"Working in a coal-mine," he laughed, still trying to divert her.
But she went on, as gravely as before. "Ye're no working man, that I know. And ye're always offering me help! Ye're always sayin' what ye can do for me!" She paused and there came some of the old defiance into her face. "Joe, ye can have no idea of the feelin's that have got hold of me just now. I'm ready to do something desperate; ye'd best be leavin' me alone, Joe!"
"I think I understand, Mary. I would hardly blame you for anything you did."
She took up his words eagerly. "Wouldn't ye, Joe? Ye're sure? Then what I want is to get the truth from ye. I want ye to talk it out fair!"
"All right, Mary. What is it?"
But her defiance had vanished suddenly. Her eyes dropped, and he saw her fingers picking nervously at a fold of her dress. "About us, Joe," she said. "I've thought sometimes ye cared for me. I've thought ye liked to be with me--not just because ye were sorry for me, but because of _me_.
I've not been sure, but I can't help thinkin' it's so. Is it?"
"Yes, it is," he said, a little uncertainly. "I _do_ care for you."
"Then is it that ye don't care for that other girl all the time?"
"No," he said, "it's not that."
"Ye can care for two girls at the same time?"
He did not know what to say. "It would seem that I can, Mary."
She raised her eyes again and studied his face. "Ye told me about that other girl, and I been wonderin', was it only to put me off? Maybe it's me own fault, but I can't make meself believe in that other girl, Joe!"
"You're mistaken, Mary," he answered, quickly. "What I told you was true."
"Well, maybe so," she said, but there was no conviction in her tone. "Ye come away from her, and ye never go where she is or see her--it's hard to believe ye'd do that way if ye were very close to her. I just don't think ye love her as much as ye might. And ye say you do care some for me. So I've thought--I've wondered--"
She stopped, forcing herself to meet his gaze: "I been tryin' to work it out! I know ye're too good a man for me, Joe. Ye come from a better place in life, ye've a right to expect more in a woman--"
"It's not that, Mary!"
But she cut him short. "I know that's true! Ye're only tryin' to save my feelin's. I know ye're better than me! I've tried hard to hold me head up, I've tried a long time not to let meself go to pieces. I've even tried to keep cheerful, telling meself I'd not want to be like Mrs.
Zamboni, forever complainin'. But 'tis no use tellin' yourself lies! I been up to the church, and heard the Reverend Spragg tell the people that the rich and poor are the same in the sight of the Lord. And maybe 'tis so, but I'm not the Lord, and I'll never pretend I'm not ashamed to be livin' in a place like this."
"I'm sure the Lord has no interest in keeping you here--" he began.
But she broke in, "What makes it so hard to bear is knowin' there's so many wonderful things in the world, and ye can never have them! 'Tis as if ye had to see them through a pane of glass, like in the window of a store. Just think, Joe Smith--once, in a church in Sheridan, I heard a lady sing beautiful music; once in my whole lifetime! Can ye guess what it meant to me?"
"Yes, Mary, I can."
"But I had that all out with meself--years ago. I knew the price a workin' girl has to pay for such things, and I said, I'll not let meself think about them. I've hated this place, I've wanted to get away--but there's only one way to go, to let some man take ye! So I've stayed; I've kept straight, Joe. I want ye to believe that."
"Of course, Mary!"
"No! It's not been 'of course'! It means ye have to fight with temptations. It's many a time I've looked at Jeff Cotton, and thought about the things I need! And I've done without! But now comes the thing a woman wants more than all the other things in the world!"
She paused, but only for a moment. "They tell ye to love a man of your own class. Me old mother said that to me, before she died. But suppose ye didn't happen to? Suppose ye'd stopped and thought what it meant, havin' one baby after another, till ye're worn out and drop--like me old mother did? Suppose ye knew good manners when ye see them--ye knew interestin' talk when ye heard it!" She clasped her hands suddenly before her, exclaiming, "Ah, 'tis something different ye are, Joe--so different from anything around here! The way ye talk, the way ye move, the gay look in your eyes! No miner ever had that happy look, Joe; me heart stops beatin' almost when ye look at me!" She stopped with a sharp catching of her breath, and he saw that she was struggling for self-control. After a moment she exclaimed, defiantly: "But they'd tell ye, be careful, ye daren't love that kind of man; ye'd only have your heart broken!"
There was silence. For this problem the amateur sociologist had no solution at hand--whether for the abstract question, or for its concrete application!
SECTION 31.
Mary forced herself to go on. "This is how I've worked it out, Joe! I said to meself, 'Ye love this man; and it's his _love_ ye want--nothin'
else! If he's got a place in the world, ye'd only hold him back--and ye'd not want to do that. Ye don't want his name, or his friends, or any of those things--ye want _him_!' Have ye ever heard of such a thing as that?"
Her cheeks were flaming, but she continued to meet his gaze. "Yes, I've heard of it," he answered, in a low voice.
"What would ye say to it? Is it honest? The Reverend Spragg would say 'twas the devil, no doubt; Father O'Gorman, down in Pedro, would call it mortal sin; and maybe they know--but I don't! I only know I can't stand it any more!"
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she cried out suddenly, "Oh, take me away from here! Take me away and give me a chance, Joe! I'll ask nothing, I'll never stand in your way; I'll work for ye, I'll cook and wash and do everything for ye, I'll wear my fingers to the bone! Or I'll go out and work at some job, and earn my share. And I'll make ye this promise--if ever ye get tired and want to leave me, ye'll not hear a word of complaint!"
She made no conscious appeal to his senses; she sat gazing at him honestly through her tears, and that made it all the harder to answer her.
What could he say? He felt the old dangerous impulse--to take the girl in his arms and comfort her. When finally he spoke it was with an effort to keep his voice calm. "I'd say yes, Mary, if I thought it would work."
"It _would_ work! It would, Joe! Ye can quit when ye want to. I mean it!"
"There's no woman lives who can be happy on such terms, Mary. She wants her man, and she wants him to herself, and she wants him always; she's only deluding herself if she believes anything else. You're over-wrought now, what you've seen in the last few days has made you wild--"
"No!" she exclaimed. "'Tis not only that! I been thinkin' about it for weeks."
"I know. You've been thinking, but you wouldn't have spoken if it hadn't been for this horror." He paused for a moment, to renew his own self-possession. "It won't do, Mary," he declared. "I've seen it tried more than once, and I'm not so old either. My own brother tried it once, and ruined himself."
"Ah, ye're afraid to trust me, Joe!"
"No, it's not that; what I mean is--he ruined his own heart, he made himself selfish. He took everything, and gave nothing. He's much older than I, so I've had a chance to see its effect on him. He's cold, he has no faith, even in his own nature; when you talk to him about making the world better he tells you you're a fool."
"It's another way of bein' afraid of me," she insisted. "Afraid you'd ought to marry me!"
"But, Mary--there's the other girl. I really love her, and I'm promised to her. What can I do?"
"'Tis that I've never believed you loved her," she said, in a whisper.
Her eyes fell and she began picking nervously again at the faded blue dress, which was smutted and grease-stained, perhaps from her recent effort with Mrs. Zamboni's brood. Several times Hal thought she was going to speak, but she shut her lips tightly again; he watched her, his heart aching.
When finally she spoke, it was still in a whisper, and there was a note of humility he had never heard from her before. "Ye'll not be wantin' to speak to me, Joe, after what I've said."
"Oh, Mary!" he exclaimed, and caught her hand, "don't say I've made you more unhappy! I want to help you! Won't you let me be your friend--your real, true friend? Let me help you to get out of this trap; you'll have a chance to look about, you'll find a way to be happy--the whole world will seem different to you then, and you'll laugh at the idea that you ever wanted me!"
SECTION 32.
The two of them went back to the pit-mouth. It had been two days since the disaster, and still the fan had not been started, and there was no sign of its being started. The hysteria of the women was growing, and there was a tension in the crowds. Jeff Cotton had brought in a force of men to assist him in keeping order. They had built a fence of barbed wire about the pit-mouth and its approaches, and behind this wire they walked--hard-looking citizens with policemen's "billies," and the bulge of revolvers plainly visible on their hips.
During this long period of waiting, Hal had talks with members of his check-weighman group. They told what had happened while he was in jail, and this reminded him of something which had been driven from his mind by the explosion. Poor old John Edstrom was down in Pedro, perhaps in dire need. Hal went to the old Swede's cabin that night, climbed through a window, and dug up the buried money. There were five five-dollar bills, and he put them in an envelope, addressed them in care of General Delivery, Pedro, and had Mary Burke take them to the post office and register them.