“You’re white—you’re shaking,” exclaimed Rust, in concern. “Oh, I—what did I say? Forgive me—”
“Rust, I am no more worth loving and fighting for than your Nell.”
“What!” he ejaculated.
“I have not told you the truth,” she said, swiftly. “I have let you believe a lie.... I shall never marry Glenn. I broke my engagement to him.”
Slowly Rust sank back upon the pillow, his large luminous eyes piercingly fixed upon her, as if he would read her soul.
“I went West—yes—” continued Carley. “But it was selfishly. I wanted Glenn to come back here.... He had suffered as you have. He nearly died. But he fought—he fought—Oh! he went through hell! And after a long, slow, horrible struggle he began to mend. He worked. He went to raising hogs. He lived alone. He worked harder and harder.... The West and his work saved him, body and soul.... He had learned to love both the West and his work. I did not blame him. But I could not live out there. He needed me. But I was too little—too selfish. I could not marry him. I gave him up. ... I left—him—alone!”
Carley shrank under the scorn in Rust’s eyes.
“And there’s another man,” he said, “a clean, straight, unscarred fellow who wouldn’t fight!”
“Oh, no—I—I swear there’s not,” whispered Carley.
“You, too,” he replied, thickly. Then slowly he turned that worn dark face to the wall. His frail breast heaved. And his lean hand made her a slight gesture of dismissal, significant and imperious.