Joyce of the North Woods Part 43

Had all reputable St. Ange gone a-visiting?

Jock's absence, and now Joyce's, gave Billy a creepy feeling such as a cat must feel who has been deserted by them he trusted.

But there had been no fire in Filmer's shack; on Gaston's hearth a roaring, recently builded fire gave evidence of late companionship.

"Joyce!" called Billy. There was no reply. Then the boy opened the door leading into the lean-to. He had no reverence for retreats. If any door opened to Billy's hand, Billy's feet carried him further.

A fresh fire also blazed on the hearth of Gaston's sanctuary.

All at once Billy's childhood rose supreme over his recently gained moral viewpoint. Ever since he and the other St. Ange children had spied upon Gaston as a stranger, Gaston's possessions had filled their souls with curious wonder.

Maggie was responsible for the story about a certain chest.

"It's as big"--here Maggie had stretched truth to the snapping point--"as this! And it's all thick with iron strips, and it has a lock as big as my head. Once I saw him open it--I was in the next room--"

"What was in it?" St. Ange youth whispered.

"That's telling," Maggie had sniffed.

But after all the earthly wealth that St. Ange greed then held in the way of strings, old postage stamps, etc., had been laid at her feet, Maggie revealed what she had _not_ seen.

"There's hundreds of dollars of gold. Umph! And candy and--and"--Maggie's imagination in those days had been awakened by Gaston's fairy-lore--"and a box tied up with a blood-stained cord! And a gun, and a knife, with queer spots on it, and things that made me turn sick as I looked!"

As Billy viewed the chest now--somewhat dwindled as to size--the old story moved him.

There was no low curiosity of a thieving kind in his feverish longing to test the truth of that old story of Maggie's. Money had no lure for him, candy he was surfeited with, but he'd chance much to get a glimpse of the box tied with the blood-stained cord, and the knife with the queer spots.

Joyce had apparently gone on an errand. Billy stepped back into the living room, then went to the wood-shed, and all around the house.

Perhaps she had gone to the store by a back path--she had a love for unfrequented places.

Billy returned to the shack, laid the letter on the table of the outer room, and tiptoed back to the lean-to.

The particular kind of thrill he experienced then was delicious. Quite different was it from the one that had driven him almost mad with fear as he listened to Jude and Birkdale a time back. This was a thriller that appealed to the familiar in him,--the impishness that died hard.

He went across to the chest and leaned over it. The fire crackled--and he leaped back! Then, loathing himself for his weakness, he knelt before the treasure trove and tried the key in the lock.

It turned easily, and the lid flew back; for the chest was filled to the brim. Several small articles, like letters, pictures and books, fell onto the floor; but Billy heeded them not. He was after bigger game. He tossed the contents hurriedly out. Maggie had lied foully--not a blood stain anywhere, nor knife, string, nor box! Not even a gun, nor candy nor gold dollars.

Billy's contempt for Maggie at that moment was too deep for expression.

Disappointedly he began to replace the poor trash that Gaston evidently prized--the last thing to put back was a photograph--and from sheer disappointment Billy was about to vent his disgust by tearing this in two, when the face riveted his attention. It was a face that once seen could never be forgotten. Pale and sweet it looked up at him. It was part of the clean, better life that he was trying to lead. It made him, all in the flash of an eye, see what a mean, low scamp he was to--

The outer door of the shack opened and shut! Hurrying feet ran across the floor of the living room, the lean-to door was flung back, and, all palpitating and wide-eyed, Joyce confronted the boy.

"You--Billy!" The glorious light died out of the big eyes, the pale, expectant face set into lines of hopeless disappointment. "I thought--"

the mouth quivered pitifully, and Billy felt the added sting of discovered shame.

In a moment things steadied themselves, Joyce was mistress of the situation.

"What have you there?" she asked sharply. In the distraction she had not noticed that the chest was open.

"Her picture!"

"Her! Who?" Joyce came over to Billy, and looked at the face he held at arm's length.

Something numbed every sense but sight. That sense must convey the image of the girl-face to Joyce's brain, and implant it there so effectually that it could never be forgotten. And that very morning Joyce had seen its counterpart on the highway!

"Who--is--that?" she demanded.

"It's her up to the bungalow. They call her--Ruth. See! here it is writ on the back--'Ruth'; her other name is Mis' Dale."

The face was burned in now for all time; and the other faculties began to throb into life.

"Billy, where did you get that?"

Then both boy and woman looked at the desecrated chest--and all was told.

Even while she was wildly pushing facts from her, Joyce saw, rising before her, a completed structure of John Gaston's past.

That exquisite girl was she who had held his love before--and she had married the brother! Then Gaston's name was Dale. Oh! how vividly, hideously clear it was. It seemed as if she had always known it. Even the pictured face was as familiar now as Gaston's own. But Joyce's cold lips were forming the words:

"Billy you lie! You brought that over to show me. Tell me the truth."

She had him by the shoulder, and her fierce eyes frightened him.

"I have told you the truth; so help me! There she is now; look!"

Joyce turned as Billy pointed to the window.

Outside, near the grave of _her_ baby, stood Constance Drew and the girl whose picture Billy held limply in his hand.

Constance Drew was talking, but the stranger's sweet face was turned toward the house, and Joyce saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"Billy"; Joyce clutched the thin shoulder; "put that back! Now lock the chest, and listen. If you ever tell a living soul what you have done--Mr. Gaston will--kill you!"

Billy obeyed with dumb fear.

"Now, go out of the shed door. Go--don't let them see you!"

Billy was gone, forgetting even to mention the letter lying on the living-room table.

Then Joyce waited. Out in front, they two--Miss Drew and that girl--seemed rooted to the spot near the baby's grave.

Feeling had departed from Joyce--she simply waited.

Finally they, outside, turned. They walked directly to the house, and knocked. They knocked again.

"It's etiquette to go in, if the house is empty." It was Constance Drew's voice. "St. Ange and New York have different ideas. Leave things as you find them, that's the only social commandment here." A hand was on the latch.