He accepted this and went on. "When I found you in your bed waiting

for news of Pierre, I thought you the most beautiful, pitiful thing I

had ever seen. I loved you then, Joan, then. Tell me, did I ever in

those days hurt you or give you a moment's anxiety or fear?"

"No," Joan admitted, "you did not. In those days you were wonderful,

kind and patient with me. I thought you were more like God than a

human then."

Prosper laughed with bitterness. "You thought very wrong, but,

according to my own lights, I was very careful of you. I meant to give

you all I could and I meant to win you with patience and forbearance.

I had respect for you and for your grief and for the horrible thing

you had suffered. Joan, by now you know better what the world is. Can

you reproach me so very bitterly for our--happiness, even if it was

short?"

"You lied to me," said Joan. "It wasn't just. We didn't start even.

And--and you knew what you wanted of me. I never guessed."

"You didn't? You never guessed?"

"No. Sometimes, toward the last, I was afraid. I felt that I ought to

go away. That day I ran off--you remember--I was afraid of you. I felt

you were bad and that I was bad too. Then it seemed to me that I'd

been dreadfully ungrateful and unkind. That was what began to make me

give way to my feelings. I was sorrowful because I had hurt you and

you so kind! The day I came in with that suit and spoke of--her as a

'tall child' and you cried, why, I felt so sorrowful that I'd made you

suffer. I wanted to comfort you, to put my hands on you in comfort,

like a mother, I felt. And you went out like you were angry and stayed

away all night as though you couldn't bear to be seeing me again in

your house that you had built for her. So I wrote you my letter and

went away. And then--it was all so awful cold and empty. I didn't know

Pierre was out there. I came back...."

They were both silent for a long time and in the silence the idyll was

re-lived. Spring came again with its crest of green along the canyon

and the lake lay like a turquoise drawing the glittering peak down

into its heart.

"My book--its success," Prosper began at last, "made me restless.

You'll understand that now that you are an artist yourself. And one

day there came a letter from that woman I had loved."

"It was a little square gray envelope," said Joan breathlessly. "I can

see it now. You never rightly looked at me again."

"Ah!" said Prosper. He turned and hid his face.

"Tell me the rest," said Joan.

He went on without turning back to her, his head bent. "The woman

wrote that her husband was dying, that I must come back to her at

once."

The snow tapped and the fire crackled.

"And when you--went back?"

"Her husband did not die," said Prosper blankly; "he is still alive."

"And you still love her very much?"

"That's the worst of it, Joan," groaned Prosper. His groan changed

into a desperate laugh. "I love you. Now truly I do love you. If I

could marry you--if I could have you for my wife--" He waited,

breathing fast, then came and stood close before her. "I have never

wanted a woman to be my wife till now. I want you. I want you to be

the mother of my children."

Then Joan did look at him with all her eyes.

"I am Pierre's wife," she said. The liquid beauty had left her voice.

It was hoarse and dry. "I am Pierre's wife and I have already been the

mother of your child."

There was a long, rigid silence. "Joan--when?--where?" Prosper's

throat clicked.

"I knew it before you left. I couldn't tell you because you were so

changed. I worked all winter. It--it was born on an awful cold March

night. I think the woman let it--made it--die. She wanted me to work

for her during the summer and she thought I would be glad if the child

didn't live. She used to say I was 'in trouble' and she'd be glad if

she could 'help me out.'... It was what I was planning to live for ...

that child."

During the heavy stillness following Joan's dreadful, brief account of

birth and death, Prosper went through a strange experience. It seemed

to him that in his soul something was born and died. Always afterwards

there was a ghost in him--the father that might have been.

"I can't talk any more," said Joan faintly. "Won't you please go?"

CHAPTER VIII

AGAINST THE BARS

Jasper Morena had stood for an hour in a drafty passage of that dirty

labyrinth known vaguely to the public as "behind the scenes,"

listening to the wearisome complaints of a long-nosed young actor. It

was the sixth of such conversations that he had held that day: to

begin with, there had been a difficulty between a director and the

leading man. Morena's tact was still complete; he was very gentle to

the long-nosed youth; but the latter, had he been capable of seeing

anything but himself, must have noticed that his listener's face was

pale and faintly lined.

"Yes, my boy, of course, that's reasonable enough. I'll do what I

can."

"I don't make extravagant demands, you see," the young man spread down

and out his hands, quivering with exaggerated feeling; "I ask only for

decent treatment, what my own self-respect ab-so-lute-ly demands."

Morena put a hand on his shoulder and walked beside him.

"Did you ever stop to think," he said with his charming smile, "that

the other fellow is thinking and saying just the same thing? Now, this

chap that has, as you put it, got your goat, why, he came to me

himself this morning, and, word for word, he said of you just

precisely what you have just said of him to me. Odd, isn't it?"

Again the young actor stopped for one of his gestures, hands up this

time. "But, my God, sir! Is there such a thing as honesty? He couldn't

accuse me of--"

"Well, he thought he could. However, I do get your point of view and I

think we can fix it up for you so that you'll get off with your

self-respect entirely intact. I'll talk to George to-morrow. You're

worth the bother. Good-afternoon."

The young man bowed, his air of tragic injury softened to one of

tragic self-appreciation. Worth the bother, indeed!

Morena left him at the top of the dingy stairs down which the manager

fled to an alley at one side of the theater, where his car was waiting

for him. He stood for a while with his foot on the step and his hand

on the door, looking rather blankly at the gray, cold wall and the

scurrying whirlwinds of dust and paper.

"Drop yourself at the garage, Ned," he said, "and I'll take the car."

He climbed in beside the wheel. He was very tired, but he had

remembered that Jane West, when he had last seen her, had worn a look

of profound discouragement. She never complained, but when he saw that

particular expression he was frightened and the responsibility for her

came heavily upon him. This wild thing he had brought to New York must

not be allowed to beat its head dumbly against the bars.

When he had got rid of his driver, he turned the car northward, and a

few minutes later Mathilde, the French maid chosen by Betty, opened

Jane's door to him.

While he took off his coat he looked along the hall and saw its owner

sitting, her chin propped on a latticework of fingers. She was gazing

out of the window. It was a beautiful, desperate silhouette; something

fateful in the long, still pose and the fixed look. She was still

dressed in street clothes as when she had left the theater, a blouse

and skirt of dark gray, very plain. Her figure, now that it was

trained to slight corseting, was less vigorous and more fine-drawn.

She was very thin, but she had lost her worn and haggard look; the

premature hard lines had almost disappeared; a softer climate, proper

care, rest, food, luxury had given back her young, clear skin and the

brightness of eyes and lips. Her hair, arranged very simply to frame

her face in a broken setting of black, was glossy, and here and there,

deeply waved. It was the arrangement chosen for her by Betty and

copied from a Du Maurier drawing of the Duchess of Towers. It was hard

to believe that this graceful woman was the virago Jane, harder for

any one that had seen a heavy, handsome girl stride into Mrs. Upper's

hotel and ask for work, to believe that she was here.

Morena clapped his hands in the Eastern fashion of summons, and Jane

looked toward him.

"Oh," she said, "I'm glad you came."

He strolled in and stood beside her shaking his head.

"I didn't like the look of you this afternoon, my dear."

"Well, sir," said Jane, "I don't like the look of you either." She

smiled her slow, unself-conscious smile. "You sit down and I'll make

tea for you."

He knew that thought for some one else was the best tonic for her

mood, so he dropped, with his usual limp grace, into the nearest

chair, put back his head and half-closed his eyes.

"I'm used up," he said; "I haven't a word--not one to throw at a dog."

"Please don't throw one at me, then. I surely wouldn't take it as a

compliment." She made the tea gravely, as absorbed in the work as a

little girl who makes tea for her dolls. She brought him his cup and

went back to her place and again her face settled into that look. She

had evidently forgotten him and her eyes held a vision as of

distances.

He put a hand up to break her fixed gaze. "What is it, Jane? What do

you see?"

To his astonishment she hid her face in her hands. "It's awful to live

like this," she moaned; and it frightened him to see her move her head

from side to side like an imprisoned beast, shifting before bars.

He looked about the pretty room and repeated, "Like this?"

half-reproachfully.

"I hate it!" She spoke through her teeth. "I hate it! And, oh, the

sounds, the noises, grinding into your ears."

Here the hands came to her ears and framed a white, desperate face in

which the lids had fallen over sick eyes.

Jasper sat listening to the hum and roar and clatter of the street. To

him it was a pleasant sound, and here it was subdued and remote

enough. Her face was like that of some one maddened by noise.

"You don't smell anything fresh"--her chest lifted--"you don't get

air. I can't breathe. Everything presses in." She opened her eyes,

bright and desperate. "What am I doing here, Mr. Morena?"

He had put down his cup quietly, for he was really half-afraid of her.

"Why did you come, Jane?"

"Because I was afraid of some one. I was running away, Mr. Morena.

There's some one that mustn't ever find me now, and to run away from

him--that was the business of my life. And it kept my heart full of

him and the dread of his coming. You see, that was my happiness. I

hoped he was taking after me so's I could run away." She laughed

apologetically. "Does that sound crazy to you?"

"No. I think I understand. And here?"

"He'll never come here. He'll never find me. It's been four years. And

I'm so changed. This"--she gave herself a downward look--"this isn't

the 'gel' he wants.... Probably by now he's given me up. Maybe he's

found another. Everything that's bad and hateful can find me out here.

Bad things can find you out and try to clutch after you anywheres. But

when something wild and clean comes hunting for you, something out of

the big lonely places--why, it would be scared to follow into this

city."

"You're lonely, Jane. I've told you a hundred times that you ought to

make friends for yourself."

"Oh, I don't care for that. I don't want friends, not many friends.

These acting people, they're not real folks. I don't savvy their ways

and they don't savvy mine. They always end by disliking me because I'm

queer and different from them. You have been my friend, and your

wife--that is, she used to be." Suddenly Jane became more her usual

self and spoke with childlike wistfulness. "She doesn't come to see me

any more, Mr. Morena. And I could love her. She's so like a little

girl with those round eyes--" Jane held up two circles made by

forefingers and thumbs to represent Betty's round eyes. "Oh, dear!"

she said; "isn't she awfully winning? Seems as if you must be taking

care of her. She's so small and fine."

