The Branding Iron
Page 15
CHAPTER XV
NERVES AND INTUITION
"Mr. Gael," said Joan standing before him at the breakfast-table, "I'ma-goin' to work."
She was pale, gaunt, and imperturbable. He gave her a quick look, onethat turned to amusement, for Joan was really as appealing to hishumor as a child. She had such immense gravity, such intensity overher one-syllable statements of fact. She announced this decision andsat down.
"Woman's work?" he asked her, smiling quizzically.
"No, sir," with her own rare smile; "I ain't rightly fitted for that."
"Certainly not in those clothes," he murmured crossly, for she wasdressed again in her own things.
"I'm a-goin' to do man's work. I'm a-goin' to shovel snow an' helpfetch wood an' kerry in water. You tell your Chinese man, please."
"And you're not going to read or study any more?"
"Yes, sir. I like that. If you still want to teach me, Mr. Gael. ButI'm a-goin'--I'm _going_--to get some action. I'll just die if Idon't. Why, I'm so poor I can't hardly lift a broom. I don't know whyI'm so miserably poor, Mr. Gael."
She twisted her brows anxiously.
"You've had a nervous breakdown."
"A _what?_"
"A nervous breakdown."
He lit his cigarette and watched her in his usual lazy, smoke-veiledmanner, but she might have noticed the shaken fabric of hisself-assurance.
"Say, now," said Joan, "what's that the name for?"
"There's a book about it over there--third volume on the topshelf--look up your case."
With an air of profound alarm, she went over and took it out.
"There's books about everything, ain't there?--isn't there,--Mr. Gael?Why, there's books about lovin' an' about sickness an' about cattlean' what-not, an' about women an' children--" She was shirking theknowledge of her "case," but at last she pressed her lips together andopened the book. She fell to reading, growing anxiety possessed herface, she sat down on the nearest chair, she turned page after page.Suddenly she gave him a look of anger.
"I ain't none of this, Mr. Gael," she said, smote the page, rose withdignity, and returned the book.
He laughed so long and heartily that she was at last forced to joinhim. "You was--you were--jobbin' me, wasn't you?" she said, sighingrelief. "Did you know what that volume said? It said like this--I'llread you about it--" She took the volume, found the place and read in alow tone of horror, he helping her with the hard words: "'One of themost frequent forms of phobia, common in cases of psychic neurasthenia,is agrophobia in which patients the moment they come into an open spaceare oppressed by an exaggerated feeling of anxiety. They may break intoa profuse perspiration and assert that they feel as if chained to theground....' And here, listen to this, 'batophobia, the fear that highthings will fall, atrophobia, fear of thunder and lightning,pantophobia, the fear of every thing and every one'.... Well, now,ain't that too awful? An' you mean folks really get that way?"
Their talk was for some time of nervous diseases, Joan's horrorincreasing.
"Well, sir," said she, "lead me out an' shoot me if I get anyways likethat! I believe it's caused by all that queer dressin' an' what-not. Ifeel like somethin' _real_ to-day in this shirt an' all, an' when Iget through some work I'll feel a whole lot better. Don't you say I'mone of those nervous breakdowns again, though, will you?" she pleaded.
"No, I won't, Joan. But don't make one of me, will you?"
"How's that?"
"By wearing those clothes all day and half the night. If you expect meto teach you, you'll have to do something for me, to make up forrunning away. You might put on pretty things for dinner, don't youthink? Your nervous system could stand that?"
"My nervous system," drawled Joan, and added startlingly, for she didnot often swear, "God!" It was an oath of scorn, and again Prosperlaughed.
But he heard with a sort of terror the sound of her "man's work" towhich she energetically applied herself. It meant the return of herstrength, of her independence. It meant the shortening of hercaptivity. Before long spring would rush up the canyon in a wave ofmelting snow, crested with dazzling green, and the valley would lieopen to Joan. She would go unless--had he really failed so utterly totouch her heart? Was she without passion, this woman with the deep,savage eyes, the lips, so sensuous and pure, the body so magnificentlymade for living? She was not defended by any training, she had nomoral standards, no prejudices, none of the "ideals." She wascompletely open to approach, a savage. If he failed, it was a personalfailure. Perhaps he had been too subtle, too restrained. She did notyet know, perhaps, what he desired of her. But he was afraid ofrousing her hatred, which would be fully as simple and as savage asher love. That evening, after she had dressed to please him, and satin her chair, tired, but with the beautiful, clean look of outdoorweariness on her face, and tried, battling with drowsiness, to giveher mind to his reading and his talk, he was overmastered by hislonging and came to her and knelt down, drawing down her hands to him,pressing his forehead on them.
For a moment she was stiff and still, then, "What is it, Mr. Gael?"she asked in a frightened half-voice.
He felt, through her body, the slight recoil of spirit, and drew away,and arose to his feet.
"You're angry?"
He laughed.
"Oh, no. I'm not angry; why should I be? I'm a superman. I'mmade--let's say--of alabaster. Women with great eyes and wonderfulvoices and the beauty of broad-browed nymphs walking gravely downunder forest arches, such women give me only a great, great longing toread aloud very slowly and carefully a 'Child's History of the EnglishRace'!" He took the book, tossed it across the room, then stood,ashamed and defiant, laughing a little, a boy in disgrace.
Joan looked at him in profound bewilderment and dawning distress.
"Now," she said, "you _are_ angry with me. You always are when youtalk that queer way. Won't you please explain it to me, Mr. Gael?"
"No!" said he sharply. "I won't." And he added after a moment, "You'dbetter go to bed. You're sleepy and as stupid as an owl."
"Oh!"
"Yes. And you've destroyed what little superstitious belief I had leftconcerning something they tell little ignorant boys about a woman'sintuition. You haven't got a bit. You're stupid and I'm tired ofyou--No, Joan, I'm not. Don't mind me. I'm only in fun. Please! Damn!I've hurt your feelings."
Her lips were quivering, her eyes full. "I try so awful hard," shesaid. It was a lovely, broken trail of music.
He bent over her and patted her shoulder. "Dear child! Joan, I won'tbe so disagreeable again. Only, don't you ever think of me?"
"Yes, yes; all the while I'm thinking of you. I wisht I could do morefor you. Why do I make you so angry? I know I'm awful--awfully stupidand ignorant. I--I must drive you most crazy, but truly"--here sheturned quickly in his arm and put her hands about his neck and laidher cheek against his shoulder--"truly, Mr. Gael, I'm awful fond ofyou." Then she drew quickly away, quivered back into the other cornerof her great chair, put her face to her hands. "Only--I can't helpseein'--Pierre."
Just her tone showed him that still and ghastly youth, and again hesaw the brown hand that moved. He had stood between her and thatsight. The man ought to have died. He did not deserve his life northis love of hers. Even though he had failed to kill the man, he wouldnot fail to kill her love for him, sooner or later, thought Prosper.If only the hateful spring would give him time. He must move her fromher memory. She had put her hands about his neck, she had laid herhead against his shoulder, and, if it had been the action of a child,then she would not have started from him with that sharp memory ofPierre.