“And as to your being any other sort of a coward—that you had physical fear—that you wouldn’t do a man’s part—why, I never did mean that at all. How could I? And if I had—why, even Auntie Lucinda said your going out after that Chinaman the other night was heroic—even if he couldn’t have cooked a bit!—and you know Auntie Lucinda has always been against you.”
“Yes, and you both called me a coward, because I quit my law office and ran away from misfortune.”
“Yes, we did. And I meant that, too! I say it now to your face, Harry. But maybe I don’t know all about that——”
“Maybe not.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be unjust, of course, but I don’t think a man ought to throw away his life. You’re young. You could start over again, and you ought to have tried. Your father made his own money, and so did my father—why, look at the Sally M. mine, that has given me my own fortune. Do you suppose that grew on a bush to be shaken off? So why couldn’t you go out in the same way and do something in the world—I don’t mean just make money, you know, but do something? That’s what a girl likes. And you were able enough. You are young and strong, and you have your education; and I’ve heard my father say, before he died—and other men agreed with him—that you were the best lawyer at our bar, and that you had an extraordinary mind, and a clear sense of justice, and, and——”
“Go on. Did he say that?”
“Yes.”
“But with all my fine qualities of mind and heart,” said I, “I lost all when I lost my money!”
“I’ll tell you what I mean—you dropped me because you thought me poor. Well, I don’t blame you. It takes money to live, and you deserved all that the world can give. I don’t blame you. There were other men in the world for you. The trouble with me was that there was no other woman in the world for me. All our trouble—all our many meetings and partings—have come out of those two facts.”