“I hate questioning you,” said Joyce in some embarrassment, “but--is it repugnant to you to--to think of Everard?”
“Why, of course not, Stephen. It was a time of awful pain and misery--but if he came to take me back as his wife, I would go to him. If he ever can, I have promised that I will.”
With all his knowledge of her, Joyce was taken aback by her simple candour.
“If that is so, why on earth shrink from reconsidering, now, his former offer?” he asked, exceedingly puzzled at her point of view.
“You tell me what I ought to do, and I will do it,” said Yvonne.
“Then you need not have any fears at all for the future. It will be all so simple.”
“How can I thank you?” said Yvonne. “Oh, if I could only sing for you! But nothing will ever give me back my voice--I am a useless little creature. And you have been so good to me to-day. I shall never forget it all my life.”
But Joyce’s heart was at ebb-tide again. He rose soon, and took his hat and stick.
“There is no reason to thank me, Yvonne,” he said, with bitterness. “What I have done for you has cost me nothing--the cheapest of all services; I have only given you advice.”
“If you talk like that, you will make me cry again.”
“Forgive me,” said Joyce. “I am a beast.”
It was night. Yvonne lay wide awake. A suffused sound of breathing filled the air. Now and then a moan or a smothered cry of pain broke sharply upon the stillness. The woman in the adjacent bed began to murmur broken words in her sleep: “For the children’s sake, Joe--my poor little children--I wish we was all dead.” Some poor tragedy reenacting itself in slumber. Yvonne listened pityingly. The woman had seemed as broken down that day with misery as she herself. Then silence again, and Yvonne fell back upon her own tragedy, which seemed to be working itself out in the staring wakeful hours.
She had not written to Everard. Pen, ink, and paper had been brought. The sister had propped her up with pillows in a posture especially comfortable for writing. But her strength had failed her. To ask him for money was more than her pride could do.
Instead, she had written a long outpouring to Joyce, which lay unposted under her pillow.
This pride was a seam of flint in her soft nature. She would have returned to Everard as his wife, willingly, gratefully, glad to lay her tired head on his shoulder, and feel his strong protection around her once more. But from any one rather than him would she accept charity. Illogical, irrational, absurd--but a reality none the less in her heart.