Joyce of the North Woods Part 23

"Since you've got her--" he stammered, "how about--the--the money?"

The question nerved Gaston.

"Money?" he cried; "get out with it, you thief and would-be murderer.

Use it to get as far from here as you can, for as true as there is a heaven above us, if you ever interfere with me or--mine--again, I'll shoot you at sight. Get out--all of you!"

He slammed the door violently shut, and with clenched hands and blazing eyes, he faced his companion.

He and she were the only ones in the new world. Stung by the memory of the look of lost faith in the eyes of the one friend to whom he had planned to turn in this emergency; recalling Jude's glance of triumph as he turned away, Gaston's moral sense reeled, and the elemental pa.s.sions rose.

Joyce stood shrinking before him. Beaten, bruised and trapped, she awaited her doom.

Her primitive love for this man held no part in her present condition.

Whatever he consigned her to, that must she accept. St. Ange standards were well known to her. The people would be quick enough to spurn personal responsibility for her, but if she were independent of them--well, they were not the ones to hold resentment!

No moral training had ever had part in this girl's life; nothing held her now but a fear, born of her past experience with man's authority, as to her future fate.

She was abandoned and disowned. Her recent loss and grief had bereft her of any personal pride and hope--like a slave before its master, she faced Gaston--and mutely waited.

The unexpected happened. Gaston laughed. Laughed in the old, unconcerned way; but presently the rising awe and question in the lovely eyes looking into his own, sobered him. He began to understand and to get her point of view. He stood straighter, and a new expression pa.s.sed over his face.

"Sit down, Joyce," he said, urging her gently toward the chair, "I must mend the fire. Things look as if they had fallen to pieces, but they have not. Believe me--they have not. For heaven's sake stop trembling; every shudder you give is an insult to me. There, there, you don't understand, but, it's coming out all right. It was only when others were meddling that we got on the rocks. I've got the rudder in my hand now, and by G.o.d's help," he was fiercely flinging on the logs, "we'll sail out into the open with colours flying. When did you eat last?"

She was watching him with alert, feverish eyes. Like an ensnared animal she felt a frenzied eagerness to be ready for the snarer's next move.

"Eat?" she faltered, "why, why, I have forgotten.

Yesterday--to-day--oh! does it matter? I'm not hungry."

"Well, I am. I always wanted a s.n.a.t.c.h after the play."

"The--the play?" Joyce leaned forward.

"After an infernal row, if you like that better. They both play the d.i.c.kens with your digestion."

Bringing out the food, and making coffee eased the tension of the situation and after they had eaten, for Joyce struggled to follow his example, the atmosphere was less electrical.

The hands of the clock got around to ten-thirty; it was of no consequence, however, and then Gaston cleared the table, kicked a rebellious log back to its duty, and drew a chair beside Joyce.

The little bruised arm lay stretched pitifully along the arm of the chair. Gaston winced as he saw it, and he laid his strong, warm hand over the cold fingers that did not draw away.

"Joyce." His voice was almost solemn in its intensity. "I don't believe there is anything I can say that you would understand now. G.o.d knows, I pity you from the bottom of my soul and, G.o.d helping me, I'm going to help you in the best way I can. You need rest more than any other little woman in the world to-night, I reckon, go in there," he nodded toward his own chamber, "and try your best to sleep. I want to smoke and think it all out here by the fire. Remember, you are safe."

She rose stiffly and stood before him. Fear was gone from her; weakness remained; a horrible, sickening weakness, but no fear. Vaguely, gropingly, she tried to understand what lay behind his slow, solemn words, but the effort was too great. She sighed and looked down upon him as if he had suddenly become a stranger to her, then, stepping backward, with uncertain faltering movement, she gained the door of that room where no foot but Gaston's had ever before stepped.

CHAPTER X

It was mid-October when Ralph Drew, his pretty sister Constance and his devoted maiden aunt--Miss Sally Drew--arrived in St. Ange and took up their new life in the bungalow which, under Jude Lauzoon's contractorship, had been made ready.