Jasper laughed with some bitterness.

"She doesn't like me now," sighed Jane, but the feelings Betty had

hurt were connected with a later development so that they turned her

mood and brought her to a more normal dejection. She was no longer a

caged beast, she had temporarily forgotten her bars.

"I think you're wrong," said Jasper doubtfully. "Betty does like you.

She's merely busy and preoccupied. I've been neglected myself."

Jane gave him a far too expressive look. It was as though she had

said, "You don't fancy that she cares for you?"

Jasper flushed and blinked his long, Oriental eyes.

"It's a pity you haven't a lover, Jane," he said.

She had walked over to the window, and his speech, purposely a trifle

cruel and insulting, did not make her turn.

"You're angry," she said. "You'd better go home. I'm not in good humor

myself."

At which he laughed his murmuring, musical laugh and prepared to leave

her.

"I have a great deal of courage," he said, getting into his coat, "to

bring a wild-cat here, chain her up, and tease her--eh?"

"You think you have me chained?" Her tone was enraged and scornful. "I

can snap your flimsy little tether and go."

She wheeled upon him. She looked tall and fierce and free.

"No, no," he cried with deprecating voice and gesture. "You are making

Mr. Luck's fortune and mine, not to mention your own. You mustn't

break your chains. Get used to them. We all have to, you know. It's

much the best method."

"I shall never get used to this life, never. It just--somehow--isn't

mine."

"Perhaps when you meet Mr. Luck, he'll be able to reconcile you."

Her expressive face darkened. "When shall I meet Mr. Luck?"

"Soon, I hope. Mr. Melton knows just when to announce the authorship."

"I hate Mr. Luck more than any one in the world," she said in a low,

quiet voice.

Jasper stared. "Hate him! Why, in the name of savagery, should you

hate him?"

"Oh, I can't explain. But you'd better keep us apart. How came he to

write 'The Leopardess'?"

"I shall leave him to tell you that. Good-night."

CHAPTER IX

GRAY ENVELOPES

It was with more than the usual sinking of heart that Jasper let

himself that evening into the beautiful house which Betty and he

called their home. Joan's too expressive look had stung the old

soreness of his disillusionment. He knew that the house was empty of

welcome. He took off his hat and coat dejectedly. There were footsteps

of his man who came from the far end of the hall.

While he stood waiting, Jasper noticed the absence of a familiar

fragrance. For the first time in years Betty had forgotten to order

flowers. The red roses which Jasper always caressed with a long,

appreciative finger as he went by the table in the hall, were missing.

Their absence gave him a faint sensation of alarm.

"Mr. Kane, Mrs. Morena's brother, has called to see you, sir. He is

waiting."

Jasper's eyebrows rose. "To see me? Is he with Mrs. Morena now?"

"No, sir. Mrs. Morena went out this morning and has not yet returned.

Mr. Kane has been here since five o'clock, sir."

"Very well."

It was a mechanical speech of dismissal. The footman went off. Jasper

stood tapping his chin with his finger. Woodward Kane come to see him

during Betty's absence! Woodward had not spoken more than three or four

icy words of necessity to him since the marriage. After a stiff,

ungracious fashion this brother had befriended Betty, but to his Jewish

brother-in-law he had shown only a slightly disguised distaste. The Jew

was well used to such a manner. He treated it with light bitterness,

but he did not love to receive the users of it in his own house. It was

with heightened color and bent brows that he pushed apart the long,

crimson hangings and came into the immense drawing-room.

It was softly lighted and pleasantly warmed. A fire burned. The tall,

fair visitor rose from a seat near the blaze and turned all in one

rigid piece toward his advancing host. Jasper was perfectly conscious

that his own gesture and speech of greeting were too eager, too

ingratiating, that they had a touch of servility. He hated them

himself, but they were inherited with his blood, as instinctive as the

wagging of a dog's tail. They were met by a precise bow, no smile, no

taking of his outstretched hand.

Jasper drew himself up at once, put the slighted hand on the back of a

tall, crimson-damask chair, and looked his stateliest and most

handsome self.

"Betty hasn't come in yet," he said. "You've been waiting for her?"

Woodward Kane pulled at his short, yellow mustache and stared at

Jasper with his large, blank, blue eyes. "As a matter of fact I didn't

call to see my sister, but to see you. I have just come from

Elizabeth. She is at my house. She came to me this morning."

Jasper's fingers tightened on the chair. "She is sick?"

"No." There was a pause during which the blank, blue eyes staring at

him slowly gathered a look of cold pleasure. Jasper was aware that

this man who hated him was enjoying his present mission.

"Shall we sit down? I shall have to take a good deal of your time, I

am afraid. There is rather a good deal to be gone over."

Jasper sat down in the chair the back of which he had been holding.

"Will you smoke?" he asked, and smiled his charming smile.

There was now not a trace of embarrassment, anger, or anxiety about

him. His eyes were quiet, his voice flexible. Woodward declined to

smoke, crossed his beautifully clothed legs and drew a small gray

envelope from his pocket. Jasper's eyes fastened upon it at once. It

was Betty's paper and her angular, boyish writing marched across it.

Evidently the note was addressed to him. He waited while Woodward

turned it about in his long, stiff, white fingers.

"About two months ago Betty came to me one evening in great distress

of mind. She asked for my advice and to the best of my ability I gave

it to her. I wish that she had asked for it ten years ago. She might

have saved herself a great deal. This time she has not only asked for

it, but she has been following it, and, in following it, she has now

left your house and come to mine. This, of course, will not surprise

you."

"It does, however, surprise me greatly." It was still the gentle

murmur, but Jasper's cigarette smoke veiled his face.

"I cannot understand that. However, it's not my business. Betty has

asked me to interview you to-day so that she may be spared the

humiliation. After this, you must address your communications to her

lawyers. In a short time Rogers and Daring will serve you with notice

of divorce."

Jasper sat perfectly still, leaning slightly forward, his cigarette

between his fingers.

"So-o!" he said after a long silence. Then he held out his hand. "I

may have Betty's letter?"

Woodward Kane withheld it and again that look of pleasure was visible

in his eyes. "Just a moment, please. I should like to have my own say

out first. I shall have to be brutal, I am afraid. In these matters

there is nothing for it but frankness. Your infidelity has been common

talk for some time. The story of it first came to Betty's ears on the

evening when she came to me two months ago. Since then there has been

but one possible course."

Jasper kept another silence, more difficult, however, than his last.

His pallor was noticeable. "You say my--infidelity is common talk.

There has been a name used?"

"Your protegee from Wyoming--Jane West."

Jasper was on his feet, and Woodward too rose, jerkily holding up a

hand. "No excitement, please," he begged. "Let us conduct this

unfortunate interview like gentlemen, if possible."

Jasper laughed. "As you say--if possible. Why, man, it was Betty who

helped me bring Miss West to New York, it was Betty who helped me to

install her here, it was Betty who chose the furnishings for her

apartment, who helped her buy her clothes, who engaged her maid, who

gave her most of her training. This is the most preposterous, the most

filthy perversion of the truth. Betty must know it better than any one

else. Come, now, Woodward, there's something more in it than this?"

Jasper had himself in hand, but it was easy now to see the effort it

cost him. The veins of his forehead were swollen.

"I shall not discuss the matter with you. Betty has excellent

evidence, unimpeachable witnesses. There is no doubt in my mind, nor

in the minds of her lawyers, that she will win her suit and get her

divorce, her release. Of course, you will not contest--"

Jasper stopped in his pacing which had begun to take the curious,

circling, weaving form characteristic of him, and, standing now with

his head thrown back, he spoke sonorously.

"Do you imagine for one instant, Kane,--does Betty imagine for one

instant,--that I shall not contest?"

This changed the look of cold pleasure in Woodward's eyes, which grew

blank again. "Do you mean me to understand--Naturally, I took it for

granted that you would act as most gentlemen act under the

circumstances."

"Then you have taken too much for granted, you and Betty. Ten years

ago your sister gave herself to me. She is mine. I will not for a

whim, for a passion, for a temporary alienation, let her go. Neither

will I have my good name and the name of a good woman besmirched for

the sake of this impertinent desire for a release. I love my

wife"--his voice was especially Hebraic and especially abhorrent to

the other--"and as a husband I mean to keep her from the ruin this

divorce would mean to her--"

"Far from being her ruin, Morena, it would be the saving of her. Her

ruin was as nearly as possible brought about ten years ago, when

against the advice, against the wishes of every one who loved her, she

made her insane marriage with an underbred, commercial, and licentious

Jew. She was seventeen and you seized your opportunity."

Jasper had stepped close. He was a head taller and several inches

broader of shoulder than his brother-in-law. "As long as you are in my

house, don't insult me. I am, as you say, a Jew, and I am, as you say,

of a commercial family. But I am not, I have never been licentious. Is

it necessary to use such language? You suggested that this interview

be conducted by us like gentlemen."

"The man who refuses to give her liberty to a wife that loathes him,

scarcely comes under the definition."

"My ideas on the matter are different. We need not discuss them. If

you will let me read my wife's letter, I think that we can come to an

end of this."

Woodward unwillingly surrendered the small, gray envelope to a

quivering, outstretched hand. Jasper turned away and stood near the

lamp. But his excitement prevented him from reading. The angular

writing jumped before his eyes. At last, the words straightened

themselves.

I am glad that you have given me this opportunity to escape from a

life that for a long time has been dreadful to me. Ten years ago I

made a disaster of my life and yours. Forgive me if you can and

let me escape. I will not see you again. Whatever you may have to

say, please say it to Woodward. From now on he is my protector. In

other matters there are my lawyers. It is absolutely not to be

thought of that I should speak to you. I hope never to see you

alone. I want you to hate me and this note ought to make it easy

for you.

Betty

Jasper stared at the name. He was utterly bewildered, utterly

staggered, by the amazing dissimulation practiced by this small,

soft-lipped, round-eyed girl who had lived with him for so long,

sufficiently pliable, sufficiently agreeable. What was back of it all?

