“Then I care not. Other men have had misfortune thrust upon them and have borne it without complaint, have had less to solace them than you have given me now, and I should be a coward if I faltered. Some day perhaps, you will know that I am worthy of your faith: God grant that the knowledge brings you no fresh misery—there, forgive me, I have said too much; I am even now a coward. If you will say good-bye I'll go.”
“Good-bye, my hero.” She raised her eyes, blurred with tears, and held out her hand gropingly, as one searches in the dark, for the room whirled like a storm cloud, and just faintly she could see the man's strong face coming to her out of the gloom like the face of a god. He took her hand. “Good-bye,” his voice vibrated brokenly; “if—if Justice wills that my innocence be known some day, may I come back? Will you wait, believing in me for a little?”
“Forever.”
He drew her to him by the hand he still clasped, and put his strong arms about her. What mattered it now that he had been falsely accused—what mattered it to either of them that he must accept the grim penalty of his endeavor? With them in the soft gloom was nothing but love, and faith, and innocence; and within the strong arms a sense of absolute security, as though the false accusing world had been baffled, beaten down, and the victory theirs—love.
He raised the girl's face and kissed her. “Let God witness that I press your brave lips in innocence,” he said; “and in this pledge I love you forever and ever.”
“Amen,” came from Allis involuntarily; it sounded to them both like the benediction of a high priest.
“Amen,—” he responded. To speak again would have been sacrilege.
He put her from him gently, turned away and walked quickly from the house.
The girl sat for a long time a gray shadow in the gathering darkness. He was gone from her. It seemed as though she had scarce spoken the encouragement she wished to give him. It had been a meeting almost without words; but she felt strangely satisfied. The accusing revelation that had come from Crane in the afternoon had been a crushing blow. It was a mistake, of course; it wasn't true—somehow it wasn't true, but still it had stunned. Now in the gloaming she sat with an angel of peace; big, steadfast, honest eyes, full of thankfulness, looked lovingly at her from where he had stood. If she could sit there forever, with the echo of his deep “Amen” to their love lingering in her ears, she would ask no further gift of the gods.
Mortimer, as with swinging stride he hurried toward the village, let his mind flit back to the room of gray shadows. How little he had said! Had there been aught spoken at all? The strong arms still tingled with tender warmth where the impress of an angel had set them thrilling ecstatically. Yes, what mattered their speech? There had been little of the future—no promise to send word of his well-being—but let the future look to itself. In the present he was king of a love realm that was greater than all the world.