The next time Holliwell came, he brought the books, and, finding
Pierre at home, he sat with his host after supper and talked men's
talk of the country; of game, of ranching, a little gossip, stories of
travel, humorous experiences, and Joan sat in her place, the books in
her lap, looking and listening.
John Carver had used a phrase, "When you see her eyes lookin' and
lookin' at another man--" and this phrase had stuck in Pierre's
sensitive and jealous memory. What Joan felt for Holliwell was a sort
of ignorant and respectful tenderness, the excitement of an intelligent
child first moved to a knowledge of its own intelligence; the gratitude
of savage loneliness toward the beautiful feet of exploration. A
consciousness of her clean mind, a consciousness of her young, untamed
spirit, 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; now
this young parson had put a curious finger on her brain, it followed
him. Her husband saw the admiration, the gratitude, the tender
excitement in her frank eyes, and the poison seed sown by John Carver's
hand shot out roots and tiny, deadly branches.
But Joan and Holliwell were unaware. Pierre smoked rapidly, rolling
cigarette after cigarette; he listened with a courteous air, he told
stories in his soft, slow voice; once he went out to bring in a fresh
log and, coming back on noiseless feet, saw Joan and her instructor
bent over one of the books and Joan's face was almost that of a
stranger, 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 clergyman
that Pierre's smouldering jealousy broke into flame. After clearing away
the supper things with an absent air of eager expectation, Joan would
dry her hands on her apron, and, taking down one of her books from their
place in a shelf corner, she would draw her chair close to the lamp and
begin to read, forgetful of Pierre. These had been the happiest hours
for him; he would tell Joan about his day's work, about his plans, about
his past life; wonderful it was to him, after his loneliness, that she
should be sitting there drinking in every word and loving him with her
dumb, wild eyes. Now, there was no talk and no listening. Joan's
absorbed face was turned from him and bent over her book, her lips
moved, she would stop and stare before her. After a long while, he would
get up and go to bed, but she would stay with her books till a restless
movement from him would make her aware of the lamplight shining
wakefulness upon him through the chinks in the partition wall. Then she
would get up reluctantly, sighing, and come to bed.