Another man, of course. In imagination he was examining the faces of

his acquaintances, narrowing his lids as though the real men passed in

review before him.

"Perhaps you understand the situation better now?" asked Woodward

cruelly.

Jasper's intense pain and humiliation gave him a sort of calm. He

seemed entirely cool when he moved back toward his brother-in-law; his

eyes were clear, the heat had gone from his temples. He was even

smiling a little, though there was a white, even frame to his lips.

"I shall not write to Betty nor attempt to see her," he said quietly.

"But I shall ask you to take a message to her."

Woodward assented.

"Tell her she shall have her release, but to get it she will have to

walk through the mire and there will be no one waiting for her on the

other side. Can you remember that? Not even you will be there." He was

entirely self-assured so that Woodward felt a chill of dismay.

"I shall contest the suit," went on Jasper, "and I believe that I

shall win it. You may tell Betty so if you like or she can wait to

hear it from my lawyer." He put the envelope into his pocket, crossed

the room, and held back one of the crimson curtains of the door.

"If you have nothing more to say," he smiled, "neither have I.

Good-bye."

He bowed slightly, and Woodward found himself passing before him in

silence and some confusion. He stood for a moment in the hall and,

having stammered his way to a cold "Good-afternoon," he put on his hat

and went out.

Jasper returned to the empty drawing-room and began his weaving march.

Before he could begin his spinning which he hoped would entangle Betty

and leave her powerless for him to hold or to release at will, he must

go to Jane West and tell her what trick life with his help had played

upon her. The prospect was bitterly distasteful. Jasper accused

himself of selfishness. Because she cared nothing for the world, was a

creature apart, he had let the world think what it would. He knew that

an askance look would not hurt her; for himself, secure in innocence,

he did not care; for Betty, he had thought her cruelly certain of him.

He went to Jane the day after his interview with Woodward Kane. It was

Sunday afternoon. She was out, but came in very soon, and he stood up

to meet her with an air of confusion and guilt.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked, pulling her gloves from her

long hands.

Her quickly observant eyes swept him. She walked to him and stood

near. The frosty air was still about her and her face was lightly

stung to color with exercise. Her wild eyes were startling under the

brim of her smart, tailored hat.

Jasper put a hand on either of her shoulders and bent his head before

her. "My poor child--if I'd only left you in your kitchen!"

Joan tightened her lips, then smiled uncertainly. "You've got me

scared," she said, stepped back and sat down, her hands in her muff.

"What is it?" she asked; and in that moment of waiting she was sickly

reminded of other moments in her life--of the nearing sound of

Pierre's webs on a crystal winter night, of the sound of Prosper's

footsteps going away from her up the mountain trail on a swordlike,

autumn morning.

Jasper began his pacing. Feeling carefully for delicate phrases, he

told her Betty's accusation, of her purpose.

Joan took off her hat, pushed back the hair from her forehead; then,

as he came to the end, she looked up at him. Her pupils were larger

than usual and the light, frosty tint of rose had left her cheeks.

"Would you mind telling me that again?" she asked.

He did so, more explicitly.

"She thinks, Betty thinks, that I have been--that we have been--? She

thinks that of me? No wonder she hasn't been coming to see me!" She

stopped, staring blindly at him; then, "You must tell her it isn't

true," she said pitifully, and the quiver of her lips hurt him.

"Ah! But she doesn't want to believe that, my dear. She wants to

believe the worst. It is her opportunity to escape me."

"Haven't you loved her? Have you hurt her?" asked Joan.

"God knows I have loved her. I have never hurt her--consciously. Even

she cannot think that I have."

"Why must she blame me? Why do I have to be brought into this, Mr.

Morena? Can't she go away from you? Why do the lawyers have to take it

up? You are unhappy, and I am so sorry. But you wouldn't want her to

stay if--if she doesn't love you?"

"I want her. I mean to keep her or--break her." He turned his back to

say this and went toward the window. Joan, fascinated, watched his

fingers working into one another, tightening, crushing. "It's another

man she wants," he said hoarsely, "and if I can prevent it, she shall

not have him. I will force her to keep her vows to me--force her. If

it kills her, I'll break this passion, this fancy. I'll have her

back--" He wheeled round, showing a twitching face. "I'll prove her

infidelity whether she's been unfaithful or not, and then I'll take

her back, after the world has given her one of its names--"

"You don't love her," said Joan, very white. "You want to brand her."

"By God!" swore the Jew, "and I will brand her. I'll brand her."

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out the small envelope Woodward

Kane had handed to him the day before. He stood turning the letter

about in his hands as though some such meaningless occupation was a

necessity to him. Joan's eyes, falling upon the letter, widened and

fixed.

"She has written to me," said Jasper. "She wants her liberty. She

wants it in such a way that she will fly clear and I--yes, and you,

too, will be left in the mud. There's a man somewhere, of course. She

thinks she has evidence, witnesses against me. I don't know what

rubbish she has got together. But I'm going to fight her. I'm going to

win. I'll save you if I can, Jane; if not, of course I am at your

service for any amends--"

He stopped in his halting speech, for Joan had stood up and was moving

across the room, her eyes fastened on the letter in his hands. She had

the air of a sleep-walker.

She opened a drawer of her desk, took out an old tin box, once used

for tobacco, and drew forth a small, gray envelope torn in two. Then

she came back to him and said, "Let me see that letter," and he obeyed

as though she had the right to ask.

She took his letter and hers and compared the two, the small, gray

squares lying unopened on her knee, and she spoke incomprehensibly.

"Betty is 'the tall child,'" she said, and laughed with a catch in her

breath.

Jasper looked at the envelopes. They were identical; Betty's gray

note-paper crossed by Betty's angular, upright hand, very bold, very

black. The torn envelope was addressed to Prosper Gael. Jasper took

it, opened each half, laid the parts together, and read:

Jasper is dying. By the time you get this he will be dead. If

you can forgive me for having failed you in courage last year,

come back. What I have been to you before I will be again, only,

this time, we can love openly. Come back.

"Jane,"--Morena spoke brokenly,--"what does it mean?"

"He built that cabin in Wyoming for her," said Joan, speaking as

though Jasper had seen the canyon hiding-place and known its history,

"and she didn't come. He brought me there on his sled. I was hurt. I

was terribly hurt. He took care of me--"

"Prosper?" Jasper thrust in. His face was drawn with excitement.

"Yes. Prosper Gael. I was there with him for months. At first I wasn't

strong enough to go away, and then, after a while, I tried. But I was

too lonely and sorrowful. In the spring I loved him. I thought I loved

him. He wanted me. I was all alone in the world. I didn't know that he

loved another woman. I thought she was dead--like Pierre. Prosper had

clothes for her there. I suppose--I've thought it out since--that she

was to leave as if for a short journey, and then secretly go on that

long one, and she couldn't take many things with her. So he had

beautiful stuffs for her--and a little suit to wear in the snow.

That's how I came to call her 'the tall child,' seeing that little

suit, long and narrow.... This letter came one morning, one awfully

bright morning. He read it and went out and the next day he went away.

Afterwards I found the letter torn in two beside his desk on the

floor. I took it and I've always kept it. 'The tall child'! He looked

so terrible when I called her that.... And she was your Betty all the

time!"

"Yes," said Morena slowly. "She was my Betty all the time." He gave

her a twisted smile and put the two papers carefully into an inside

pocket. "I am going to keep this letter, Jane. Truly the ways of the

Lord are past finding out."

Joan looked at him in growing uneasiness. Her mind, never quick to

take in all the bearings and the consequences of her acts, was

beginning to work. "What are you going to do with it, Mr. Morena? I

don't want you to do Betty a hurt. She must have loved Prosper Gael.

Perhaps she still loves him."

This odd appeal drew another difficult smile from Betty's husband.

"Quite obviously she still loves him, Jane. She is divorcing me so

that she can marry him."

"But, Mr. Morena, I don't believe he will marry her now. He is tired

of her. He is that kind of lover. He gets tired. Now he would like to

marry me. He told me so. Perhaps--if Betty knew that--she might come

back to you, without your branding her."

Jasper was startled out of his vengeful stillness.

"Prosper Gael wants to marry you? He has told you so?"

"Yes." She was sad and humbled. "_Now_ he wants to marry me and once

he told me things about marrying. He said"--Joan quoted slowly, her

eyes half-closed in Prosper's manner, her voice a musical echo of his

thin, vibrant tone--"'It's man's most studied insult to woman.'"

"Yes. That's Prosper," murmured Jasper.

"I wouldn't marry him, Mr. Morena, even if I could--not if I were to

be--burnt for refusing him."

Jasper looked probingly at her, a new speculation in his eyes. She had

begun to fit definitely into his plans. It seemed there might be a way

to frustrate Betty and to keep a hold upon his valuable protegee.

"Are you so sure of that, Jane?"

"Ah!" she answered; "you doubt it because I once thought I loved him?

But you don't know all about me...."

He stood silent, busy with his weaving. At last he looked at her

rather blankly, impersonally. Joan was conscious of a frightened,

lonely chill. She put out her hand uncertainly, a wrinkle appearing

sharp and deep between her eyes.

"Mr. Morena, please--I haven't any one but you. I don't understand

very well what this divorcing rightly means. Nor what they will do to

me. Will you be thinking of me a little? I wouldn't ask it, for I know

you are unhappy and bothered enough, but, you see--"

He did not notice the hand. "It will come out right, Jane. Don't

worry," he said with absent gentleness. "Keep your mind on your work.

I'll look out for your best interests. Be sure of that." He came near

to her, his hat in his hand, ready to go. "Try to forget all about it,

will you?"

"Oh, I can't do that. I feel sort of--burnt. Betty thinking--that! But

I'll do my work just the same, of course."

She sighed heavily and sat, the unnoticed hand clasped in its fellow.

When he had gone she called nervously for her maid. She had a hitherto

unknown dread of being alone. But when Mathilde, chosen by Betty, came

with her furtive step and treacherous eyes, Joan invented some duty

for her. It occurred to her that Mathilde might be one of Betty's

witnesses. For some time the girl's watchfulness and intrusions had

become irritatingly noticeable. And Morena was Joan's only frequent

and informal visitor.

