Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 29, 2025
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.
Big, athletic youngster; left college in his junior year and studied for the ministry. Fine chap. Popular. Especially decent to him when he had begun to play that difficult role of a man without a country. Now here was the card of the Reverend Francis Holliwell and the man himself, no doubt, waiting below. Jasper tried to remember. He'd heard something about Frank. Oh, yes.
"Oh, a big, fair young man a rosy boy-face, serious-looking, blue eyes." Joan was startled and turned round. "It was Mr. Holliwell," she said, in a wondering tone. "Did you talk with him? Did you tell him ?" "No. Hardly." Prosper shook his head. "I found out what he had done for your Pierre without asking unnecessary questions. I saw him, but he did not see me."
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.
And at the same time he was filled with a nameless fear of what Joan might herself have become. He stood with his hand on the knob of that half-opened door, bent his head, and drew some deep, uneven breaths. He thought of Holliwell as though the man were standing beside him. He stepped in quietly, shut the door, and walked without hesitation down the passageway into the little, sunny sitting-room.
"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 you till the spring. I wish you a good winter and I hope " He broke off and held out his hand. "Well," said he, "you're pretty far out of every one's way here. Be good to each other."
"Damn your interference!" said Pierre's eyes, but he took the hand and even escorted Holliwell to his horse. Snow came early and deep that winter. It fell for long, gray days and nights, and then it came in hurricanes of drift, wrapping the cabin in swirling white till only one window peered out and one gabled corner cocked itself above the crust.
He was far too disturbed. "Frank Holliwell gave me a note to you, Mr. Morena. I got your address some years ago from Yarnall, of Lazy-Y Ranch, Middle Fork, Wyoming. I've been gettin' my affairs into shape ever since, so that I could come East. I don't rightly know whether Yarnall would have wrote to you concernin' me or no." "Yes. He did write just a line two years ago."
He turned back to Joan, drew the curtain from her face, drew down her hands, lifted her and carried her to the couch beside the fire. There she shrank away from him, tried to push him back. "It's true, Pierre; not that about Morena, but the rest is true. It's true. Only he told me you were dead. But you weren't no, don't take my hands, I never did have dealings with Holliwell.
Joan said to herself; and afterwards, with a burst of weeping, "And, of course, that is what I am." Her past sin pressed upon her and she trembled, remembering Pierre's wistful, seeking face. If he should find her now, he would find her branded, indeed now he could never believe that she had indeed been innocent of guilt in the matter of Holliwell. Her father had first put a mark upon her.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking