“While you’re doin’ your beggin’,” said Zaanan, shrewdly, “you might throw in a few words about how much you think of her. Eh? That kind of talk is sort of flavorin’ in a girl’s ear.”
“There is a good deal of it for me to say,” said Jim.
He did not speak again until the miles to Steve Gilders’s shanty were traversed, until they stood at the low door of the house. Jim rushed ahead of Zaanan, opened the door.
“Is she—Where is she? Can I—I must see her now!” he said to the astonished woman who had sat with Marie through the night.
“She’s perked up a mite,” said the woman, “but she don’t act like she was happy. Go right in. She’s able to talk to folks now.”
Jim opened the door and entered the bedroom softly. He found Marie’s eyes on his face as he turned toward the bed, dark wells of misery.
“Marie,” he whispered, and knelt by her side, his hand fumbling for her hand. “Marie, it was cruel. I—I have no excuse to offer you. Where I should have trusted I failed to trust. I loved you—but I was not worthy to love you. Even when I believed you had done that thing, I loved you. I could not tear it out of my heart. There is nothing I can do but tell you how my love failed, and beg you to forgive me if you can. What is gone is gone. I have lost you, and I know the bitterness of loss.”
She turned her face toward him; her eyes were beautiful—softly, tenderly beautiful.
“I—am not lost,” she whispered, “so—so badly that you can’t find me—if you look.”
“Marie!”