"Mathilde thinks I am--_that_!" 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. Since then the world had only deepened his revenge.

There followed a sleepless, dry, and aching night.

CHAPTER X

THE SPIDER

"Hullo. Is this Mrs. Morena?"

Betty held the receiver languidly. Her face had grown very thin and

her eyes were patient. They were staring now absently through the

front window of Woodward Kane's sitting-room at a day of driving April

rain.

"Yes. This is Mrs. Morena."

The next speech changed her into a flushed and palpitating girl.

"Mr. Gael wishes to know, madam,"--the man-servant recited his lesson

automatically,--"if you have seen the exhibition of Foster's

water-colors, Fifty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. He wants to know

if you will be there this afternoon at five o'clock. No. 88 in the

inner room is the picture he would especially like you to notice,

madam."

Betty's hand and voice were trembling.

"No. I haven't seen it." She hesitated, looking at the downpour. "Tell

him, please, that I will be there."

Her voice trailed off doubtfully.

The man at the other end clipped out a "Very well, madam," and hung

up.

Betty was puzzled. Why had Prosper sent her this message, made this

appointment by his servant? Perhaps because he was afraid that, in her

exaggerated caution, she might refuse to meet him if she could explain

to him the reason for her refusal, or gauge the importance of his

request. With a servant she could do neither, and the very uncertainty

would force her to accept. It was a dreadful day. Nobody would be out,

certainly not at the tea-hour, to look at Foster's pictures--an

insignificant exhibition. Betty felt triumphant. At last, this far too

acquiescent lover had rebelled against her decree of silence and

separation.

At five o'clock she stepped out of her taxicab, made a run for

shelter, and found herself in the empty exhibition rooms. She checked

her wrap and her umbrella, took a catalogue from the little table,

chatted for a moment with the man in charge, then moved about, looking

carelessly at the pictures. No. 88 in the inner room! Her heart was

beating violently, the hand in her muff was cold. She went slowly

toward the inner room and saw at once that, under a small canvas at

its far end, Prosper stood waiting for her.

He waited even after he had seen her smile and quickening step, and

when he did come forward, it was with obvious reluctance. Betty's

smile faded. His face was haggard and grim, unlike itself; his eyes

lack-luster as she had never seen them. This was not the face of an

impatient lover. It was--she would not name it, but she was conscious

of a feeling of angry sickness.

He took her hand and forced a smile.

"Betty, I thought you disapproved of this kind of thing. I think,

myself, it's rather imprudent to arrange a meeting through your maid."

Betty jerked away her hand, drew a sharp breath. "What do you mean? I

didn't arrange this meeting. It was you--your man."

They became simultaneously aware of a trap. It had sprung upon them.

With the look of trapped things, they stared at each other, and Betty

instinctively looked back over her shoulder. There stood Jasper in the

doorway of the room. He looked like the most casual of visitors to an

art-gallery, he carried a catalogue in his hand. When he saw that he

was seen he smiled easily and came over to them.

"You will have to forgive me," he murmured pleasantly; "you see, it

was necessary to see you both together and Betty is not willing to

allow me an interview. I am sorry to have chosen a public place and to

have used a trick to get you here, but I could not think of any other

plan. This is really private enough. I have arranged this exhibition

for Foster and it is closed to the public to-day. We got in by special

permit--a fact you probably missed. And, after all, civilized people

ought to be able to talk about anything without excitement."

Betty's eyes glared at him. "I will not stay! This is insufferable!"

But he put out his hand and something in his gesture compelled her.

She sat down on the round, plush seat in the middle of the room and

looked up at the two men helplessly. Joan had once leaned in a

doorway, silent and unconsulted, while two men, her father and Pierre,

settled their property rights in her. Betty was, after all, in no

better case. She listened, whiter and whiter, till at the last she

slowly raised her muff and pressed it against her twisted mouth.

Morena stood with his hand resting on the high back of the circular seat

almost directly above Betty's head. It seemed to hold her there like a

bar. But it was at Prosper he looked, to Prosper he spoke. "My friend,"

he began, and the accentuation of the Hebraic quality of his voice had

an instantaneous effect upon his two listeners. Both Prosper and Betty

knew he was master of some intense agitation. They were conscious of an

increasing rapidity of their pulses. "My friend, I thought that I knew

you fairly well, as one man knows another, but I find that there have

been certain limits to my knowledge. How extraordinary it is! This inner

world of our own lives which we keep closely to ourselves! I have a

friend, yes, a very good friend, a very dear friend,"--the ironic

insistence upon this word gave Prosper the shock of a repeated

blow,--"and I fancy, in the ignorance of my conceit, that this friend's

life is sufficiently open to my understanding. I see him leave college,

I see him go out on various adventures. I share with him, by letters and

confidences, the excitement of these adventures. I know with regret that

he suffers from ill-health and goes West, and there, with a great deal

of sympathy, I imagine him living, drearily enough, in some small,

health-giving Western town, writing his book and later his play which he

has so generously allowed me to produce."

"What the devil are you after, Jasper?"

"But I do my friend an injustice," went on the manager, undiverted.

"His career is infinitely more romantic. He has built himself a little

log house amongst the mountains, and he has decorated it and laid in a

supply of dainty and exquisite stuffs. I believe that there is even an

outing suit, small and narrow--"

"My God!" said Prosper, very low.

There was a silence. Jasper moved slightly, and Prosper started, but

the Jew stayed in his former place, only that he bent his head a

little, half-closed his eyes, and marked time with the hand that was

not buried in the plush above Betty's head. He recited in a heavy

voice, and it was here that Betty raised her muff!

Jasper is dying. By the time you get this letter he will be dead.

If you can forgive me for having failed in courage last year, come

back. What I have been to you before, I will be to you again, only

this time we can love openly. Come back.

"I am going mad!" said Prosper harshly, and indeed his face had a

pinched, half-crazy look.

The Jew waved his hand. "Oh, no, no, no. It is only that you are

making a discovery. Letters should be burnt, my friend, not torn and

thrown away, but burnt." He stood up to his stateliest height and he

made a curious and rather terrible gesture of breaking something

between his two hands. "I have this letter and I hold you and

Betty--so!" he said softly--"so!"

Betty spoke. "I might have told you that I loved him, that I have

loved him for years, Jasper. If you use this evidence, if you bring

this counter-suit, it will bring about the same, the very same,

result. Prosper and I--" She broke off choking.

"Of course. Betty and I will be married at once, as soon as she gets

her divorce, or you get yours." But Prosper's voice was hollow and

strained.

"You will be married, Betty," went on Jasper as calmly as before;

"you, branded in the eyes of the world as an unfaithful wife, will be

married to a man who has ceased to love you."

"That is not true," said Betty.

"Look at his face, my dear. Look at it carefully. Now, watch it

closely. Prosper Gael, if I should tell that with a little patience, a

little skill, a little unselfishness, you could win a certain woman

who once loved you--eh?--a certain Jane West, could you bring yourself

to marry this discarded wife of mine?"

Betty sprang up and caught Prosper's arm in her small hand.

"He is tired of you, Betty. He loves Jane West." Jasper laughed

shortly, looking at the tableau they made: Prosper white, caught in

the teeth of honor, his face set to hide its secret, Betty reading his

eyes, his soul.

"I am entirely yours, in your hands," said Prosper Gael.

Betty shook his arm and let it go. "You are lying. You love the woman.

Do you think I can't see?"

"It will be a very strange divorce suit," went on Jasper. "Your

lawyers, Betty, will perhaps prove your case. My lawyers will

certainly prove mine, and, when we find ourselves free, our--our

lovers will then unite in holy matrimony--rather an original outcome."

"Will you go, Prosper?" asked Betty. It was a command.

He saw that, at that moment, his presence was intolerable to her.

"Of course. If you wish it. Jasper, you know where to find me, and,

Betty,"--he turned to her with a weary tenderness,--"forgive me and

make use of me, if you will, as you will."

He went out quickly, feeling himself a coward to leave her, knowing

that he would be a coward to stay to watch the anguish of her broken

heart and pride. For an instant he did hesitate and look back. They

were standing together, calmly, man and wife. What could he do to help

them, he that had broken their lives?

Betty turned to Jasper, still with the muff before her mouth, looking

at him above it with her wide, childlike, desperate eyes.

"What do you get out of this, Jasper? I will go to Woodward. I will

never come back to you.... Is it revenge?"

"If so," said Jasper, "it isn't yet complete. Betty, you have been

rash to pit yourself against me. You must have known that I would

break you utterly. I will break you, my dear, and I will have you

back, and I will be your master instead of your servant, and I will

love you--"

"You must be mad. I'm afraid of you. Please let me go."

"In a moment, when you have learned what home you have to go to. This

morning I had an interview with your brother in his office, and he

wrote this letter that I have in my pocket and asked me to give it to

you."

Betty laid down her muff, showing at last the pale and twisted mouth.

Jasper watched her read her brother's letter, and his eyes were as

patient and observant as the eyes of a skillful doctor who has given a

dangerous but necessary draught.

Betty read the small, sharp, careful writing, very familiar to her.

I have instructed your maid to pack your things and to return at

once to your husband's house. He is a much too merciful man. You

have treated him shamelessly. I can find no excuse for you. My

house is definitely closed to you. I will send you no money,

allow you no support, countenance you in no way. This is final.

You have only one course, to return humbly and with penitence to

your husband, submit yourself to him, and learn to love and

honor and obey him as he deserves. The evidence of your guilt is

incontrovertible. I utterly disbelieve your story against him.

It is part of your sin, and it is easily to be explained in the

light of my present knowledge of your real character. Whether

you return to Morena or not, I emphatically reassert that I will

not see you or speak to you again. You are to my mind a woman of

shameless life, such a woman as I should feel justified in

turning out of any decent household.

Woodward Kane

The room turned giddily about Betty. She saw the whole roaring city

turn about her, and she knew that there was no home in it for her. She

could go to Prosper Gael, but at what horrible sacrifice of pride,

and, if Jasper now refused to bring suit, could she ask this man, who

no longer loved her, to keep her as his mistress? What could she do?

