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Updated: June 29, 2025
In an instant she was back in Pierre's room and the white night circled her in great silence and she was going over the story of her love and Pierre's their love, their beautiful, grave, simple love that had so filled her life. And now where was she? In the house of the man who had killed her husband! She had been waiting for Holliwell, but for a long while now she had forgotten that.
Holliwell, he's a first-class sin-buster, best I ever knowed." Morena laughed. He was beginning to enjoy his visitor. "Sin-buster?" "That's one name fer a parson. Well, sir, I guess Holliwell is plumb close to bein' a prize devil-twister." "Tell me how you first met him. It ought to be a good story." But the young man's face grew bleak at this. "It ain't a good story, sir," he said grimly.
He planned to put a brand on me so's I c'd be his own like as if I was a beast belongin' to him. Mr. Holliwell said right, I don't belong to no man. I belong to my own self." The storm had passed into this troubled after-tossing of thought. "Can you tell me about it all?" asked Prosper. "Would it help?" "I couldn't," she moaned; "no, I couldn't.
She wore an almost timorous air, accepted his remarks in silence, shot doubtful looks at Pierre before she answered questions, was an entirely different Joan. Now Holliwell was angry and he stiffened toward his host and hostess, dropped all his talk about the books and smoked haughtily. He was young and over-sensitive, no more master of himself in this instance than Pierre and Joan.
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.
'Where's the stage entrance of the Opera Comique? she asked at the bookstall at the corner of Holliwell Street, and was told that she would find the stage entrance in Wytch Street, about half-way down the street. 'The stage-doors of the Globe and the Opera Comique are side by side, was cried after her.
Holliwell had taken the pipe from between his teeth, had straightened up. Her deep voice, the slight swinging of her body to the rhythm she had unconsciously given to her lines, the strange glow in her eyes ... Holliwell wondered why these things, this brief, sing-song recitation, had given a light thrill to the surface of his skin, had sent a tingling to his fingertips.
I wouldn't be carin' to to-night. I I reckon I've got this matter too much on my mind. Thank you very much, Mr. Morena." "Before you go, tell me about Holliwell. He was a good friend of mine." "He was a good friend to most every one he knowed. He was more than that to me." "Then he's been a success out there?" Pierre meditated over the words. "Success? Why, yes, I reckon he's been all of that."
"Will you come home with me now?" he asked her bitterly. Betty forced the twisted mouth to speech. "What else is there for me to do?" she said. "The Reverend Francis Holliwell." Morena turned the card over and over in his hand. "Holliwell. Holliwell. Frank Holliwell." Yes. One of the fellows that had dropped out.
"Dinner is served," said Prosper, rising quickly, and, getting back of her, he pushed her chair to the table, hiding in this way a silent paroxysm of mirth. At dinner, Prosper, unlike Holliwell, made no attempt to draw Joan into talk, but sipped his wine and watched her, enjoying her composed silence and her slow, graceful movements.
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