"Oh, he'd been drunk--he was drunk!" whispered Joan. "He isn't to be
blamed. He's not my old Jim. He's suffering--he's changed--he
doesn't care. What could I expect--standing there like a hussy
before him--in this--this indecent rig? ... I must see him. I must
tell him. If he recognized me now--and I had no chance to tell him
why I'm here--why I look like this--that I love him--am still good--
and true to him--if I couldn't tell him I'd--I'd shoot myself!"
Joan sobbed out the final words and then broke down. And when the
spell had exercised its sway, leaving her limp and shaken and weak,
she was the better for it. Slowly calmness returned so that she
could look at her wild and furious rush from the spot where she had
faced Jim Cleve, at the storm of shame ending in her collapse. She
realized that if she had met Jim Cleve here in the dress in which
she had left home there would have been the same shock of surprise
and fear and love. She owed part of that breakdown to the suspense
she had been under and then the suddenness of the meeting. Looking
back at her agitation, she felt that it had been natural--that if
she could only tell the truth to Jim Cleve the situation was not
impossible. But the meeting, and all following it, bore tremendous
revelation of how through all this wild experience she had learned
to love Jim Cleve. But for his reckless flight and her blind
pursuit, and then the anxiety, fear, pain, toil, and despair, she
would never have known her woman's heart and its capacity for love.