Where could she turn? How could she keep herself alive? For the first

time, life, stripped of everything but its hard and ugly bones, faced

her. She had always been sheltered, been dependent, been loved. Once

before she had lost courage and had failed to venture beyond the

familiar shelter of custom and convention. Now, she was again most

horribly afraid. Anything was better than this feeling of being lost,

alone. She looked at Jasper. At that moment he was nothing but a

protector, a means of life, and he knew it.

"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.

CHAPTER XI

THE CLEAN WILD THING

"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. 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. The

young clergyman had given up a fashionable parish in the East--small

Norman church, wealthy parishioners, splendid stipend, beautiful stone

Norman rectory--thrown it all up to go West on some unheard-of mission

in the sagebrush. He was back now, probably for money, donations

wanted for a building, church or hospital or library. Jasper in

imagination wrote out a generous check. Before going down he glanced

at the card again and noticed some lines across the back:

This is to introduce one of my best friends, Pierre Landis, of

Wyoming. Please be of service to him. His mission has and deserves

to have my full sympathy.

So, after all, it wasn't Holliwell below and the check-book would not

be needed. "Pierre Landis, of Wyoming." Jasper went down the stairs

and on the way he remembered a letter received from Yarnall a long

time before. He remembered it with an accession of alarm. "I've

probably let hell loose for your protegee, Jane; given your address,

and incidentally hers, to a fellow who wants her pretty badly. His

name's Pierre Landis. You're a pretty good judge of white men. Size

him up and do what's best for Jane."

For some time after receiving this letter, Jasper had expected the

appearance of this Pierre Landis, then had forgotten him. The fellow

who wanted Jane so badly had been a long while on his way to her.

Remembering and wondering, the manager opened the crimson curtains and

stepped into the presence of Pierre.

Even if he had had no foreknowledge, Jasper felt that, at sight of his

visitor, his fancy would have jumped to Joan. It was the eyes; he had

seen no others but hers like them for clarity; far-seeing, grave eyes

that held a curious depth of light. Here was one of Joan's kindred,

one of the clean, wild things.

Then came the gentle Western drawl. "I'm right sorry to trouble you,

Mr. Morena."

Jasper took a brown hand that had the feel of iron. The man's face, on

a level with Jasper's, was very brown and lean. It had a worn look, a

trifle desperate, perhaps, in the lines of lip and the expression of

the smoke-colored eyes. Jasper, sensitive to undercurrents, became

aware that he stood in some fashion for a forlorn hope in the life of

this Pierre. At the same time the manager remembered a confidence of

Jane's. She had been "afraid of some one." She had been running away.

There was one that mustn't find her, and to run away from him, that

was the business of her life. Pierre Landis was this "one," the

something wild and clean that had at last come searching even into

this city. It was necessary that Jane's present protector should be

very careful. There must be no running away this time, and Pierre must

be warned off. Jasper had plans of his own for his star player. For

one thing she must draw Prosper Gael completely out of Betty's life.

Jasper made his guest comfortable, sat opposite to him, and lighted a

cigarette. Although Pierre had accepted one, he did not smoke. 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."

Pierre studied his own long, brown hands, turning the soft hat between

them. When he lifted his eyes, they were intensely blue. It was as

though blue fire had consumed the smoke.

"I've been takin' after a girl. She was called Jane on Yarnall's ranch

an' she was cook there for the outfit. Nobody knowed her story nor her

name. She left the mornin' I came in an' I didn't set eyes on her. You

were takin' her East to teach her to play-act for you. I don't know

whether you done so or not, but I've come here to learn where she is

so that I can find out if she's the woman I'm lookin' for."

Morena smiled kindly. "You've come a long way, Mr. Landis, on an

uncertainty."

"Yes, sir." Pierre did not smile. He was holding himself steady. "But

I'm used to uncertainty. There ain't no uncertainty that can keep me

from seekin' after the person I want." He paused, the eyes still fixed

upon Morena, who, uncomfortable under them, veiled himself thinly in

cigarette smoke. "I want to see this Jane," Pierre ended gently.

"Nothing easier, Landis. I'll give you a ticket to 'The Leopardess.'

She is acting the title part. She is my leading lady and a very

extraordinary young actress. Of course, it's none of my business, but

in a way I am Miss West's guardian--"

"Miss West?"

"Yes. That is Jane's name--Jane West. You think it is an assumed one?"

Pierre stood up. "I'm not thinkin' on this trip," he said; "I'm

hopin'."

"I am sorry, but I am afraid you're on the wrong track. There may be a

resemblance, there may even be a marked resemblance, between Miss West

and the person you want to find, but--again please forgive me--I am in

the place of guardian to her at present and I should like to know

something of your business, enough of it, that is, to be sure that

your sudden appearance, if you happen to be right in your surmise,

won't frighten my leading lady out of her wits and send her off to

Kalamazoo on the next train."

Pierre evidently resented the fashion of this speech. "I'm sorry," he

said with dignity, "not to be able to tell you anything. I'll be

careful not to frighten Miss West. I can see her first from a distance

an' then--"

"Certainly. Certainly."

Jasper rang and directed his man to get an envelope from an upstairs

table. When it came, he handed it to Pierre.

"That is a ticket for to-morrow night's performance. It's the best

seat I can give you, though it is not very near the stage. However,

you will certainly be able to recognize your--Jane, if she is your

Jane."

Pierre pocketed the ticket. "Thank you," he murmured. His face was

expressionless.

Jasper was making rapid plans. "Oh, by the way," he said hurriedly,

"if you should stand near the stage exit to-night, say at about twelve

o'clock, you could see Miss West come out and get into her motor. That

would give you a fairly close view. But even if you find you are

mistaken, Landis, be sure to see 'The Leopardess.' It's well worth

your while. You're going? Won't you dine with me to-night?"

"No, thank you. 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."

"A difficult mission, isn't it? Trying to bring you fellows to God?"

Pierre smiled. "I reckon we get closer to God out there than you do

here. We sure get the fear of Him even if we don't get nothin' else.

When you fight winter an' all outdoors an' come near to death with

hosses an' what-not, why, I guess you're gettin' close to _somethin'_

not quite to be explained. 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. "It ain't anything like that. I must wish you

good-by, an' thank you kindly."

"But you'll let me see you again? Where are you stopping? Holliwell's

friends are mine."

Pierre gave him the address of a small, downtown hotel, thanked him

again, and, standing in the hall, added, "If I'm wrong in the notion

that brought me to New York, I'll be goin' back again to my ranch, Mr.

Morena. I'm goin' back to ranchin' on the old homestead. I've got it

fixed up." He seemed to look through Jasper into an enormous distance.

Morena was almost uncannily aware of the long, long journey by which

this man's spirit had trodden, of the desert he faced ahead of him if

the search must fail. Was it wrong to warn Jane? Ought this man to be

given his chance? Surely here stood before him Jane's mate. Jasper

wished that he knew more of the history back of Pierre and the girl. A

man could do little but look out for his own interests, when he worked

in the dark. Which would be the better man for Jane?--this Jane so

trained, so educated, so far removed superficially from the

ungrammatical, bronzed, clumsily dressed, graceful visitor. In every

worldly respect, doubtless, Prosper Gael. Only--there were Pierre's

eyes and the soul looking out of them.

Jasper said good-bye half-absently.

An hour later he went to call on Jane.

He found her done up in an apron and a dust-cap cleaning house with

astonishing spirit. She and the Bridget, who had recently been

substituted for Mathilde, were merry. Bridget was sitting on the sill,

her upper half shut out, her round, brick-colored face laughing

through the pane she was polishing. Jane was up a ladder, dusting

books.

She came down to greet Morena, and he saw regretfully the sad change

in her face and bearing which his arrival caused. Bridget was sent to

the kitchen. Jane made apologies, and sitting on the ladder step she

looked up at him with the look of some one who expects a blow.

"What is it now, Mr. Morena? Have the lawyers begun to--"

He had purposely kept her in the dark, purposely neglected her, left

her to loneliness, in the hope of furthering the purposes of Prosper

Gael.

"I haven't come to discuss that, Jane. Soon I hope to have good news

for you. But to-day I've come to give you a hint--a warning, in

fact--to prepare you for what I am sure will be a shock."

"Yes?" She was flushed and breathing fast. Her fingers were busy with

the feather-duster on her knee and her eyes were still waiting.

"I had a visitor this morning--Pierre Landis, of Wyoming."

She rose, came to him, and clutched his arm. "Pierre? Pierre?" She

looked around her, wild as a captured bird. "Oh, I must go! I must

go!"

"Jane, my child,"--he put his arm about her, held her two hands in

his,--"you must do nothing of the kind. If you don't want this Pierre

to find you, if you don't want him to come into your life, there's an

easy, a very simple, way to put an end to his pursuit. Don't you know

that?"

She stared up at him, quivering in his arm. "No. What is it? How can

I? Oh, he mustn't see me! Never, never, never! I made that promise to

myself."

"Jane, you say yourself that you are changed, that you are not the

girl he wants to find."

She shook her head desolately enough. "Oh, no, I'm not."

"He isn't sure that Jane West is the woman he's looking for. He's

following the faintest, the most doubtful, of trails. He heard of you

from Yarnall; the description of you and your sudden flight made him

fairly sure that it must be--you--" Jasper laughed. "I'm talking quite

at random in a sense, because I haven't a notion, my dear, who you are

nor what this Pierre has been in your life. If you could tell me--?"

She shook her head. "No," she said; "no."

"Very well. Then I'll have to go on talking at random. Jane at the

Lazy-Y Ranch was a woman who had deliberately disguised herself. Jane

West in New York is a different woman altogether; but, unless I'm very

wrong, she is even more completely disguised from Pierre Landis. If

you can convince Pierre that you _are_ Jane West, not any other woman,

certainly not the woman he once knew, aren't you pretty safely rid of

him for always?"

She stood still now. He felt that her fingers were cold. "Yes. For

always. I suppose so. But how can I do that, Mr. Morena?"

