Joyce of the North Woods Part 55

"I do not wish you to go with me." Ruth felt timidly out for her sweet dignity; the perquisite and recompense of exquisite refinement. "I prefer going alone."

"It is quite dark."

"I shall not be afraid," Dale walked with her to the door. Just before the blackness engulfed her, she turned her little, flower-like face to him:

"John--I shall always be ready to be--your--friend if you need me."

"I shall remember. Good night."

An hour later Dale walked into the Black Cat Tavern and made a ruinous bargain with Tate for the use of his horse and sled for an indefinite time. "I'm going up into the woods," he explained, "I may be gone a week, a month, I cannot tell; when I reach Camp 7, I'll send your rig back."

"Going to join Filmer, maybe?" Tate's little eyes rolled in their cushions of fat.

"Perhaps." And Tate took this as affirmation. Now that Joyce had rejoined her rightful lord and master--for the story had leaked out--it was quite natural that Gaston should take to the woods.

"It's one on 'im," Tate confided, as Brown Betty and the sled dashed by.

When Dale started out his purpose was very vague. If he reasoned at all it was to the effect that Jude, after Joyce rejoined him, would seek employment as near at hand as possible. It would be like his weak vanity to parade his victory by going to the men who had known of his defeat.

Besides, if he had sent for Joyce, he must have been in the neighbourhood. The heavy storm, in any case, would hinder a long journey, and the men at Camp 7 might perhaps have news of Lauzoon either before or after Joyce had met him a day or so ago.

It had been a short time. He and Brown Betty were a better pair than Jude and a heavy-hearted woman. So Dale drove on toward Camp 7.

He tried to keep to the trail, once he struck the forests, but the snow was unbroken--the heaviest fall had occurred after Billy's return--and Brown Betty intelligently slackened her speed and felt her way gingerly through the darkness. It was still as death. Above the trees the stars p.r.i.c.ked the sky, and the intense cold fell like a tangible thing upon the flesh exposed to it. Dale pulled his fur cap lower, and gladly let Betty have her will.

Now when Billy had left Joyce at the end of their flight, it was near the door of the woodman's hut.

"Billy," Joyce had said, lingeringly clinging to him as the last familiar thing in her happy span of life; "Billy, you must turn back, and G.o.d bless you, dear. You see Jude must not know anything about you--and it's all right now, Billy."

Billy made an effort to speak, but ended in a sob.

"Never mind, Billy, it's _all_ right now. Just remember that. Kiss me Billy."

And Billy kissed her like the true gentleman he was on the way to being.

Then Joyce, with her shabby baggage, and basket of provisions went on alone.

She was stiff and cold, and her heart was like lead within her. With surprise she noticed that the door of the hut was partly open, and the snow had drifted in. It was dark and lifeless apparently, and for a moment Joyce thought that Jude had gone away, and she turned to recall Billy before it was too late. Then she boldly entered the house. The little entry was covered with snow and the room door, too, stood as the outer one did, ajar. Joyce paused and listened--then a horrible fear took possession of her. The still house overpowered her for a moment, but she knew that death awaited her in the outer cold and loneliness, so by superhuman determination she felt her way toward the fireplace--she had been in the hut more than once and memory served her now. She forced herself to think only of lighting the fire. Even when she struck a match she would glance nowhere but at the hearth.

Her teeth were set close, and her breath hardly stirred her bosom. There had been a fire recently--but the ashes were cold. There was, however, wood nearby, and Joyce tore the paper from one of her packages and used it to ignite the smaller wood.

There was a puff, a flare, and the wood caught.

With the growing heat and light a semblance of courage returned, still Joyce kept her eyes rigidly upon her task. She laid on more wood, and yet more. It was past midnight and the terrible stillness Was numbing her reason. Presently she cautiously turned--something compelled her.

She did not expect to find--anything, but she had to look! Away from the red glare, the shadows concealed their secrets from the fear-haunted eyes, but only for a moment.

Jude was there! He was lying stretched upon the floor. A bottle was near his outspread hand. He was asleep.

Joyce did not try to get upon her feet, but she crept toward the still form. She touched, with stiff fingers, the hand of the man she had come to meet--the man who was to save her from her love.

