“Ruth!” Her sister went to her and held her.
“It’s all over now. He’s had about all he wanted....”
She wept. Cornelia was helpless. A great shame was in the room. It took Cornelia and Tom and branded them. Their youth was a sin. Their courage was a heartless boasting. Before this miserable sister who had lost her hope their lives were suddenly sweet and simple. They felt shame.
Tom took Ruth’s hand. The woman sat up again and looked at her brother. All the shame was with him, with Cornelia. Ruth sat in her nightgown, her body naked before them; she was simple and undismayed. It seemed to Tom in this hour Ruth was great.
She was quiet. She held Tom’s hand, she reached for Cornelia’s. She kissed first one hand, then the other. She smiled.
“You—go,” she said. “I stay here, but you—go.”
Her tears were past. It was as if she had passed from herself. She said: “I’ll bet you’ve no dollar to go with!”
This was Tom’s business, he felt. But in the candlelight and before this so strangely noble wreckage of his sister he could say nothing. She laughed silently. She pattered to a cupboard under the two glowing candles. She dug beneath a bewilderment of clothes. She drew out a wallet. She came back to her bed.
“There are two hundred and twelve dollars in here,—and I must get rid of them. Yes: I stole them bit by bit from the house allowance. God! I’m glad. But I can’t stand the thought of them being here any longer.”
Her words came more hard.