"Nothing easier. You're an actress, aren't you? I advised Pierre

Landis to stand near the stage exit to-night and watch you get into

your motor."

Again she clutched at him. "Oh, no. Don't--don't let him do that!"

"Now, if you will make an effort, look him in the eyes, refuse to show

a single quiver of recognition, speak to some one in the most

artificial tone you can manage, pass him by, and drive away, why,

wouldn't that convince him that you aren't his quarry--eh?"

She thought! then slowly drew herself away and stood, her head bent,

her brows drawn sharply together. "Yes. I suppose so. I think I can do

it. That is the best plan." She looked at him wildly again. "Then it

will be over for always, won't it? He'll go away?"

"Yes, my poor child. He will go away. He told me so. Then, will you

try to forget him, to live your life for its own beautiful sake? I'd

like to see you happy, Jane."

"Would you?" She smiled like a pitying mother. "Why, I've given up

even dreaming of that. That isn't what keeps me going."

"What is it, then, Jane?"

"Oh, a queer notion." She laughed sadly. "A kind of kid's notion, I

guess, that if you live along, some way, some time, you'll be able to

make up for things you've done, and that perhaps there'll be another

meeting-place--a kind of a round-up--where you'll be fit to forgive

those you love and to be forgiven by them."

Jasper walked about. He was touched and troubled. Some minutes later

he said doubtfully, "Then you'll carry through your purpose of not

letting Pierre know you?"

"Yes. I've made up my mind to that. That's what I've got to do. He

mustn't find me. We can't meet here in this life. That's certain.

There are things that come between, things like bars." She made a

strange gesture as of a prisoner running his fingers across the barred

window of a cell. "Thank you for warning me. Thank you for telling me

what to do." She smiled faintly. "I think he will know me, anyway,"

she said, "but I won't know him. Never! Never!"

That night the theater was late in emptying itself. Jane West had acted

with especial brilliance and she was called out again and again. When

she came to her dressing-room she was flushed and breathless. She did

not change her costume, but drew her fur coat on over the green evening

dress she had worn in the last scene. Then she stood before her mirror,

looking herself over carefully, critically. Now that the paint was

washed off, and the flush of excitement faded, she looked haggard and

white. Her face was very thin, its beautiful bones--long sweep of jaw,

wide brow, straight, short nose--sharply accentuated. The round throat

rising against the fur collar looked unnaturally white and long. She

sat down before her dressing-table and deliberately painted her cheeks

and lips. She even altered the outlines of her mouth, giving it a

pursed and doll-like expression, so that her eyes appeared enormous and

her nose a little pinched. Then she drew a lock of waved hair down

across the middle of her forehead, pressed another at each side close

to the corners of her eyes. This took from the unusual breadth of brow

and gave her a much more ordinary look. A coat of powder, heavily

applied, more nearly produced the effect of a pink-and-white,

glassy-eyed doll-baby for which she was trying. Afterwards she turned

and smiled doubtfully at the astonished dresser.

"Good gracious, Miss West! You don't look like yourself at all!"

"Good!"

She said good-night and went rapidly down the draughty passages and

the concrete stairs. Jasper was standing inside the outer door and

applauded her.

"Well done. If it weren't for your pose and walk, my dear, I should

hardly have known you myself."

Joan stood beside him, holding her furs close, breathing fast through

the parted, painted lips.

"Is he here, do you know?"

"Yes. He's been waiting. I told him you might be late. Now, keep your

head. Everything depends upon that. Can you do it?"

"Oh, yes. Is the car there? I won't have to stop?"

"Not an instant. But give him a good looking-over so that he'll be

sure, and don't change the expression of your eyes. Feel, make

yourself feel _inside_, that he's a stranger. You know what I mean.

Good-night, my dear. Good luck. I'll call you up as soon as you get

home--that is, after I've seen your pursuer safely back to his rooms."

But this last sentence was addressed to himself.

Joan opened the door and stepped out into the chill dampness of the

April night. The white arc of electric light beat down upon her as she

came forward and it fell as glaringly upon the figure of Pierre. He

had pushed forward from the little crowd of nondescripts always

waiting at a stage exit, and stood, bareheaded, just at the door of

her motor drawn up by the curb. She saw him instantly and from the

first their eyes met. It was a horrible moment for Joan. What it was

for him, she could tell by the tense pallor of his keen, bronzed face.

The eyes she had not seen for such an agony of years, the strange,

deep, iris-colored eyes, there they were now searching her. She

stopped her heart in its beating, she stopped her breath, stopped her

brain. She became for those few seconds just one thought--"I have

never seen you. I have never seen you." She passed so close to him

that her fur touched his hand, and she looked into his face with a

cool, half-disdainful glitter of a smile.

"Step aside, please," she said; "I must get in." Her voice was

unnaturally high and quite unnaturally precise.

Pierre said one word, a hopeless word. "Joan." It was a prayer. It

should have been, "Be Joan." Then he stepped back and she stumbled

into shelter.

At the same instant another man--a man in evening dress--hastily

prevented her man from closing the door.

"Miss West, may I see you home?"

Before she could speak, could do more than look, Prosper Gael had

jumped in, the door slammed, the car began its whirr, and they were

gliding through the crowded, brilliant streets.

Joan had bent forward and was rocking to and fro.

"He called me 'Joan,'" she gasped over and over. "He called me

'Joan.'"

"That was Pierre?" Prosper had been forewarned by Jasper and had

planned his part.

She kept on rocking, holding her hands on either side of her face.

"I must go away. If I see him again I shall die. I could never do that

another time. O God! His hand touched me. He called me 'Joan' ... I

must go...."

Prosper did not touch her, but his voice, very friendly, very calm,

had an instantaneous effect. "I will take you away."

She laughed shakily. "Again?" she asked, and shamed him into silence.

But after a while he began very reasonably, very patiently:

"I can take you away so that you need not be put through this

unnecessary pain. I can arrange it with Morena. If Pierre sees you

often enough, he will be sure to recognize you. Joan, I did not

deserve that 'again' and you know it. I am a changed man. If you don't

know that now I have the heart of--of devotion, of service, toward

you, you are indeed a blind and stupid woman. But you do know it. You

must."

She sat silent beside him, the long and slender hand between her face

and him.

"I can take you away," he went on presently, "and keep you from Pierre

until he has given up his search and has gone West again. And I can

take you at once--in a day or two. Your understudy can fill the part.

This engagement is almost at an end. I can make it up to Morena. After

all, if we go, we shall be doing Betty and him a service."

Joan flung out her hands recklessly. "Oh," she cried, "what does it

matter? Of course I'll go. I'd run into the sea to escape Pierre--"

She leaned back against the cushioned seat, rolled her head a little

from side to side like a person in pain. "Take me away," she repeated.

"I believe that if I stay I shall go mad. I'll go anywhere--with any

one. Only take me away."

CHAPTER XII

THE LEOPARDESS

Pierre stood before the cheap bureau of his ugly hotel bedroom turning

a red slip of cardboard about in his fingers. The gas-jet sputtering

above his head threw heavy shadows down on his face. It was the face

of hopeless, heartsick youth, the muscles sagging, the eyes dull, the

lips tight and pale. Since last night when the contemptuous glitter of

Joan's smile had fallen upon him, he had neither slept nor eaten.

Jasper had joined him at the theater exit, had walked home with him,

and, while he was with the manager, Pierre's pride and reserve had

held him up. Afterwards he had ranged the city like a prairie wolf,

ranged it as though it had been an unpeopled desert, free to his

stride. He had fixed his eyes above and beyond and walked alone in

pain.

Dawn found him again in his room. What hope had sustained him, what

memory of Joan, what purpose of tenderness toward her--these hopes and

memories and purposes now choked and twisted him. He might have found

her, his "gel," his Joan, with her dumb, loving gaze; he might have

told her the story of his sorrow in such a way that she, who forgave

so easily, would have forgiven even him, and he might have comforted

her, holding her so and so, showing her utterly the true, unchanged,

greatly changed love of his chastened heart. This girl, this love of

his, whom, in his drunken, jealous madness, he had branded and driven

away, he would have brought her back and tended her and made it up to

her in a thousand, in ten thousand, ways. Pierre knelt by his bed, his

black head buried in the cover, his arms bent above it, his hands

clenched. Out there he had never lost hope of finding her, but here,

in this peopled loneliness, with a memory of that woman's heartless

smile, he did at last despair. In a strange, torturing way she had

been like Joan. His heart had jumped to his mouth at first sight of

her. And just there, to his shoulder where her head reached, had

Joan's dear black head reached too. Pierre groaned aloud. The picture

of her was so vivid. Not in months had the reality of his "gel" come

so close to his imagination. He could feel her--feel her! O God!

That was the sort of night he had spent and the next day he passed in

a lethargy. He had no heart to face the future now that the great

purpose of his life had failed. Holliwell's God of comfort and

forgiveness forsook him. What did he want with a God when that one

comrade of his lonely, young, human life was out there lost by his own

cruelty! Perhaps she was dead. Perhaps the wound had killed her. For

all these years she might have been lying dead somewhere in the snow,

under the sky. Sharp periods of pain followed dull periods of stupor.

Now it was night again and a recollection of Jasper's theater ticket

had dragged him to a vague purpose. He wanted to see again that woman

who had so vivified his memory of Joan. It would be hateful to see her

again, but he wanted the pain. He dressed and groomed himself

carefully. Then, feeling a little faint, he went out into the

clattering, glaring night.

Pierre's experience of theater-going was exceedingly small. He had

never been in so large a play-house as this one of Morena's; he had

never seen so large and well-dressed an audience; never heard a full

and well-trained orchestra. In spite of himself, he began to be

distracted, excited, stirred. When the curtain rose on the beautiful

tropical scene, the lush island, the turquoise sea, the realistic

strip of golden sand, Pierre gave an audible oath of admiration and

surprise. The people about him began to be amused by the excitement of

this handsome, haggard young man, so graceful and intense, so

different with his hardness and leanness, the brilliance of his eyes,

the brownness of his skin. His clothes were good enough, but they

fitted him with an odd air of disguise. An experienced eye would

inevitably have seen the appropriateness of flannel shirt, gay silk

neck-handkerchief, boots, spurs, and _chaparreras_. Pierre was

entirely unaware of being interesting or different. At that moment,

caught up in the action of the play, he was as outside of himself as a

child.

