Presently he spoke again—to himself.
“I wish Nelson was here,” he said. He was trying to figure construction, needed his millwright’s advice.
In that moment Clothespin Jimmy might have felt satisfaction in his son, for young Jim had forgotten the blow just dealt him, had forgotten the fire that raged at his feet. His thoughts dealt only with the future. He wasted no moment in discouragement, though he might well have been discouraged. One thought he held: Logs must cross the gap before him. But how? His fingers doubled into determined fists.
“It can be done,” he said, “and I’ll find the way!”
An older woodsman than Jim, a man experienced in the handling of logs, would have shaken his head. Such a man would have seen the difficulties of the task; would have declared it impossible to haul timber across that swamp before winter.
Jim’s inexperience refused to be daunted.
His head was clear now; he was himself. Marie—she had been there. He turned upon her.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, fiercely, but she was not upright before him. She lay upon the cross-ties, one arm dangling limply through, the garish light exaggerating the pallor of her face.
“Marie!” he whispered, hoarsely.
She did not stir or answer. Her endurance had been urged to the point of breakage, had given way. He was on his knees beside her, his heart gripped by fear, for he had never seen a woman faint. He lifted her. Her head lopped grotesquely to one side as he moved her, and this multiplied his fright. He had loved her, and she was dead. She had not been worth a man’s love; had been treacherous; had betrayed him; but he had given her all of his love. Her breast lifted laboriously. He was conscious of a feeling of relief, not of gladness. So this would not be the end of things between them. They would continue to inhabit the same world. To him it seemed the world was oversmall to house them both.