"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
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."