"Jude!" she whispered hoa.r.s.ely; "Jude!"

A falling log started the others to a redder glow. The face of the man upon the floor lay exposed. The eyes were open--but unseeing, and Joyce knew that Jude was frozen to death!

She made no cry. Had she been capable of sensation she would have gone mad, but she was conscious of no emotion whatever.

The room grew hotter and brighter. She drew away from that horrible shape upon the floor. She must forget it or her head would burst. In the morning, and it would soon be morning, she could go for help--but for now she must forget.

Still creeping, she regained the fireplace; there she huddled with her back to--that long black shadow. Yes; it was but a shadow. She would not think of it but as a shadow.

She braced against the chimney corner, and set her face to the warm, soothing light. Once she stirred and threw on more wood, then she returned to her corner; and kept her eyes in one direction.

An hour pa.s.sed. The slight form by the fire relaxed, and sank gradually to an easy position far enough away from the fire to be safe. The pretty head fell upon a bundle that had earlier been dropped carelessly there--and a great peace rested on the worn face. Suffering, hopelessness and fear fled as the calm gently settled from brow to chin; and all that was conscious of Joyce Lauzoon drifted into the oblivion that has never been fathomed.

Behind the sealed doors--the miracle was performed. The spirit freed from its suffering body--but not claimed by Death--was strengthened and purified. Where it fared--who can tell? How near the Source of eternal things it wandered none may know, but it drank deep and lost its earth-stain long enough to carry back with it a faith that would enable it to live.

The rosy light of day was showing ruddily in the window of the hut when Joyce opened her eyes. The returning spirit came slowly back with stately serenity. There was no shock nor start of wonder; it took possession of the refreshed body that was awaiting it, and accepted its responsibilities.

Joyce was lying on her back, her hands crossed upon her bosom. The fire still glowed at heart, and the room was warm. A calmness and saneness reigned supreme. Joyce wondered what had befallen her? Then slowly, like a wise mother, Nature gave into her conscious thought the knowledge of things as they were.

She turned--yes! there was Jude. But she did not shrink nor shudder now.

Young as she was, she had seen death many, many times. She had gone to the portals, alone, with others beside her poor baby. She rose now, and walked over to Jude's side. The night had wrought a change in him, seemingly; or perhaps it was Joyce's regained sanity. The man on the floor looked calm, peaceful and strangely dignified. His helpless peacefulness appealed to Joyce. She began to take away all signs of degradation that remained. The inanimate tokens of poor Jude Lauzoon's weakness and undoing.

The empty bottle was hidden from sight; the disordered clothing was straightened, and the hands that were never to work harm again, were folded over the quiet breast.

G.o.d had set Joyce free! and as she did the last, sad service for the man who had no real place in her life, the words of Ruth Dale recurred to her.

No; she had never been free before. She never could have been free while Jude and she walked the same earth. There had been an intangible link that only death could sever.

Her freedom had come too late--but no! Sitting beside Jude's body, Joyce felt the convincing truth that, come what might, she could, she would live as John Dale had shown her how.

Softly, with reverent touch, Joyce covered the grim, white face, and turned away to prepare for her home journey. She must get others to come for Jude's body. Her part was all past now forever. She must go to face her new life, whatever it might be.

As she opened the outer door, the clear, stinging cold brought a sense of freshness and sweetness with it. It was so alive, and it called to all that was awakening in her. Her slow blood tingled and her breath came quick and deep.

For very relief she took off her close hood, and flung her arms wide as if in welcome to what awaited her.

The unbroken snow spread on every side. Like the first-comer in this new, pure world she set forth with a high courage and a strange faith.

So she came upon John Dale's vision, and he started back, fearing that his weariness and heavy heart were playing havoc with his senses. Having seen smoke rising from the chimney of the hut, he had left his horse and sled a short distance away, and had come to investigate.

So absorbed was Joyce that she neither saw nor heard the approach of the man she had put from her life.

Her pale beauty, as she came quickly toward him, struck Dale as almost unearthly. She was within a few yards of him when she saw him. A rich colour flushed her face as she recognized him and her eyes widened.

"Jude--is dead!" she said simply. She thought he was still upon his quest; still ignorant of the happenings that had driven her away from the shack.