The palms of stage-land stirred, the ferns swayed; between then: tall,

vivid greenness came Joan with her tread and grace and watchful eyes

of a leopardess, her loose, wild hair decked with flowers: these and

her make-up and her thinness disguised her completely from Pierre, but

again his heart came to his throat and, when she put her hands up to

her mouth and called, his pulses gave a leap. He shut his eyes. He

remembered a voice calling him in to supper. "Pi-erre! Pi-erre!" He

could sniff the smoke of his cabin fire. He opened his eyes. Of

course, she wasn't Joan, this strange, gaunt creature. Besides, his

wife could never have done what this woman was doing. Why, Joan

couldn't talk like this, she couldn't act to save her soul! She was as

simple as a child, and shy, with the unself-conscious shyness of wild

things. To be sure, this "actress-lady" was making-believe she was a

wild thing, and she was doing it almighty well, but Joan had been the

reality, and grave and still, part of his own big, grave, mountain

country, not a fierce, man-devouring animal of the tropics. Pierre

lived in the play with all but one fragment of his brain, and that

remembered Joan. It hurt like a hot coal, but he deliberately ignored

the pain of it. He followed the action breathlessly, applauded with

contagious fervor, surreptitiously rid himself of tears, and when, in

the last scene, the angry, jealous woman sprang upon her tamer, he

muttered, "Serve you right, you coyote!" with an oath of the cow-camp

that made one of his neighbors jump and throttle a startled laugh.

The curtain fell, and while the applause rose and died down and rose

again, and the people called for "Jane West! Jane West!" the

stage-director, a plump little Jew, came out behind the footlights and

held up his hand. There was a gradual silence.

"I want to make an interesting announcement," he said; "the author of

'The Leopardess' has hitherto maintained his anonymity, but to-night I

have permission to give you his name. He is in the theater to-night.

The name is already familiar to you as that of the author of a popular

novel, 'The Canyon': Prosper Gael."

There was a stir of interest, a general searching of the house,

clapping, cries of "Author! Author!" and in a few moments Prosper Gael

left his box and appeared beside the director in answer to the calls.

He was entirely self-possessed, looked even a little bored, but he was

very white. He stood there bowing, a graceful and attractive figure,

and he was about to begin a speech when he was interrupted by a

renewed calling for "Jane West!" The audience wanted to see the star

and the author side by side. Pierre joined in the clamor.

After a little pause Jane West came out from the opposite wing,

walking slowly, dressed in her green gown, jewels on her neck and in

her hair. She did not look toward the audience at all, nor bow, nor

smile, and for some reason the applause began to falter as though the

sensitive mind of the crowd was already aware that here something must

be wrong. She came very slowly, her arms hanging, her head bent, her

eyes looking up from under her brows, and she stood beside Prosper

Gael, whose forced smile had stiffened on his lips. He looked at her

in obvious fear, as a man might look at a dangerous madwoman. There

must have been madness in her eyes. She stood there for a strange,

terrible moment, moving her head slightly from side to side. Then she

said something in a very low tone. Because of the extraordinary

carrying quality of her voice--the question was heard by every one

there present:

"_You_ wrote the play? _You_ wrote the play?"

She said it twice. She seemed to quiver, to gather herself together,

her hands bent, her arms lifted. She flew at Prosper with all the

sudden strength of her insanity.

There was an outcry, a confusion. People rushed to Gael's assistance.

Men caught hold of Joan, now struggling frantically. It was a dreadful

sight, mercifully a brief one. She collapsed utterly, fell forward,

the strap of her gown breaking in the grasp of one of the men who held

her. For an instant every one in the audience saw a strange double

scar that ran across her shoulder to the edge of the shoulder-blade.

It was like two bars.

Pierre got to his feet, dropped back, and hid his face. Then he was

up, and struggling past excited people down the row, out into the

aisle, along it, hurrying blindly down unknown passages till somehow

he got himself into that confused labyrinth behind the scenes. Here a

pale, distracted scene-shifter informed him that Miss West had already

been taken home.

Pierre got the address, found his way out to the street, hailed a

taxicab, and threw himself into it. He sat forward, every muscle

tight; he felt that he could take the taxicab up and hurl it forward,

so terrible was his impatience.

An apartment house was a greater novelty to him even than a theater,

but, after a dazed moment of discovering that he did not have to ring

or knock, but just push open the great iron-scrolled door and step

into the brightly lighted, steam-heated marble hall, he decided that

the woman at the desk was a person in authority, and to her he

addressed himself, soft hat gripped in his hand, his face set to hide

excitement.

The girl was pale and red-eyed. They had brought Miss West in a few

minutes ago, she told him, and carried her up. She was still

unconscious; poor thing! "I don't think you could see her, sir. Mr.

Morena is up there, and Mr. Gael, and a doctor. A trained nurse has

been sent for. Everything in the world will be done. She's such an

elegant actress, ain't she? I've often seen her myself. And so kind

and pleasant always. Yes, sir. I'll ask, if you like, but I'm sure

they won't allow you up."

She put the receiver to her ear, pushed in the black plug, and Pierre

listened to her questions.

"Can Miss West see any one? Can an old friend"--for so Pierre had

named himself--"be allowed to see her? No. I thought not." This, with

a sympathetic glance at Pierre. "She is not conscious yet. Dangerously

ill."

"Could I speak to the doctor?" Pierre asked hoarsely.

"The gentleman wants to know if he can speak to the doctor. Certainly

not at present. If he will wait, the doctor will speak to him on the

way out."

Pierre sat on the bench and waited. He leaned forward, elbows on

knees, head crushed in both hands, and the woman stared at him

pitilessly--not that he was aware of her scrutiny. His eyes looked

through his surroundings to Joan. He saw her in every pose and in

every look in which he had ever seen her, and, with a very sick and

frightened heart, he saw her, at the last, pass by him in her fur

coat, throwing him that half-contemptuous look and smile. She didn't

know him. Was he changed so greatly? Or was the change in her so

enormous that it had disassociated her completely from her old life,

from him? He kept repeating to himself Holliwell's stern, admonishing

speech: "However changed for the worse she may be when you do find

her, Pierre, you must remember that it is your fault, your sin. You

must not judge her, must not dare to judge her. Judge yourself.

Condemn yourself. It is for her to forgive if she can bring herself to

do it."

So now Pierre fought down his suspicions and his fears. He had not

recognized Prosper. The man who had come in out of the white night,

four years ago, had worn his cap low over his eyes, his collar turned

up about his face, and, even at that, Pierre, in his drunken stupor,

had not been able to see him very clearly. This Prosper Gael who had

stood behind the footlights, this Prosper Gael at whom Joan, from some

unknown cause, had sprung like a woman maddened by injury, was a

person entirely strange to Pierre. But Pierre hated him. The man had

done Joan some insufferable mischief, which at the last had driven her

beside herself. Pierre put up a hand, pressing it against his eyes. He

wanted to shut out the picture of that struggling girl with her torn

dress and the double scar across her shoulder. If it hadn't been for

the scar he would never have known her--his Joan, his gentle, silent

Joan! What had they been doing to her to change her so? No, not they.

He. He had changed her. He had branded her and driven her out. It was

his fault. He must try to find her again, to find the old Joan--if she

should live. The doctor had said that she was desperately ill. O God!

What was keeping him so long? Why didn't he come?

The arrival of the trained nurse distracted Pierre for a few moments.

She went past him in her gray cloak, very quiet and earnest, and the

elevator lifted her out of sight.

"Were you in the theater to-night?" asked the girl at the desk, seeing

that he was temporarily aware of her again.

"Yes, ma'am."

She was puzzled by his appearance and the fashion of his speech. He

must be a gentleman, she thought, for his bearing was gentle and

assured and unself-conscious, but he wore his clothes differently and

spoke differently from other gentlemen. That "Yes, ma'am," especially

disturbed her. Then she remembered a novel she had read and her mind

jumped to a conclusion. She leaned forward.

"Say, aren't you from the West?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You weren't ever a cowboy, were you?"

Pierre smiled. "Yes, ma'am. I was raised in a cow-camp. I was a cowboy

till about seven years ago when I took to ranchin'."

"Where was that?"

"Out in Wyoming."

"And you've come straight from there to New York?" She pronounced it

"Noo Yoik."

"No, ma'am. I've been in Alasky for two years now. I've been in a

lumber-camp."

"Gee! That's real interesting. And you knew Miss West before she came

East, then?"

"Yes, ma'am." But there was a subtle change in Pierre's patient voice

and clear, unhappy eyes, so that the girl fell to humming and bottled up

her curiosity. But just as soon as he began to brood again she gave up

her whole mind to staring at him. Gee! He was brown and strong and thin!

And a good-looker! She wished that she had worn her transformation that

evening and her blue blouse. He might have taken more interest in her.

A stout, bald-headed man, bag in hand, stepped out of the elevator,

and Pierre rippled to his feet.

"Are you the doctor?"

"Yes. Oh, you're the gentleman who wanted to see Miss West. She's come

to, but she is out of her head completely ... doesn't know any one.

Can you step out with me?"

Pierre kept beside him and stood by the motor, hat still in his hand,

while the doctor talked irritably: "No. You certainly can't see her,

for some time. I shall not allow any one to see her, except the nurse.

It will be a matter of weeks. She'll be lucky if she gets back her

sanity at all. She was entirely out of her head there at the theater.

She's worn out, nerves frayed to a frazzle. Horribly unhealthy life

and unnatural. To take a country girl, an ignorant, untrained, healthy

animal, bring her to the city and force her under terrific pressure

into a life so foreign to her--well! it was just a piece of d----d

brutality." Then his acute eye suddenly fixed itself on the man

standing on the curb listening.

"You're from the West yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"Knew her in the old days--eh?"

"Yes, sir." Pierre's voice was faint and he put a hand against the

motor.

"Well, why don't you take her back with you to that life? You're not

feeling any too fit yourself, are you? Look here. Get in and I'll drop

you where you belong."

