The Branding Iron - Page 50/142

And what could prevent her from going? She laughed aloud,--a short,

defiant laugh,--rippled to her feet, and, in her room, took off

Prosper's "pretty things" and got into her own old clothes; the coarse

underwear, the heavy stockings and boots, the rough skirt, the man's

shirt. How loosely they all hung! How thin she was! Now into her coat,

her woolen cap down over her ears, her gloves--she was ready, her

heart laboring like an exhausted stag's, her knees trembling, her

wrists mysteriously absent. She went into the hall, found her

snowshoes, bent to tie them on, and, straightening up, met Prosper who

had come in out of the snow.

He was glowing from exercise, but at sight of her and her pale

excitement, the glow left him and his face went bleak and grim. He put

out his hand and caught her by the arm and she backed from him against

the wall--this before either of them spoke.

"Where are you going, Joan?"

"I'm a-goin' home."

He let go of her arm. "You were going like this, without a word to

me?"

"Mr. Gael," she panted, "I had a feelin' like you wouldn't 'a' let me

go."

He turned, threw open the door, and stepped aside. She confronted his

white anger.

"Mr. Gael, I left Pierre dead. I've been a-waitin' for Mr. Holliwell

to come. I'm strong now. I must be a-goin' home." Suddenly, she blazed

out: "You killed my man. What hev I to do with you?"

He bowed. Her breast labored and all the distress of her soul,

troubled by an instinctive, inarticulate consciousness of evil,

wavered in her eyes. Her reason already accused her of ingratitude and

treachery, but every fiber of her had suddenly revolted. She was all

for liberty, she must have it.

He was wise, made no attempt to hold her, let her go; but, as she fled

under the firs, her webs sinking deep into the heavy, uncrusted snow,

he stood and watched her keenly. He had not failed to notice the

trembling of her body, the quick lift and fall of her breast, the

rapid flushing and paling of her face. He let her go.

And Joan ran, drawing recklessly on the depleted store of what had

always been her inexhaustible strength. The snow was deep and soft,

heavy with moisture, the March air was moist, too, not keen with frost,

and the green firs were softly dark against an even, stone-colored sky

of cloud. To Joan's eyes, so long imprisoned, it was all astonishingly

beautiful, clean and grave, part of the old life back to which she was

running. Down the cañon trail she floundered, her short skirt

gathering a weight of snow, her webs lifting a mass of it at every

tugging step. Her speed perforce slackened, but she plodded on, out of

breath and in a sweat. She was surprised at the weakness; put it down

to excitement. "I was afeered he'd make me stay," she said, and, "I've

got to go. I've got to go." This went with her like a beating rhythm.

She came to the opening in the firs, the foot of the steep trail, and

out there stretched the valley, blank snow, blank sky, here and there a

wooded ridge, then a range of lower hills, blue, snow-mottled; not a

roof, not a thread of smoke, not a sound.