"Yes, from a jeweler."
He passed it to Reba. Its paper covering was sealed with splotches of red sealing-wax.
Alone five minutes later in the big empty town-hall, Reba broke the red seals. Inside a velvet-lined, gilt-embossed leather case, she came upon the little diamond and platinum symbol of her freedom. She didn't understand its significance at first, of course—not until she had read the note that was wrapped around the leather box. Afterward she sat for long minutes staring into space.
It was release Nathan offered her, she supposed—the release she had been so anxious for a year ago, had wanted so much that she had been ready to ask for it, plead for it, demand it, if necessary. But now, she didn't want release! She didn't want things made easy, smoothed out for her, who had erred so gravely. To be relieved of her marriage vows robbed her of her only opportunity for atonement.
A quixotic ambition had possessed Reba, as she got up weak and spent from her fever. The determination to accept without murmur the consequences of her acts, to endure unflinchingly deserved penalties, had uplifted and exalted her. She was New England born and reared, and she had found consolation in the hope that in doing her duty, and doing it well, she might find peace of mind again. Besides, she had told them at home that her husband was coming back to her some day. She had told Louise Bartholomew and Katherine Park too, in the first letters she had written them, that Nathan was coming, when his boat came. Why, he must—he simply must come now! She would send him a message. She would make him come!
