“Tell me,” she said, “was—was
this man living with you when he came to me and—and
made speeches—about love?”
“Bah! He was living with me. I tell
you, he came back and laughed with me about it, and
told me about your baby-blue eyes when they filled
with tears; laughed and laughed and laughed, I tell
you, as I could laugh now.”
The other twisted her hands together, moaning:
“And I have followed him, even to the place
where he keeps his—woman? Ah, how I
hate myself: how I despise myself. I’m
unclean—unclean in my own eyes!”
“Wait!” called Jacqueline. “You
are leaving too soon. The night is cold.”
“I am going. There is no need to gibe at
me.”
“But wait—he will want to see you!
I will tell him that you have been here—that
you came clear up the valley of the Old Crow to see
him and beg him on your knees to love you—he’ll
be angry to have missed the scene!”
But the door closed on Mary as she fled with her hands
pressed against her ears.
Jacqueline ran to the door and threw it open.
“Ride down the valley!” she cried.
“That’s right. He’s coming up,
and he’ll meet you on the way. He’ll
be glad—to see you!”
She saw the rider swing sharply about, and the clatter
of the galloping hoofs died out up the valley; then
she closed the door, dropped the latch, and, running
to the middle of the room, threw up her arms and cried
out, a wild, shrill yell of triumph like the call
of the old Indian brave when he rises with the scalp
of his murdered enemy dripping in his hand.
The extended arms she caught back to her breast, and
stood there with head tilted back, crushing her delight
closer to her heart.
And she whispered: “Pierre! Mine,
mine! Pierre!”
Next she went to the steel mirror on the wall and
looked long at the flushed, triumphant image.
At length she started, like one awakening from a happy
dream, and hurriedly coiled the thick, soft tresses
about her head. Never before had she lingered
so over a toilet, patting each lock into place, twisting
her head from side to side like a peacock admiring
its image.
Now she looked about hungrily for a touch of color
and uttered a little moan of vexation when she saw
nothing, till her eyes, piercing through the gloom
of a dim corner, saw a spray of autumn leaves, long
left there and still stained with beauty. She
fastened them at the breast of her shirt, and so arrayed
began to cook. Never was there a merrier cook,
not even some jolly French chef with a heart made warm
with good red wine, for she sang as she worked, and
whenever she had to cross the room it was with a dancing
step. Spring was in her blood, warm spring that
sets men smiling for no cause except that they are
living, and rejoicing with the whole awakening world.
So it was with Jacqueline. Ever and anon as she
leaned over the pans and stirred the fire she raised
her head and remained a moment motionless, waiting
for a sound, yearning to hear, and each time she had
to look down again with a sigh.
