"You will come back to me, Christie, my wife? My wife, you will let
me love you again?"
She gave a singular little gasp, and shook her head. "Don't, oh!
don't," he cried piteously. "You will come to me, dear? it is all
such a bitter mistake--I did not understand. Oh! Christie, I did not
understand, and you'll forgive me, and love me again, won't
you--won't you?"
"No," said the girl with quick, indrawn breath.
He dashed the back of his hand across his wet eyelids. His lips were
growing numb, and he bungled over the monosyllable "Why?"
"I do not like you," she answered quietly.
"God! Oh! God, what is there left?"
She did not appear to hear the heart-break in his voice; she stood
like one wrapped in sombre thought; no blaze, no tear, nothing in
her eyes; no hardness, no tenderness about her mouth. The wind was
blowing her cloak aside, and the only visible human life in her
whole body was once when he spoke the muscles of her brown arm
seemed to contract.
"But, darling, you are mine--_mine_--we are husband and wife! Oh,
heaven, you _must_ love me, and you _must_ come to me again."
"You cannot _make_ me come," said the icy voice, "neither church,
nor law, nor even"--and the vice softened--"nor even love can make
a slave of a red girl.
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