She ceased speaking and walked away a little and stood with hands clenched, as she tried to control the deep feeling that possessed her. He waited, not understanding; but the light broke upon him suddenly.
“Does he know about you and me, Jean? Is that the reason?”
“Oh, why do you ask me that?” she cried, answering by the evasion. “That hurt me more than anything else when he was so sick; I talked to him just before he left the parish house, and he was ill and weak, and I told him I was ready; but he wouldn’t do it—he wouldn’t come back because of you. You don’t understand how he loves you; how you are his great hero; how humbly he serves you. He would die for you. He wrote to me about it while I was away—letters that wrung my heart—they were all of you, how you were fighting to master yourself; and he was so proud of you for going to work here at the mines. I wouldn’t tell you this, only I don’t want you to think of him so contemptuously, as something to be lightly flung aside. He loves me in his foolish, boyish way as he always did from the time we were children; but he loves you more; it’s because of you that he never wavers in his refusal to take me back. I tell you this because I want you to appreciate him—what he has done for you—what he would do for you and me.”
He was touched, but not greatly, by what she said. Joe’s nobility was admirable enough—but it did not ease Wayne’s burden or brighten his hope. His impatience of restraint—lulled for a time by hard labour—flashed up like a fiery torch in his heart.
She talked now of her work, and of the places she had visited, winning and holding his interest.
“The best time I had was in the South. I went to some of the cotton-mill towns in North Carolina, and the little coloured children were great fun. But they were harder to do. They want me to illustrate a children’s Christmas book as soon as this is done—I suppose if I go on I shan’t come here any more. Grandfather was my only tie with the place.”
“I had just received your letter about him the evening your grandfather died. I had intended doing what I could, but my father had trifled with his case too long, and Mr. Gregory was at the house when I went up there that night. I had gone to the house for the last time.”
“Why?”
The question was unlike her, and he started guiltily. The truth about her grandfather’s death was one thing she must never know; but he was reassured at once. The question had sprung to her lips thoughtlessly.
“Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean to ask that.”