It was an unthinking, wicked speech. But Hephzy did not resent it. Her reply was as patient and kind as if she had been answering a child.
“I had to do it, Hosy,” she said. “After our talk this evenin' there was only one thing to do. It had to be done—for your sake, if nothin' else—and so I did it. But—but—” with a choking sob, “it was SO hard to do! My Ardelia's baby!”
And at last, I am glad to say, I began to realize how very hard it had been for her. To understand what she had gone through for my sake and what a selfish brute I had been. I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her almost reverently.
“Hephzy,” said I, “you're a saint and a martyr and I am—what I am. Please forgive me.”
“There isn't anything to forgive, Hosy. And,” with a shake of the head, “I'm an awful poor kind of saint, I guess. They'd never put my image up in the churches over here—not if they knew how I felt this minute. And a saint from Cape Cod wouldn't be very welcome anyway, I'm afraid. I meant well, but that's a poor sort of recommendation. Oh, Hosy, you DO think I did for the best, don't you?”
“You did the only thing to be done,” I answered, with decision. “You did what I lacked the courage to do. Of course it was best.”
“You're awful good to say so, but I don't know. What'll come of it goodness knows. When I think of you and—and—”
“Don't think of me. I'm going to be a man if I can—a quahaug, if I can't. At least I'm not going to be what I have been for the last month.”
“I know. But when I think of to-morrow and what she'll say to me, then, I—”
“You mustn't think. You must go to bed and so must I. To-morrow will take care of itself. Come. Let's both sleep and forget it.”