“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.”
Then Joan did look at him with all her eyes.
“I am Pierre’s wife,” she said. The liquid beauty had left her voice. It was hoarse and dry. “I am Pierre’s wife and I have already been the mother of your child.”
There was a long, rigid silence. “Joan—when?—where?” Prosper’s throat clicked.
“I knew it before you left. I couldn’t tell you because you were so changed. I worked all winter. It—it was born on an awful cold March night. I think the woman let it—made it—die. She wanted me to work for her during the summer and she thought I would be glad if the child didn’t live. She used to say I was ‘in trouble’ and she’d be glad if she could ‘help me out.’... It was what I was planning to live for ... that child.”
During the heavy stillness following Joan’s dreadful, brief account of birth and death, Prosper went through a strange experience. It seemed to him that in his soul something was born and died. Always afterwards there was a ghost in him—the father that might have been.
“I can’t talk any more,” said Joan faintly. “Won’t you please go?”