"Sleepin'?" said he in a hoarse undertone.
She did not reply; she did not move. He could not see that she was breathing.
"It'll soon be time to git supper," he went on—not because he was thinking of supper but because he was desperately clutching for something that must draw a reply from her—if she could reply. "Want me to clean up the dinner and put the supper things on?"
She made a feeble effort to rise, sank back again. He drew an audible sigh of relief; at least she was not what her color had suggested.
In fact, she was morbidly conscious. The instant she had heard him at the outer door she had begun to shiver and shake, and not until he moved toward the bedroom door did she become quiet. Then a calm had come into her nerves and her flesh—the calm that descends upon the brave when the peril actually faces. As he stood there her eyes were closed, but the smell of him—beneath the earthy odor of his clothing the odor of the bodies of those who eat strong, coarse food—stole into her nostrils, into her nerves. Her whole body sickened and shrank—for to her now that odor meant marriage—and she would not have believed Hell contained or Heaven permitted such a thing as was marriage. She understood now why the Bible always talked of man as a vile creature born in sin.
Jeb was stealthily watching her ghastly face, her limp body.
"Feelin' sickish?" he asked.
A slight movement of the head in assent.
"I kin ride over to Beecamp and fetch Doc Christie."
Another and negative shake of the head, more determined. The pale lips murmured, "No—no, thank you." She was not hating him. He existed for her only as a symbol, in this hideous dream called life, that was coiled like a snake about her and was befouling her and stinging her to death.
"Don't you bother 'bout supper," said he with gruff, shamefaced generosity. "I'll look out for myself, this onct."