"
"Why not?" he replied calmly, looking straight
ahead of him: at the bend in the road, at the crows
flying in the air, at the leaden sky between the rows
of pines. If she wanted to give him her confidence
he was ready now with heart and arms wide open.
Perhaps his hour had come at last.
"Because--because," she faltered, "our duty
comes in. That is holier than love." Then her
voice rose and steadied itself--"Lucy's duty is to
come home."
He understood. The gate was still shut; the wall
still confronted him. He could not and would not
scale it. She had risked her own happiness--even
her reputation--to keep this skeleton hidden, the
secret inviolate. Only in the late years had she begun
to recover from the strain. She had stood the
brunt and borne the sufferings of another's sin without
complaint, without reward, giving up everything
in life in consecration to her trust. He, of all men,
could not tear the mask away, nor could he stoop by
the more subtle paths of friendship, love, or duty
to seek to look behind it--not without her own free
and willing hand to guide him. There was nothing
else in all her life that she had not told him. Every
thought was his, every resolve, every joy.
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