Joyce of the North Woods Part 20

He went away soon after, but he sat up until toward daylight, just outside his shack. He feared something was going to occur. But nothing did; and the next thing in Joyce's life story that tugged at his heart-strings, was the sickness and sudden death of little Malcolm.

CHAPTER IX

It was the evening of the day that the baby had been laid under a slim, tall young pine tree back of the little house.

Jude felt that he had borne himself heroically throughout the trying episode.

Never having cared for the child in life, he considered himself a pretty good father to hide his relief at its early taking off.

As a man of means--what mattered if they were Gaston's means?--he had had a really impressive funeral for his son.

The Methodist minister from Hillcrest had preached for full an hour over the tiny casket. Not often did the clergyman have so good an opportunity to tell the St. Angeans what he thought of them.

He dealt with them along old and approved lines. He had heard of Drew's religious views and he took this occasion to include a warning of the d.a.m.ning influence that was about to enter the vicinity with the young minister's return.

"I warn you now," he thundered over the dead baby, "to make the life of this infidel, this G.o.d-hater, a burden to him."

Filmer from his rear corner, winked at Gaston at this. Gaston could see nothing amusing in the service--it was all in the pa.s.sing show--a pitiful and added agony.

In that the show was a little grimmer than usual he found his resentment rising. So Gaston did not return the pleasantry of Jock's wink.

After the service, Jude had insisted that there should be no unseemly haste, and had instructed his chosen representatives to form a line and walk from the house to the tavern and back twice with the tiny remains, before they were finally laid to rest. This show of respect was talked of in St. Ange for days.

Through all the bitter day Joyce had followed dumbly whatever others did. It was like walking in her sleep, and she was grateful that she felt no sorrow.

She had feared if the baby died it might kill her, and now that it was dead she did not mind at all.

Her arms ached a little at times. She thought that was queer; they had never ached when they bore the baby.

At last she and Jude were back in the awful, quiet house. It was more awful now that Jude was there. For after the burial, and before the evening meal, he had been lessening his tension with some boon companions, down at the Black Cat, and Joyce had had the place to herself.

Jude, having relaxed to the state of geniality, was willing to let bygones be bygones in the broadest sense of the word. He had big plans afoot--he had had them the night he came home and found Gaston and Joyce hanging over the baby. These plans had been set aside while the baby was taking his pitiful leave of life after his one smile, but Jude must hurry his case now. Nothing stood in the way--and, although many a woman might get what she deserved, Jude was going to forgive Joyce again and take her to his bosom in a new life, and they'd both forget what was past.

The hold of youth and beauty clutched the man's inflamed senses. The evening meal, which Joyce had mechanically prepared, had been partaken of--by Jude--until little but fragments was left.

A black shower, which had pa.s.sed over St. Ange in the late afternoon, had changed the sultry heat to ominous chill. The wind among the pines sobbed dismally as if it were a human thing and could understand.

Jude got up and shut the door. It was quite dark outside, and the lamp flickered in the breeze.

At his action Joyce sprang from the chair, and the dull calm that had possessed her for the past day or so was shattered. Her eyes blazed, and the colour came and went in the stern, white face.

"Don't--do--that!" she panted, springing to the door and flinging it back.

"What in thunder is the matter with you?" Jude stepped aside. Something in this change and fury startled him.

"Don't shut--the--door, Jude. We--we--can't leave him out there alone in the cold. He's so little--our--baby!"

Jude had a moment of doubt as to how he should deal with this foolery.

If he were quite sure it was just Joyce's nonsense--but perhaps she had gone crazy. The thought stayed him.

Then he considered that in either case he must get the upper hand, and at once. All depended upon that.

"Go and set down," he commanded, eyeing the girl as she stood in the open doorway. "You don't 'spose we're going to live with open doors, do you?"

There was mastery in the tone, and, to gain her end, the woman resorted to her only course.

"Just--for to-night, Jude--just a little way open. I'd choke if I--shut him away so soon--and he so little and--and--all."

Fear of what he did not understand roused in Jude a brutish desire to overcome this something that threatened. For a moment he decided to rush from the house and leave the thing to work out its own way; but second thought brought with it his plans, which must be set in motion at once.

This att.i.tude of Joyce's was a new obstacle, but if he conquered her, he might overcome it. So by sheer force of weak will he strode over to the woman who defied him, even while she pleaded, and grasped her roughly by the shoulder.

In that touch Joyce recognized what all suppressed and deprived womanhood has always felt, and she recoiled to reconnoitre.

"You do as I tell you, Joyce, and go and set down. The door is going to be shut and you take that in, plain and quick." He drew her away, and slammed the door with a crash.

Joyce went quietly to her chair, but a new and terrible look came into her eyes.

Jude sat on the edge of the table, disregarding the spotless cover and soiled dishes. He wanted to be near Joyce in case of an outbreak, and he had much to say.

"Are you listening to me?" he asked slowly, as if he were speaking to a child.

"Oh! yes," Joyce replied, and her tone rea.s.sured him; "I'm listening."

"Do you think you've ever taken me in any?"

The man's sullen black eyes held the clear, bluish-gray ones.

"Oh, never, Jude! You're terribly smart. I've always known that--but please--" the strained eyes turned for the last time toward the door.

"Cut that out!" said Jude. "You're just acting. You can't pull me by the nose, but it will pay you to calm down and listen to what I've got to say. I've heard from your father!"

"Have you?" The white impa.s.sive face did not change expression.

"Yes; by thunder! I have; and as it concerns you as much as it does me, you better take more interest. I heard from him more'n two weeks ago. I met him, too, in the south woods, a few nights back."

"What's he hiding for?" the monotonous tone jarred Jude more than any outbreak of temper could have done. His recent restraint, and his pent-up plans had worn his nerves to the raw edge. He was in the slow, consuming stage of emotions that was likely to lead him to a desperate move if he were balked.

"Now look here," he blurted out; "you and me has got to get down to business, and that to once! I've kept mum long of the kid's taking-off."

Joyce's eyes widened as she stared through the open window over which the rose-vine was being lashed by a new storm.

"I've bided my time, and it was more for you than for me, you can bet.

"This is the big time of our lives, and I ain't going to hold back any facts what can make things clear and reasonable. Me and your father want you, maybe for different reasons, maybe not. You ain't the common sort, and we know you can help us. If you was like most women, him and me wouldn't have no compunctions about cutting, and leaving you to ways what you seem to hanker after. But he's actually pining for a sight of you, and even knowing what I do about you, I can't give you up! That's the plain situation as far as you're concerned, and you can take it for what it's worth. Are you listening?"