of aristocracy and conservatism, and carry courage and comfort to the “prisoner of hope” environed there by subtle and antagonistic forces.