It was the first rift in his courtesy. Holliwell looked up in sharp
surprise. He saw a flash of the truth, a little wriggle of the green
serpent in Pierre's eyes before they fell. He flushed and glanced at
Joan. She stood by the table in the circle of lamplight, looking over
the new books, but in her eagerness there was less simplicity. She
wore an almost timorous air, accepted his remarks in silence, shot
doubtful looks at Pierre before she answered questions, was an
entirely different Joan. Now Holliwell was angry and he stiffened
toward his host and hostess, dropped all his talk about the books and
smoked haughtily. He was young and over-sensitive, no more master of
himself in this instance than Pierre and Joan. But before he left
after supper, refusing a bed, though Pierre conquered his dislike
sufficiently to urge it, Holliwell had a moment with Joan. It was very
touching. He would tell about it afterwards, but, for a long time, he
could not bear to remember it.
She tried to return his books, coming with her arms full of them and
lifting up eyes that were almost tragic with renunciation.
"I can't be takin' the time to read them, Mr. Holliwell," she said,
that extraordinary, over-expressive voice of hers running an octave of
regret; "an' someway Pierre don't like that I should spend my evenin's
on them. Seems like he thinks I was settin' myself up to be knowin'
more than him." She laughed ruefully. "Me--knowin' more'n Pierre! It's
laughable. But anyways I don't want him to be thinkin' that. So take
the books, please. I like them." She paused. "I love them," she said
hungrily and, blinking, thrust them into his hands.
He put them down on the table. "You're wrong, Joan," he said quickly.
"You mustn't give in to such a foolish idea. You have rights of your
own, a life of your own. Pierre mustn't stand in the way of your
learning. You mustn't let him. I'll speak to him."
"Oh, no!" Some intuition warned her of the danger in his doing this.
"Well, then, keep your books and talk to Pierre about them. Try to
persuade him to read aloud to you. I shan't be back now till spring,
but I want you to read this winter, read all the stuff that's there.
Come, Joan, to please me," and he smiled coaxingly.
"I ain't afeared of Pierre," said Joan slowly. Her pride was stung by
the suggestion. "I'll keep the books." She sighed. "Good-bye. When I
see you in the spring, I'll be a right learned school-marm."