Joyce of the North Woods Part 44

"Connie, I cannot! It does not seem decent." _That_ voice sank deep into the listening heart behind the barrier.

"Well, then, I'll write her a letter. I'm sorry I asked Jock Filmer to take a verbal invitation. She might think--"

"That's better, Connie, and while you and Ralph drive over to Hillcrest this afternoon, I'll bring it here; perhaps she will be at home then."

Joyce heard them turn. She watched them until the pine trees hid them; then her heart beat feebly.

Presently she went to the table, and there her eyes fell on the letter Billy had brought. Quietly she took it up, opened it, and read it once, twice, then the third time.

Finally it dropped to her feet, and, with hands groping before her, Joyce staggered to Gaston's deep chair and fell heavily into it.

CHAPTER XVII

Joyce did not faint, nor did she lose consciousness. A dull quiet possessed her, and, had she tried to explain her state of mind, she would have said she was thinking things out.

In reality Destiny, or whatever we choose to call that power which controls things that _must be_, had the woman completely in its grip.

Whatever she was to do would be done without any actual forethought or preparation; she would realize that afterward as we all do when we have pa.s.sed through a crisis and have done better, perhaps, than our poor, una.s.sisted thought might have accomplished for us.

Joyce was on the wheel, and the wheel was going at a tremendous speed.

There was no time for plotting or planning, with all the strength that was in her, the girl was clinging, clinging to some unseen, central truth, while she was being whirled through a still place crowded with more or less distinguishable facts that she dared not close her eyes to.

One cruel thing made her cringe in the deep chair. She was losing her clear, sweet vision of that blessed night when Gaston and she had stood transfigured! If only she could have held to that, all would have been so simple--but with that fading glory gone she would be alone in a barren, cheerless place to act not merely for herself, but for Gaston also.

She was no longer the beautiful woman in the golden dress; nor he the man of the illumined face and pleading arms. No; she was old Jared's wild little daughter; Jude Lauzoon's brutalized and dishonoured wife.

Nothing, nothing could do away with those awful facts.

He, the man she loved--who thought in one wild hour that he loved her--was not of her world nor of her kind. He had given, given, given to her of his best and purest. G.o.d! how he had given. He had cast a glamour over her crudeness by his power and goodness, but underneath was--Jared's daughter and Jude's wife.

If he took her courageously back to his world they, those others like, yet unlike him, would see easily through the disguise, and would be quick enough to make both him and her feel it.

Without her, they would accept him. The past would be as if it had not been; but if he brought her to them from his past, it would be like an insult to them--an insult they would never forgive. And then--he would have no life; no place. He would have to go on being kind and good to her in a greater loneliness and desolation than St. Ange had ever known.

She could not escape the responsibility of her part in his life. She might keep on taking, taking, taking. On the other hand his old life had come back to him, not even waiting for his choice.

The woman who had misunderstood, had failed him in that hour of his need, had been sent by an all-powerful Force into the heart of the Northern Solitude to reclaim him, now that he had accomplished that which he had set himself to do.

Every barrier was removed. Even Death had been kind to that sweet, pale girl--she was ready to perform the glorious act of returning Gaston's own to him, if only she, Joyce, would let go her selfish, ign.o.ble hold.

Now, if she were as n.o.ble as Gaston had striven to make her, there was but one thing to do. Go to that woman up at the bungalow, tell her all that she did _not_ know. All about the heavy penalty weakness had paid for the crime committed by another. Tell of the splendid expiation and the hard-won victory, and then--let go her hold and, in Love's supreme renunciation, prove her worthiness to what G.o.d withheld.

The little living room of Gaston's shack was the battle-ground of Joyce's soul-conflict that winter day.

Pale and rigid, she crouched in the deep chair, her head buried on the arm where so often his dear hand had lain.

No; she could not! She would not! Then after a moment--"I must! or in all the future I shall hate myself." Then she grew calmer, and instinctively she began to plan about--going. She would leave both fires ready to light--he might come now at any time.

The letter Billy had brought had not for a moment deceived her. She counted it now as but one of the links in the chain that was dragging her away from Gaston.

It was either Jude or her father who had sent the note. Well, it did not matter, it was the best possible escape that could have been conceived.

Then her plans ran on. She would pack her own pretty things--out of sight! They must not confuse, or call for pity. There would be no note.

She, that woman at the bungalow would explain, and would tell him that there could be no reconsideration, for she, Joyce, had gone to her--husband!

At that point Joyce sprang up, and her eyes blazed feverishly.

No; she was going to do no such thing. She was going to wait just where she was with folded hands and eager love. When Gaston came he should decide things. She would not interfere with her future. She would hide nothing; neither would she disclose anything. Why should she strangle her own life, with the knowledge she had neither sought nor desired?

The brilliant afternoon sun crept toward the west, and it shone into the side window and through the screen of splendid fuchsias which clambered from sill to top of cas.e.m.e.nt.

Gaston might come--now! Perhaps he had failed to locate Jude, and would return to consider. Well, then, she could put him on Jude's trail.

Gaston, not she, should meet the "woodsman" in Lola Laval's deserted house.

In the sudden up-springing of this hope, Joyce quite forgot the face of the woman at the bungalow.

A freakish yearning to reproduce the one crowning moment of her life possessed the girl.

She would build a great fire upon the hearth, and make the room beautiful. She would don--the yellow gown, and, if he came, he should find her as he had left her.

If he still loved her--and she saw it in his eyes--then nothing, nothing should part them.

She would go with him to Lola's house and together they would finish the dreary search. She would beg him never to return to St. Ange. What did the world matter, the people of the world? Nothing mattered but him and her.

So Joyce flew to the bidding of her mad fancy. She drew the shades and flung on log after log. She swept and dusted the room. Put Gaston's slippers and house-coat close to the warmth. She lighted the lamp to keep up the delusion, then stole to her room and made ready.

Again, as the garments of the daily task fell from her, Joyce felt the sordidness and fearsomeness depart.

The lovely hair lent itself to the pretty design, and the golden gown transfigured the wearer.

She felt sure Gaston was coming. The premonition grew and grew. He would never leave her to bear the Christmas alone. He might return later to search for Jude but, remembering her in the shack, he would come to her for that one, holy day.

He would surprise her. And she?--why, she would surprise him.

How he would laugh and take her in his arms!--for it was all clear ahead of them now. She would lead him to Jude!

A knock at the outer door startled her. She was about to leave her bedchamber complete and beautiful--but the summons stayed the little satin-shod feet, and the colour left the quivering face.

Perhaps Gaston had knocked to keep up the conceit of his home-coming surprise!

Tiptoeing across the living room, Joyce took her stand by the table and called timidly, expectantly and awesomely:

"Come."

The latch lifted and some one pressed against the door, and then, in walked Ruth Dale.

She wore the heavy crimson cloak of Constance's, the fur-trimmed hood of which encircled her face.