She looked at his bent head, conscious of a new distress. How was she going to repay him for this his goodness to her? He was trusting her blindly. He had refused to let his eyes be opened. For she knew he would keep his word about that telegram. Jake always kept his word.
Her distress grew, became almost unbearable. She saw herself in a new and horrible light, and shrank in anguish of soul from the revelation. It was as if upon that downward path she had suddenly caught a glimpse of the precipice at the end, the cruel rocks, the dreadful fall, the black, seething whirlpool below. And her whole being revolted. All that was pure in her made swift outcry.
If Jake--Jake--had climbed back to the old high ground, surely she could do the same! Surely she could do no less. He trusted her--he trusted her! How could she go on?
The wild tempest of feeling rushed through her, and passed. She was left very cold, striving desperately to suppress a fit of shuddering that threatened to overwhelm her.
Jake was not looking at her. He seemed unaware of her agitation. After a moment he took his hand away, and rose.
He began to feel in his pockets, produced his clay pipe and tobacco-pouch; then suddenly paused. "Do you mind if I light up? I'm just going."
"Oh, please do!" she said.
He began to fill the pipe with minute care. "Don't let your mother take too much out of you!" he said. "Have a meal and turn in as early as you can! Guess you're needing a good rest."
She leaned her head on her hand. "Yes. I am tired."
Jake was silent again for a space. Finally he put the pipe into his mouth and shook the tobacco back into his pouch. Then in a curiously hesitating voice, he spoke. "Say,--Maud!"