She saw her Cousin Jane's distress. . . . Ruth's disgust. Would they imagine that she had eloped?
She knew but little of American conventions and that little told her that the ceremonies were easy of accomplishment. Young people were always eloping. . . . The consent of guardians was not necessary. . . . How terrible, if they imagined her gone on a romantic elopement, to have her return, mud plastered, after a night with a young man upon the mountain!
A night upon the mountain with a young man . . . a young man in love with her.
Scandal. . . . Unbelievable shame.
She felt as if they were in the grip of a nightmare.
They must hurry, hurry. Somehow they must gain upon that night, they must return to the Lodge before it was too late.
A cold sprinkle of rain fell, plastering her middy shiveringly to her, but the rain soon stopped and the path grew clearer and more and more defined as they stumbled along it to its end.
It was not a house they found. It was not really a cabin. It was just three walls of logs built against the rocky face of the mountain.
But it was a hut, a shelter, with a door that swung open on leather hinges at Johnny's tug.
He called, then peered within. Finally he struck a match and stared about and Maria Angelina came to look, too. The place was so tiny that a bed of boughs and blankets on the floor covered most of the space, save for a few boxes. Outside the doors were the ashes of old fires.