Joyce of the North Woods Part 47

She let him take her icy hands in his. "I've found--John!" she gasped hoa.r.s.ely.

"John--who? Sit down, Ruth. You have had a terrible fright." He put her firmly, but gently in his own arm-chair. "Tell me all about it," he urged quietly.

"John Dale. Philip's brother."

"In heaven's name, where!"

"Up at Gaston's shack. Gaston--is--John Dale."

Ralph drew back and repeated dully:

"Gaston--is John Dale? Gaston--is John Dale?" Presently the wonder became affirmation. "Yes," he almost groaned, "Gaston is--John Dale."

A lurking familiarity of feature gained power in Drew's memory of Gaston. It linked itself into other details. He had always known Gaston had a hidden cause for being in St. Ange. Yes; he _was_ John Dale.

For Drew to become convinced was for him to act upon the impulse of his warm heart.

"Ruth, dear," he whispered, "make yourself comfortable. I will go to him."

Then Ruth raised her hands to hold him back. Her voice was deep and awed.

"No!" she commanded "neither you nor I, Ralph, is fit to enter--there. A miracle has been performed up among the pines. A man and woman have been created--that we are not worthy to--touch!"

"Ruth what madness is this? What has occurred? You must explain to me clearly."

Then the story rushed out in a flood. Tears checked it at times; a hysterical laugh now and again threatened; but Drew controlled the excitement by word and touch.

"And now," Ruth was panting and exhausted; "she, that--wonderful woman, has given him back--to me. Can't you see? She loves the soul of him--the great, strong man of him--but I--why even _now_, I cannot forget the evil thing--that befell--the _body_ of him while he was--in--"

"Ruth! You shall not so degrade yourself."

"Yes! Yes! it is quite true. That is what I meant. I am not fit to touch--her nor him, and yet I shall shudder all my life--when I remember."

Drew saw that reason was tottering in Ruth.

"He may--not--wish--to claim you, dear," he comforted.

"But he must; he must! Now that she is going to her own; there is nothing left for me to do--but to go to mine."

"This can go no further, Ruth." Drew rose hastily. "I am going to send Aunt Sally to you, and I must think things out. Calm yourself, dear. In all such times as these, a greater power than is in us, controls and gives strength. Let go--Ruth! Let the Power that is, take you in its keeping."

He touched her cold face with rea.s.suring sympathy, and then went to find Miss Sally.

His next impulse was to rush to Gaston's shack; his second thought restrained him. If Gaston had returned, he would rightfully resent any outside interference with this crucial time of his life. If Joyce were decided in the course she had laid out for herself--how dared he, how could he, divert her from it without involving them all in a deeper perplexity?

So Drew resigned _himself_ to the Power that is.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was Billy Falstar who broke upon Joyce's solitude after Ruth Dale had left her.

Worn beyond the point where conscious suffering held strong part, Joyce was completing her final arrangements mechanically and laboriously when Billy presented himself.

"Say, Joyce," the boy faltered, standing in the doorway and kicking his heels together, "I'm blamed sorry I done that sneak job."

"It doesn't matter much, Billy. But now that you are here, will you help me pack food and things? I'm going--away."

Then Billy recalled the letter, and fear rose sharply to the fore.

"You ain't going to go--no such thing!" he cried, coming in and slamming the door behind him. "That's a--that's a fake letter."

"Yes, I know. It doesn't make any difference. But tell me, Billy, is it father or Jude down at the Laval place?"

Billy was stricken with surprise.

"How d' yer know?" he gasped.

"Oh! it was all so foolish!" she answered smiling feebly. "If he--if Mr.

Gaston had sent it, don't you see that there would have been no need of this mystery? But is it Jude or father, Billy?"

"It's old Birkdale," Billy burst out, and then between fear and relief he related what had happened in the hut in the woods.

"Then it's a longer way I must go." Joyce sighed wearily. "Do you think I could get there--walking, Billy?"

The boy eyed her as if she had gone crazy.

"'Course not. But what you want to go for, anyway?"

Joyce came close to him. He seemed the only human thing left for her to cling to, the only one to call upon in her sore need.

"Billy, I'm going to Jude because--he's mine, and I belong to him--and it never pays in this world to take what doesn't belong to you."

"But--Gaston--you belong to him--and I want--you--to have him!" Billy felt a mad inclination to cry, but struggled against it.

"No, I never belonged to him, Billy. Believe that all your life--it will make a better man of you. He was heavenly good to me because he was sorry for me--and wanted to see me happy. But happiness doesn't come--that way. Sometimes it seems as if it did--sometimes it seems as if G.o.d meant it so--perhaps He did--but the people out--in the world--the people that should have known how--the people who had time and money and learning, they've muddled things so--that we can't even see what G.o.d meant for right or wrong.

"Why, Billy, they punish the wrong people, and then when they find out--they do not know the way to set it straight; but it doesn't matter, Billy, we have to go on, on, on, the best we can!"

Joyce put her arms around the boy, and bent her head on his thin, shaking shoulder.

She no longer wore the yellow gown. She was plain, commonplace Joyce, familiar to Billy's unregenerated youth.

But Billy did not fail her. Awkwardly, but with wonderful understanding, he put his arms around her, and whispered: