The cadence of her moan cut deep into his heart. He realized for the first time some part of her suffering, her temptations. Her eyes shone with a marvellous beauty. He was awed by the rapt expression of her face.
"Don't do that," he stammered. "Please get up."
"You're so good!" she breathed.
"Oh no, I'm not. I don't know—I don't pretend to judge—that's all. Yesterday I did, but now—well, I leave the whole business with you and God. Please stand up."
She rose, but stood looking upon him with a fixed, devouring look. He had never seen tears in her eyes before. She had been gay and sullen and tense and sad, but now she was transfigured with some emotion he could not follow. Her eyes were soft and dark, and her pale face, sad and sweet, was instinct with the tenderness of her coming maternity. The sturdy plainsman thrilled with unutterable pity as he looked down upon her.
There was a silence, and then Rivers came to Bailey's side, and said, brokenly,
"Rob, old man, you've done me good—you always have done me good—I'll be faithful to her, so help me God!"
Bailey understood him, and shook his hand. They stood for a moment, palm to palm, as if this were in some sense a marriage ceremony. Bailey broke the tension by saying:
"Well, now get your team—I wouldn't let you take her out into the cold only I know she ought to be where a doctor can be reached. The quicker you go the better."
While Rivers was gone he turned to her and helped her with her cloak and shawl. His heart went out toward her with a brother's love. He talked with cheerful irrelevancy and bustled about, heating a bowlder for her feet and warming her overshoes.