“How could I help it, Joan?” he pleaded. “You saw how it was?” As she grew quieter, he talked. “I heard you scream like a person being tortured to death—twice—a gruesome enough sound, let me tell you, to hear in the dead of a white, still night. I didn’t altogether want to break into your house. I’ve heard some ugly stories about men venturing to disturb the work of murderers. But, you see, Joan, I’ve a fear of myself. I’ve a cruel brain. I can use it on my own failures. I’ve been through some self-punishment—no! of course, you don’t understand all that.... Anyway, I came in, in great fear of my life, and saw what I saw—a woman tied up and devilishly tortured, a man gloating over her helplessness. Naturally, before I spoke my mind, as a man was bound to speak it, under the pain and fury of such a spectacle, I got ready to defend myself. Your—Pierre”—there was a biting contempt in his tone—“saw my gesture, whipped out his gun, and fired. My shot was half a second later than his. I might more readily have lost my life than taken his. If he had lived, Joan, could you have forgiven him?”
“No,” sobbed Joan; “I think not.” She trembled. “He said terrible hard words to me. He didn’t love me like I loved him. He planned to put a brand on me so’s I c’d be his own like as if I was a beast belongin’ to him. Mr. Holliwell said right, I don’t belong to no man. I belong to my own self.”
The storm had passed into this troubled after-tossing of thought.
“Can you tell me about it all?” asked Prosper. “Would it help?”
“I couldn’t,” she moaned; “no, I couldn’t. Only—if I hadn’t ‘a’ left Pierre a-lyin’ there alone. A dog that had onct loved him wouldn’t ‘a’ done that.” She sat up again, white and wild. “That’s why I must go back. I must surely go. I must! Oh, I must!”
“Go back thirty miles through wet snow when you can’t walk across the room, Joan?” He smiled pityingly.
Her hands twisting in his, she stared past him, out through the window, where the still, sunny day shone blue through shadowy pine branches. Tears rolled down her face.
“Can’t you go back?” She turned the desolate, haunted eyes upon him. “Oh, can’t you?—to do some kindness to him? Can you ever stop a-thinkin’ of him lyin’ there?”
Prosper’s face was hard through its gentleness. “I’ve seen too many dead men, less deserving of death. But, hush!—you lie down and go to sleep. I’ll try to manage it. I’ll try to get back and show him some kindness, as you say. There! Will you be a good girl now?”
She fell back and her eyes shone their gratitude upon him. “Oh, you are good!” she said. “When I’m well—I’ll work for you!”