CHAPTER V
PIERRE BECOMES ALARMED ABOUT HIS PROPERTY
The next time Holliwell came, he brought the books, and, findingPierre at home, he sat with his host after supper and talked men'stalk of the country; of game, of ranching, a little gossip, stories oftravel, humorous experiences, and Joan sat in her place, the books inher lap, looking and listening.
John Carver had used a phrase, "When you see her eyes lookin' andlookin' at another man--" and this phrase had stuck in Pierre'ssensitive and jealous memory. What Joan felt for Holliwell was a sortof ignorant and respectful tenderness, the excitement of an intelligentchild first moved to a knowledge of its own intelligence; the gratitudeof savage loneliness toward the beautiful feet of exploration. Aconsciousness of her clean mind, a consciousness of her young, untamedspirit, had come slowly to life in her since her talk with Holliwell.Joan was peculiarly a woman--that is, the passive and receptive being.Pierre had laid his hand on her heart and she had followed him; nowthis young parson had put a curious finger on her brain, it followedhim. Her husband saw the admiration, the gratitude, the tenderexcitement in her frank eyes, and the poison seed sown by John Carver'shand shot out roots and tiny, deadly branches.
But Joan and Holliwell were unaware. Pierre smoked rapidly, rollingcigarette after cigarette; he listened with a courteous air, he toldstories in his soft, slow voice; once he went out to bring in a freshlog and, coming back on noiseless feet, saw Joan and her instructorbent over one of the books and Joan's face was almost that of astranger, so eager, so flushed, with sparkles in the usually still,gray eyes.
It was not till a week or two after this second visit from the clergymanthat Pierre's smouldering jealousy broke into flame. After clearing awaythe supper things with an absent air of eager expectation, Joan woulddry her hands on her apron, and, taking down one of her books from theirplace in a shelf corner, she would draw her chair close to the lamp andbegin to read, forgetful of Pierre. These had been the happiest hoursfor him; he would tell Joan about his day's work, about his plans, abouthis past life; wonderful it was to him, after his loneliness, that sheshould be sitting there drinking in every word and loving him with herdumb, wild eyes. Now, there was no talk and no listening. Joan'sabsorbed face was turned from him and bent over her book, her lipsmoved, she would stop and stare before her. After a long while, he wouldget up and go to bed, but she would stay with her books till a restlessmovement from him would make her aware of the lamplight shiningwakefulness upon him through the chinks in the partition wall. Then shewould get up reluctantly, sighing, and come to bed.
For ten evenings this went on, Pierre's heart slowly heating itself,until, all at once, the flame leaped.
Joan had untied her apron and reached up for her book. Pierre had beenwaiting, hoping that of her free will she might prefer his company tothe "parson feller's"--for in his ignorance those books were jealouslypersonified--but, without a glance in his direction, she had turned asusual to the shelf.
"You goin' to read?" asked Pierre hoarsely. It was a painful effort tospeak.
She turned with a childish look of astonishment. "Yes, Pierre."
He stood up with one of his lithe, swift movements, all in onerippling piece. "By God, you're not, though!" said he, strode over toher, snatched the volume from her, threw it back into its place, andpointed her to her chair.
"You set down an' give heed to me fer a change, Joan Carver," he said,his smoke-colored eyes smouldering. "I didn't fetch you up here toread parsons' books an' waste oil. I fetched you up here--to--" Hestopped, choked with a sudden, enormous hurt tenderness and sat downand fell to smoking and staring, hot-eyed, into the fire.
And Joan sat silent in her place, puzzled, wistful, wounded, her idlehands folded, looking at him for a while, then absently before her,and he knew that her mind was busy again with the preacher feller'sbooks. If he had known better how to explain his heart, if she hadknown how to show him the impersonal eagerness of her awakeningmind--! But, savage and silent, they sat there, loving each other,hurt, but locked each into his own impenetrable life.
After that, Joan changed the hours of her study and neglectedhousework and sagebrush-grubbing, but, nonetheless, were Pierre'sevenings spoiled. Perfection of intercourse is the most perishable ofall life's commodities. Now, when he talked, he could not escape theconsciousness of having constrained his audience; she could not escapeher knowledge of his jealousy, the remembrance of his mysteriousoutbreak, the irrepressible tug of the story she was reading. So itwent on till snow came and they were shut in, man and wife, with onlyeach other to watch, a tremendous test of good-fellowship. Thissearching intimacy came at a bad time, just after Holliwell's thirdvisit when he had brought a fresh supply of books.
"There's poetry this time," he said. "Get Pierre to read it aloud toyou."
The suggestion was met by a rude laugh from Pierre.
"I wouldn't be wastin' my time," he jeered.
