Jim’s eagerness leaped again. He thought he saw an opening. His eyes had in them the question he wanted to ask. All his soul was behind his words, all his great depth of feeling and love looked out at the rounded oval of her sweet face. He hungrily took in the beauty of her hair, her eyes, her cheeks; the sweet richness of her ripe lips, the chiseled roundness of her beautiful neck. He longed to crush her to his heart where they sat. He longed to tell her that she and she only of all women could ever occupy the hut he intended to build; he longed to pour into her ears his version of the old, old story, and so full was his great, strong heart, so overwhelming was his lover’s madness, that he believed he could tell that story as it had never been told before. But the question never reached his lips. The old story was not for his telling. Nor did he ask himself why. It was as though a power which was all-mastering forbade him to speak further.
“Have you seen Will to-day?” Eve suddenly inquired, with apparent irrelevance. “I half expected to–––” And she broke off purposely.
The look in Jim’s eyes hardened to one of acute apprehension.
“You were––expecting him?”
“Well, not exactly, Jim.” She withdrew her gaze from the distant hills, and, gently smiling, turned her eyes upon him. They were full of sympathy and profound kindness. “You see, he came here last night. And, well, I thought he said something about–––”
Jim started. A shiver passed through his body. He suddenly felt cold in that blazing sun. His eyes painfully sought the girl’s face. His look was an appeal, an appeal for a denial of what in his heart he feared. For some seconds he did not speak. There was no sound between them, but of his breathing, which had become suddenly heavy.
“Will––Will was here last night?” he said at last.
His voice was husky and unusual. But he dropped his eyes before the innocent look of inquiry in the girl’s.
“Why, yes; he spent the evening with me.”