Pierre obeyed rather blindly and leaned back with closed eyes. The

doctor got out a flask and poured him a dose of brandy.

"What's the trouble? Too much New York?"

Pierre shook his head and smiled. "No, sir. I've been bothered and

didn't get round to eating and sleeping lately."

"Then I'll take you to a restaurant and we'll have supper. I need

something myself. And, look here, I'll make you a promise. Just as

soon as I consider her fit for an interview with any one, I'll let you

see Miss West. That helps you a whole lot, doesn't it?"

But there were other powers, besides this friendly one, watching over

Joan, and they were bent upon keeping Pierre away. Day after sickening

day Pierre came and stood beside the desk, and the girl, each time a

little more careless of him, a little more insolent toward him--for

the cowboy would not notice her blue blouse and her transformation and

the invitation of her eyes--gave him negligent and discouraging

information.

"Miss West was better, but very weak. No. She wouldn't see any one.

Yes, Mr. Morena could see her, but not Mr. Landis, certainly not Mr.

Pierre Landis, of Wyoming."

And the doctor, being questioned by the half-frantic Westerner,

admitted that Mr. Morena had hinted at reasons why it might be

dangerous for the patient to see her old friend from the West. Pierre

stood to receive this sentence, and after it, his eyes fell. The

doctor had seen the quick, desperate moisture in them.

"I tell you what, Landis," he said, putting a hand on Pierre's

shoulder. "I'm willing to take a risk. I'm sure of one thing. Miss

West hasn't even heard of your inquiries."

"You mean Morena's making it up--about her not being willing to see

me?"

"I do mean that. And no doubt he's doing it with the best intentions.

But I'm willing to take a risk. See those stairs? You run up them to

the fifth floor. The nurse is out. Gael is in attendance; that is,

he's in the sitting-room. She doesn't know of his presence, hasn't

been allowed to see him. Miss West's door--the outside one--is ajar.

Go up. Get past Gael if you can. Behave yourself quietly, and if you

see the least sign of weakness on the part of Miss West, or if she

shows the slightest disinclination for your company, come down--I'm

trusting you--as quickly as you can and tell me. I'll wait. Have I

your promise?"

"Yes, sir," gasped Pierre.

The doctor smiled at the swift, leaping grace of his Western friend's

ascent. He was anxious concerning the result of his experiment, but

there was a memory upon him of a haunted look in Joan's eyes that

seemed the fellow to a look of Pierre's. He rather believed in

intuitions, especially his own.

CHAPTER XIII

THE END OF THE TRAIL

At the top of the fourth flight of steps, Pierre found himself facing

a door that stood ajar. Beyond that door was Joan and he knew not what

experience of discovery, of explanation, of punishment. What he had

suffered since the night of his cruelty would be nothing to what he

might have to suffer now at the hands of the woman he had loved and

hurt. That she was incredibly changed he knew, what had happened to

change her he did not know. That she had suffered greatly was certain.

One could not look at the face of Jane West, even under its disguise

of paint and pencil, without a sharp realization of profound and

embittering experience. And, just as certainly, she had gone far ahead

of her husband in learning, in a certain sort of mental and social

development. Pierre was filled with doubt and with dread, with an

almost unbearable self-depreciation. 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. There, before the crackling, open fire,

sat Prosper Gael.

Prosper, it seemed, was alone in the small, silent place. He was

sitting on the middle of his spine, as usual, with his long, thin legs

stretched out before him and a veil of cigarette smoke before his

eyes. He turned his head idly, expecting, no doubt, to see the nurse.

Pierre, white and grim, stood looking down at him.

The older man recognized him at once, but he did not change his

position by a muscle, merely lounged there, his head against the side

of the cushioned chair, the brilliant, surprised gaze changing slowly

to amused contempt. His cigarette hung between the long fingers of one

hand, its blue spiral of smoke rising tranquilly into a bar of

sunshine from the window.

"The doctor told me to come up," said Pierre gravely. He was aware of

the insult of this stranger's attitude, but he was too deeply stirred,

too deeply suspenseful, to be irritated by it. He seemed to be moving

in some rare, disconnected atmosphere. "I have his permission to

see--to see Miss West, if she is willing to see me."

Prosper flicked off an ash with his little finger. "And you believe

that she is willing to see you, Pierre Landis?" he asked slowly.

Pierre gave him a startled look. "You know my name?"

"Yes. I believe that four years ago, on an especially cold and snowy

night, I interrupted you in a rather extraordinary occupation and gave

myself the pleasure of shooting you." With that he got to his feet and

stood before the mantel, negligently enough, but ready to his

fingertips.

Pierre came nearer by a stride. He had been stripped at once of his

air of high detachment. He was pale and quivering. He looked at

Prosper with eyes of incredulous dread.

"Were you--that man?" A tide of shamed scarlet engulfed him and he

dropped his eyes.

"I thought that would take the assurance out of you," said Prosper.

"As a matter of fact, shooting was too good for you. On that night you

forfeited every claim to the consideration of man or woman. I have the

right of any decent citizen to turn you out of here. Do you still

maintain your intention of asking for an interview with Miss Jane

West?"

Pierre, half-blind with humiliation, turned without a word and made

his way to the door. He meant to go away and kill himself. The purpose

was like iron in his mind. That he should have to stand and, because

of his own cowardly fault, to endure insult from this contemptuous

stranger, made of life a garment too stained, too shameful to be worn.

He was in haste to be rid of it. Something, however, barred his exit.

He stumbled back to avoid it. There, holding aside the curtain in the

doorway, stood Joan.

This time there was no possible doubt of her identity. She was wrapped

in a long, blue gown, her hair had fallen in braided loops on either

side of her face and neck. The unchanged eyes of Joan under her broad

brows looked up at him. She was thin and wan, unbelievably broken and

tired and hurt, but she was Joan. Pierre could not but forget death at

sight of her. He staggered forward, and she, putting up her arms, drew

him hungrily and let fall her head upon his shoulder.

"My gel! My Joan!" Pierre sobbed.

Prosper's voice sawed into their tremulous silence.

"So, after all, the branding iron is the proper instrument," he said.

"A man can always recognize his estray, and when she is recognized she

will come to heel."

Joan pushed Pierre from her violently and turned upon Prosper Gael.

Her voice broke over him in a tumult of soft scorn.

"You know nothing of loving, Prosper Gael, not the first letter of

loving. Nobody has learned that about you as well as I have. Now,

listen and I will teach you something. This is something that _I_ have

learned. There are worse wounds than I had from Pierre, and it is by

the hands of such men as you are that they are given. The hurts you

get from love, they heal. Pierre was mad, he was a beast, he branded

me as though I had been a beast. For long years I couldn't think of

him but with a sort of horror in my heart. If it hadn't been for you,

I might never have thought of him no other way forever. But what you

did to me, Prosper, you with your white-hot brain and your gray-cold

heart, you with your music and your talk throbbing and talking and

whining about my soul, what you did to me has made Pierre's iron a

very gentle thing. I have not acted in the play you wrote, the play

you made out of me and my unhappiness, without understanding just what

it was that you did to me. Perhaps if it hadn't been for the play, I

might even have believed that you were capable of something better

than that passion you had once for me--but not now. Never now can I

believe it. What you make other people suffer is material for your own

success and you delight in it. You make notes upon it. Pierre was mad

through loving me, too ignorantly, too jealously, but what you did to

me was through loving me too little. That was a brand upon my brain

and soul. Sometimes since then that scar on my shoulder has seemed to

me almost like the memory of a caress. I went away from Pierre,

leaving him for dead, ready for death myself. When you left me, you

left me alive and ready for what sort of living? It has been Pierre's

love and his following after me that have kept me from low and beastly

things. I've run from him knowing I wasn't fit to be found by him, but

I've run clean and free." She began to tremble. "Will you say anything

more to me and to my man?"

Prosper's face wore its old look of the winged demon. He was cold in

his angry pain.

"Just one thing to your man, perhaps, if you will allow me, but

perhaps you'll tell him that yourself. That his method is the right

one, I admit. But in one respect not even a brand will altogether

preserve property rights. Morena could say something on that score. So

could I...."

"Hush!" said Joan; "I will tell him myself. Pierre, I left you for

dead and I went away with this man, and after a while, because I

thought you were dead, and because I was alone and sorrowful and weak,

and because, perhaps, of what my mother was, I--I--" She fell away

from Pierre, crouched against the side of the door, and wrapped the

curtain round her face. "He told me you were dead--" The words came

muffled.

Pierre had let her go and turned to Prosper. His own face was a mask

of rage. Prosper knew that it was the Westerner's intention to kill.

For a minute, no longer, he was a lightning channel of death. But

Pierre, the Pierre shaped during the last four difficult years, turned

upon his own writhing, savage soul and forced it to submit. It was as

though he fought with his hands. Sweat broke out on him. At last, he

stood and looked at Prosper with sane, stern eyes.

"If that's true what you hinted, if that's true what she was tryin' to

tell, if it's even partly true," he said painfully, "then it was me

that brought it upon her, not you--an' not herself, but me."

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. Indeed, I loved

only you. But you must have known me better than I knew myself. For I

am bad. I am bad. I left you for dead and I went away."

He had mastered her hands, both of them in one of his, and he drew

them close to his heart.

"Don't Joan! Hush, Joan! You mustn't. It was my doings, gel, all of

it. Hush!"

He bent and crushed his lips against hers, silencing her. Then she

gave way and clung to him, sobbing.

After a while Pierre looked up at Prosper Gael. All the patience and

the hunger and the beauty of his love possessed his face. There was

simply no room in his heart for any lesser thing.

"Stranger," he said in the grave and gentle Western speech, "I'll have

to ask you to leave me with my wife."

Prosper made a curious, silent gesture of self-despair and went out,

feeling his way before him.

It was half an hour later when the doctor came softly to the door and

held back the curtain in his hand. He did not say anything and, after

a silent minute, he let fall the curtain and moved softly away. He was

reassured as to the success of his experiment. He had seen Joan's

face.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Branding Iron, by Katharine Newlin Burt