“But, Joe,” and she bent nearer and took his hand, his big battered hand, with his fingers twisted and bent by mine labour and the punishment of the ball field; caressed it and went on in the same low tone with which she had begun. “It isn’t over, Joe. I’ve talked to Mr. Paddock about that. He says the court’s making me free and giving me my name again doesn’t really count. You know how good and kind and gentle he is, but he was very firm about that. He said I had sacrificed my duty to my ambition—that was the way he put it—and now, Joe——”
And this was the hardest thing for her to say; it was bending her neck again to the yoke from which she had been free; and there was a pain in her heart that was not for herself but for him, for he had been the sufferer; it was he that had cared. But she knew, as she believed he could not, how impossible it would be for them to find the lost path in which they had begun to walk together. He would take what she offered without knowing at how great a cost she gave it, and her mind leaped on at a bound across the long years before them to the end of their lives. She saw her hopes for her work crumble into dust, and the world of beauty which the dawning consciousness of her powers had illumined before her, the joy of success, the stimulus of applause, the acquaintance of people who would appreciate her skill—all these things she would sweep away by a word and forget that they had ever been her dreams or that life had ever held anything better for her than being Joe’s wife, and living on with him, and eating the bread won for her by the hand that lay there in hers. Suddenly, before she could finish and tell him she would go back to him and renew the broken tie, she felt his clasp tighten and she took it that he understood and that this was his acceptance of what she meant to offer. She did not look into his eyes at once and she hoped he would not speak, for anything he could say would only cause her pain.
“Jean.”
“Yes,” she said bravely.
“It’s no good, Jean. I can’t let you do that; we quit, and if that was wrong we can’t fix it now. You don’t need to feel sorry for me. I’ll be out o’ here and all right pretty soon. And I ain’t goin’ to drag you down. You talk about doin’ me a wrong, but that’s no reason why I should do you a bigger one. We meant well when we started out, but it would never have been any good. Don’t you feel sorry about it—it’s all right, Jean. It’s like the good girl you are to offer to take me back, but it’s all done and over. I want you to be happy and go on with your work; but I’m not goin’ to be a dead weight on you. We ain’t for each other, Jean.”
He dropped her hand, as though the matter were concluded; but what he had said was not a release, it only sent her back to the beginning of her task.
“You love me, don’t you, Joe—just as you always did?”
He turned his head away and did not answer.
“And if you do, I owe it to you to go back to you. I had no right to throw your love away after I had taken it and pledged you mine. The only way I can make it right—the only thing there is to do—is for me to come back.”
He was silent a long time and when he turned toward her he asked slowly: