“No.” She shook her head. “You start a thing and don’t finish it—is that the plan? And this the very thing in all your life which outweighed everything else? And you’ve got me to thinking it was a wonderful thing that you had planned. You’d drop it now?”
She was resting her chin on her hands, now white and thin, supported on Granny Williams’ cane. Now she lifted her head and half turned away. He caught the significance of the act, and it made his gaunt face paler.
“Well,” replied he quietly, “now perhaps you can see why I’m not happy.”
She looked at him so deeply regretful that he pulled together with a resolve obviously painful.
“You don’t know much about me. That’s of no importance. But if you are interested in my school and my people, then I do become important in one way. Shall I have to tell you about myself?”
“Go on,” said she, nodding. “Yes.”
So then, simply, baldly, unsparing of himself, he did go on and tell her about himself and his life—the hopelessness of it, the narrowness, the meagerness, the despair of it all, the tenfold shackles of misery and ignorance which had held him and all his so long. Then he told her of his own marriage; and of the end of it.
“I don’t wonder you are unhappy,” said she slowly at last. “But still I don’t know why you should not go on with your school as you planned.”
“I reckon I’ll have to tell you all the rest,” said David Joslin desperately after a time. “I didn’t think I ever could.”
“Why not?” she asked simply.