“You fool, if you're blind and got to have your eyes open to see, look at the woman!”
And she tore the wide-brimmed sombrero from her head. Down past the shoulders flooded a mass of blue- black hair. The firelight flickered and danced across the silken shimmer of it. It swept wildly past the waist, a glorious, night-dark tide in which the heart of a strong man could be tangled and lost. With quivering lips Jacqueline cried: “Look at me! Am I worthy of him?”
Short step by step Mary went back, staring with fascinated eyes as one who sees some devilish, midnight revelry, and shrinks away from it lest the sight should blast her. She covered her eyes with her hands but instantly strong grips fell on her wrists and her hands were jerked down from her face. She looked up into the eyes of a beautiful tigress.
“Answer me—your yellow hair against mine—your child fingers against my grip—are you equal with me?”
But the strength of Jacqueline faded and grew small; her arms fell to her side; she stepped back, with a rising pallor taking the place of the red. For Mary, brushing her hands, one gloved and one bare, before her eyes, returned the stare of the mountain girl with equal scorn. A mighty loathing filled up her veins in place of strength.
“Tell me,” she said, “was—was this man living with you when he came to me and—and made speeches— about love?”
“Bah! He was living with me. I tell you, he came back and laughed with me about it, and told me about your baby-blue eyes when they filled with tears; laughed and laughed and laughed, I tell you, as I could laugh now.”
The other twisted her hands together, moaning: “And I have followed him, even to the place where he keeps his—woman? Ah, how I hate myself: how I despise myself. I'm unclean—unclean in my own eyes!”
“Wait!” called Jacqueline. “You are leaving too soon. The night is cold.”
“I am going. There is no need to gibe at me.”
“But wait—he will want to see you! I will tell him that you have been here—that you came clear up the valley of the Old Crow to see him and beg him on your knees to love you—he'll be angry to have missed the scene!”
But the door closed on Mary as she fled with her hands pressed against her ears.
CHAPTER 31
Jacqueline ran to the door and threw it open.
“Ride down the valley!” she cried. “That's right. He's coming up, and he'll meet you on the way. He'll be glad—to see you!”
She saw the rider swing sharply about, and the clatter of the galloping hoofs died out up the valley; then she closed the door, dropped the latch, and, running to the middle of the room, threw up her arms and cried out, a wild, shrill yell of triumph like the call of the old Indian brave when he rises with the scalp of his murdered enemy dripping in his hand.
The extended arms she caught back to her breast, and stood there with head tilted back, crushing her delight closer to her heart.
And she whispered: “Pierre! Mine, mine! Pierre!”
Next she went to the steel mirror on the wall and looked long at the flushed, triumphant image. At length she started, like one awakening from a happy dream, and hurriedly coiled the thick, soft tresses about her head. Never before had she lingered so over a toilet, patting each lock into place, twisting her head from side to side like a peacock admiring its image.
Now she looked about hungrily for a touch of color and uttered a little moan of vexation when she saw nothing, till her eyes, piercing through the gloom of a dim corner, saw a spray of autumn leaves, long left there and still stained with beauty. She fastened them at the breast of her shirt, and so arrayed began to cook. Never was there a merrier cook, not even some jolly French chef with a heart made warm with good red wine, for she sang as she worked, and whenever she had to cross the room it was with a dancing step. Spring was in her blood, warm spring that sets men smiling for no cause except that they are living, and rejoicing with the whole awakening world.
So it was with Jacqueline. Ever and anon as she leaned over the pans and stirred the fire she raised her head and remained a moment motionless, waiting for a sound, yearning to hear, and each time she had to look down again with a sigh.
As it was, he took her by surprise, for he entered with the soft foot of the hunted and remained an instant searching the room with a careful glance. Not that he suspected, not that he had not relaxed his guard and his vigilance the moment he caught sight of the flicker of light through the mass of great boulders, but the lifelong habit of watchfulness remained with him.
Even when he spoke face to face with a man, he never seemed to be giving more than half his attention, for might not someone else approach if he lost himself in order to listen to any one voice? He had covered half the length of the room with that soundless step before she heard, and rose with a glad cry: “Pierre!”
Meeting that calm blue eye, she checked herself mightily.
“A hard ride?” she asked.
“Nothing much.”
He took the rock nearest the fire and then raised a glance of inquiry.
“I got cold,” she said, “and rolled it over.”
He considered her and then the rock, not with suspicion, but as if he held the matter in abeyance for further consideration; a hunted man and a hunter must keep an eye for little things, must carry an armed hand and an armed heart even among friends. As for Jacqueline, her color had risen, and she leaned hurriedly over a pan in which meat was frying.
“Any results?” she asked.
