Part 9 (2/2)
”Myra!”
She was trembling; a moment more she would be in his arms, sobbing, forgiving him. But she hurried on in an unnatural way.
”You wanted to speak to me--I'm waiting. _Why_ don't you speak?”
It was a blow in the face; his own voice hardened then.
”You're making it very hard for me.”
She said nothing, and he had to go on.
”After the fire--” his voice snapped, and it was a s.p.a.ce before he went on, ”I felt I was guilty.... I went to a ma.s.s-meeting and one of the speakers accused the ... cla.s.s I belong to ... of failing in their duty.... She said ...”
Myra spoke sharply:
”Who said?”
”Miss Heffer.”
”Oh!”
Joe felt suddenly silenced. Something unpleasant was creeping in between them. He did not know enough of women, either, to divine how Myra was suffering, to know that she had reached a nervous pitch where she was hardly responsible for what she thought and said. He went on blunderingly:
”I felt that I was accused... I felt that I had to make reparation to the toilers, ... had to spend my life making conditions better.... You see this country has reached a crisis ...”
It was all gibberish to her.
”Exactly what do you mean?” she asked, sharply.
”I mean”--he fumbled for words--”I must go and live among the poor and arouse them and teach them of the great change that is taking place....”
She laughed strangely.
”Oh--an uplifter, settlement work, charity work--”
He was stupefied.
”Myra, can't you see--”
”Yes, I see,” she said, raising her voice a little; ”you're going to live in the slums and you want me to release you. I do. Anything else?”
She was making something sordid of his beautiful dream, and she was startlingly direct. He was cut to the heart.
”You're making it impossible,” he began.
She laughed a little, stroking down her m.u.f.f.
”So you're going to live among the poor ... and you didn't dare come and tell me....”
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