He turned and went to his stable, where he saddled his horse and rode away. There were times during his journey out there when he turned back. But he cursed himself for being a coward and went on. He was not going to ask her to forgive him. That idea had never entered his head.
Peggy was alone on the porch, sitting deep in an old rocking-chair, and did not see Joe until he came up the steps. She started to get up, but sank back, staring at him. Then the tears came and she threw one arm across her face.
“Don’t cry,” begged Joe. “Curse me, Peggy. I can stand it. I came out here to be cursed—and to say good-by. I haven’t any excuse that you or anybody else would believe; so I’m not askin’ anythin’—not excusin’ myself. But I didn’t want to go away without seein’ yuh again.”
“Oh, why did you do it, Joe?” she sobbed. “Why? Why?”
“I dunno, Peggy. It’s done. There ain’t anythin’ I can do to make it any different than it is. What’s the use of me sayin’ I’m sorry? I’ve been to hell since that night, and it’s a rough road. But I just want yuh to tell me good-by. It ain’t much to ask, even after what I’ve done. Just a good-by, Peggy.”
But she did not speak. Joe’s face was the color of wood ashes as he turned and went down the steps to his horse. For several moments he leaned against his horse, looking back at her, but she had not moved. She was just a huddled heap in the old chair. The sunlight slanted under a corner of the porch, striking across her hair.
He shut his lips tightly, swung into the saddle and rode slowly away. Peggy stirred. Laura had come to the doorway. She had been inside the living-room, listening.
“Where are you going, Joe?” asked Peggy softly. It was hardly more than a whisper. Laura looked curiously at her, wondering.
“You’re not going away—to stay, Joe?” said Peggy.
“He’s gone, Peggy,” said Laura. “Didn’t you know?”