"You lied to me," said Joan. "It wasn't just. We didn't start even.

And--and you knew what you wanted of me. I never guessed."

"You didn't? You never guessed?"

"No. Sometimes, toward the last, I was afraid. I felt that I ought to

go away. That day I ran off--you remember--I was afraid of you. I felt

you were bad and that I was bad too. Then it seemed to me that I'd

been dreadfully ungrateful and unkind. That was what began to make me

give way to my feelings. I was sorrowful because I had hurt you and

you so kind! The day I came in with that suit and spoke of--her as a

'tall child' and you cried, why, I felt so sorrowful that I'd made you

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suffer. I wanted to comfort you, to put my hands on you in comfort,

like a mother, I felt. And you went out like you were angry and stayed

away all night as though you couldn't bear to be seeing me again in

your house that you had built for her. So I wrote you my letter and

went away. And then--it was all so awful cold and empty. I didn't know

Pierre was out there. I came back...."

They were both silent for a long time and in the silence the idyll was

re-lived. Spring came again with its crest of green along the cañon

and the lake lay like a turquoise drawing the glittering peak down

into its heart.

"My book--its success," Prosper began at last, "made me restless.

You'll understand that now that you are an artist yourself. And one

day there came a letter from that woman I had loved."

"It was a little square gray envelope," said Joan breathlessly. "I can

see it now. You never rightly looked at me again."

"Ah!" said Prosper. He turned and hid his face.

"Tell me the rest," said Joan.

He went on without turning back to her, his head bent. "The woman

wrote that her husband was dying, that I must come back to her at

once."

The snow tapped and the fire crackled.

"And when you--went back?"

"Her husband did not die," said Prosper blankly; "he is still alive."

"And you still love her very much?"

"That's the worst of it, Joan," groaned Prosper. His groan changed

into a desperate laugh. "I love you. Now truly I do love you. If I

could marry you--if I could have you for my wife--" He waited,

breathing fast, then came and stood close before her. "I have never

wanted a woman to be my wife till now. I want you. I want you to be

the mother of my children."




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