A
half of it, he said, should be mine. The other half he asked me to
return to his children, and to his real wife, if she were living. I
have done more than that, m'sieur. I have given up all--for none of it
is mine. A half will go to the two children whom he deserted. The
other half will go to the child that was unborn. The mother--is--
dead."
After a time Thornton said,
"There is more, Jan."
"Yes, there is more, m'sieur," said Jan. "So much more that if I were
to tell it to you it would not be hard for you to understand why Jan
Thoreau is the unhappiest man in the world. I have told you that this
is but the beginning. I have not told you of how the curse has
followed me and robbed me of all that is greatest in life--how it has
haunted me day and night, m'sieur, like a black spirit, destroying my
hopes, turning me at last into an outcast, without people, without
friends, without--that--which you, too, will give up in this girl at
Oxford House. M'sieur, am I right? You will not go back to her. You
will go south, and some day the Great God will reward you."
He heard Thornton rising in the dark.
"Shall I strike a light, m'sieur?"
"No," said Thornton close to him. In the gloom their hands met. There
was a change in the other's voice now, something of pride, of triumph,
of a glory just achieved.
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