It was the first rift in his courtesy. Holliwell looked up in sharpsurprise. He saw a flash of the truth, a little wriggle of the greenserpent in Pierre's eyes before they fell. He flushed and glanced atJoan. She stood by the table in the circle of lamplight, looking overthe new books, but in her eagerness there was less simplicity. Shewore an almost timorous air, accepted his remarks in silence, shotdoubtful looks at Pierre before she answered questions, was anentirely different Joan. Now Holliwell was angry and he stiffenedtoward his host and hostess, dropped all his talk about the books andsmoked haughtily. He was young and over-sensitive, no more master ofhimself in this instance than Pierre and Joan. But before he leftafter supper, refusing a bed, though Pierre conquered his dislikesufficiently to urge it, Holliwell had a moment with Joan. It was verytouching. He would tell about it afterwards, but, for a long time, hecould not bear to remember it.
She tried to return his books, coming with her arms full of them andlifting up eyes that were almost tragic with renunciation.
"I can't be takin' the time to read them, Mr. Holliwell," she said,that extraordinary, over-expressive voice of hers running an octave ofregret; "an' someway Pierre don't like that I should spend my evenin'son them. Seems like he thinks I was settin' myself up to be knowin'more than him." She laughed ruefully. "Me--knowin' more'n Pierre! It'slaughable. But anyways I don't want him to be thinkin' that. So takethe books, please. I like them." She paused. "I love them," she saidhungrily and, blinking, thrust them into his hands.
He put them down on the table. "You're wrong, Joan," he said quickly."You mustn't give in to such a foolish idea. You have rights of yourown, a life of your own. Pierre mustn't stand in the way of yourlearning. You mustn't let him. I'll speak to him."
"Oh, no!" Some intuition warned her of the danger in his doing this.
"Well, then, keep your books and talk to Pierre about them. Try topersuade him to read aloud to you. I shan't be back now till spring,but I want you to read this winter, read all the stuff that's there.Come, Joan, to please me," and he smiled coaxingly.
"I ain't afeared of Pierre," said Joan slowly. Her pride was stung bythe suggestion. "I'll keep the books." She sighed. "Good-bye. When Isee you in the spring, I'll be a right learned school-marm."
She held out her hand and he took and held it, pressing it in his own.He felt troubled about her, unwilling to leave her in the snowboundwilderness with that young savage of the smouldering eyes.
"Good-bye," said Pierre behind him. His soft voice had a click.
Holliwell turned to him. "Good-bye, Landis. I shan't see either of youtill the spring. I wish you a good winter and I hope--" He broke offand held out his hand. "Well," said he, "you're pretty far out ofevery one's way here. Be good to each other."
"Damn your interference!" said Pierre's eyes, but he took the hand andeven escorted Holliwell to his horse.
Snow came early and deep that winter. It fell for long, gray days andnights, and then it came in hurricanes of drift, wrapping the cabin inswirling white till only one window peered out and one gabled cornerc
ocked itself above the crust. Pierre had cut and stacked his winterwood; he had sent his cows to a richer man's ranch for winter feeding.There was very little for him to do. After he had brought in twobuckets of water from the well and had cut, for the day's consumption,a piece of meat from his elk hanging outside against the wall, he hadonly to sit and smoke, to read old magazines and papers, and to watchJoan. Then the poisonous roots of his jealousy struck deep. Always hisbrain, unaccustomed to physical idleness, was at work, falselyinterpreting her wistful silence--she was thinking of the parson,hungry to read his books, longing for the open season and his comingagain to the ranch.
In December a man came in on snowshoes bringing "the mail"--one letterfor Pierre, a communication which brought heat to his face. The ForestService threatened him with a loss of land; it pointed to some flaw inhis title; part of his property, the most valuable part, had not yetbeen surveyed.... Pierre looked up with set jaws, every fightinginstinct sharpened to hold what was his own.
"I hev put in two years' hard work on them acres," he told hisvisitor, "an' I'm not plannin' to give them over to the first foolfavored by the Service. My title is as clean as my hand. It'll takemore'n thievery an' more'n spite to take it away from me."
"You better go to Robinson," advised the bearer of the letter; "can'tget after them fellers too soon. It's a country where you can easycome by what you want, but where it ain't so easy to hold on to it. Ifit ain't yer land, it's yer hosses; if it ain't yer hosses, it's yerwife." He looked at Joan and laughed.
Pierre went white and dumb; the chance shot had inflamed his wound.
He strapped on his snowshoes and bade a grim good-bye to Joan, afterthe man had left. "Don't you be wastin' oil while I'm away," he toldher sharply, standing in the doorway, his head level with the steepwall of snow behind him, and he gave her a threatening look so thatthe tenderness in her heart was frozen.
After he had gone, "Pierre, say a real good-bye, say good-bye," shewhispered. Her face cramped and tears came.
She heard his steps lightly crunching across the hard, bright surfaceof the snow, they entered into the terrible frozen silence. Then sheturned from the door, dried her eyes with her sleeve like a littlevillage girl, and ran across the room to a certain shelf. Pierre wouldbe gone a week. She would not waste oil, but she would read. It waswith the appetite of a starved creature that she fell upon her books.