During his first short stay in St. Ange young Drew had regained not only his lost strength, but he had gained an insight into the needs of the men and women of the small place. He had always intended doing something for the village and its inhabitants after his return to town for they had appealed strongly to his emotional and sympathetic nature. But what St. Ange had vouchsafed in the way of restored health, she had begrudgingly bestowed. To have and to hold what she had given, the recipient must, in return, vow allegiance to her, and, forsaking all others, cling to her pines and silent places. He must forswear old habits and environment--he must give up all else and fling himself upon her mercy.

It had been hard. Back there in the town, where the pulse of things beat high, he had fought the knowledge inch by inch.

"Would a year be enough?" It would be useless. "If winters were spent there--several winters?" The big specialist shook his head.

High, dry mountains, somewhere, were the only hope. St. Ange was comparatively near, she had given a hint as to what she could do--better trust her.

One after another the outposts of lingering hope were taken by the grim, white Spectre. He must abdicate, and accept what terms the enemy offered.

Wan, and defeated, but still with the high courage that was his only possession, Drew tried to get the new outlook.

If there were to be--life, then there must be work, G.o.d's work; he was no coward, he would do his part.

Mingled with the many, dear, familiar things of the life that no longer was to be his, was a slim, pretty, little girl whom he had enshrined in his college days, and before whom he had laid his heart's sacredest offerings since. She, and his splendid courage would make even St. Ange a Paradise.

Raising his eyes to her face, as she sat beside his bed the day the specialist had given his final command, Drew whispered his hope to her.

The soft, saintly eyes fell before the trusting, pitiful ones.

"Dear," he said, a new doubt faced him--one he had never believed possible; "they say I will be well--quite well, there if I stay. And you and I--" but that drooping face drove him back among the shadows.

"We--must--think of others." It was the voice of a self-sacrificing saint, but the heart-touch was lacking, and Drew received his sentence then and there.

For a few, weak days he decided to remain and finish it all and forever.

Then his manly faith bade him sternly to gather the poor remnant of his strength together; grasp the broken blade that was his only weapon, and finish the fight how and where he could.

"We'll go with you, laddie," Aunt Sally whispered, hanging over this boy whom she loved as her own.

"And, dear," Constance sobbed on his pillow, "she wasn't worth your love. I just knew it from the start. She's a selfish--egotistical--" a thin, feverish hand stayed the girlish outburst.

"Never mind, Connie, we'll fly to the woods, and try to forget all about it." And taking advantage of the golden October calm, they came to St.

Ange.

Lying upon his bed in the bungalow chamber, looking out over the hills and meadows, gorgeous in autumn tints, Drew began slowly, interruptedly to be sure, but perceptibly, to gain strength.

Having relinquished finally the old ideal of life, it was wonderful, even to Drew himself, to find how much seemed unimportant and trivial.

It was rather shocking, in a mild way, for him to realize that a certain girl's face was growing less and less vivid. At first he attributed this to bodily weakness; then to weakness of character; finally, thank G.o.d!

to common sense. With that conclusion reached, the present began feebly to be vital and full of meaning.

Had perfect health been his, a call to serve the cause to which he had dedicated himself might have taken him farther than St. Ange from his old life. It was the finality of the decree that had put him in that panic. Well, he would not permit finality to hold part in his plans. He would live as if all things _might_ come to him, as to other men. It should be, day by day, and he would accept these people--if they would accept him--not as minister and parishioners, but in the larger, deeper sense--as brothers. With this outlook determined upon, a change for the better began. Before it, while the old weakness possessed him, Jock Filmer, sitting daily by his bed, was merely some one who was helping nurse the fever-racked body; afterward, Jock materialized into the most important and satisfying personality to be imagined. He was untiring in his devotion and gentleness. Caught on the rebound from the shock Gaston had caused him, Filmer went over to the new call to his friendship with an abandon that proved his own sore need of sympathy.

The family, grateful for the signs of returning health in the sick man, thankful for Jock's a.s.sistance and enlivening humour, disregarded conventions, and admitted the new friend to the holy of holies in their bungalow life.

Jock had not been so supremely happy in years. The companionship healed the wound Gaston had given his faith, and he found himself shielding and defending both Gaston and Joyce against his own crude judgments.