Joyce of the North Woods Part 22

There was no time nor inclination for him to fall back upon that inner sense of his and seek to peer beyond the present and its need. He strode to the door, flung it open, and Joyce and the terrific storm burst into the room together!

"He--he's driven me from the house." The girl's wild face made unnecessary the idle question that Gaston spoke.

"Who?"

"Jude." Then Gaston shut and barred the heavy door. He could at least exclude the rain and wind.

"Look here! and here!" the girl pointed to her bruised face upon which the storm's moisture rested, and the slender arm with its brutal mark.

"Good G.o.d!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Gaston, as he gazed in horror, "and on this day!"

Rage against Jude, tenderness for Jude's victim, struggled hotly in Gaston's mind; but presently a divine pity for the girl alone consumed him.

Her misery was appalling. Now that she was comparatively safe, bodily weakness overpowered her. She swayed, and put her hands out childishly for support--any support that might steady her as her world went black.

Gaston caught her and placed her gently in his deep, low chair.

"Poor girl!" he murmured, "Poor Joyce! You're as wet as a leaf. Here!"

He quickly brought one of the red blankets from the inner room. "Here, let me at least wrap you in something dry. And now drink this, it will do you good."

He poured some wine into a gla.s.s and held it to her blue, cold lips.

"Come, Joyce! We'll straighten things out. Trust me."

She gulped the warming wine, and s.h.i.+vered in the blanket's m.u.f.fling comfort.

"And now," Gaston was flinging logs on the blazing embers, "you're coming around. Whatever it is, Joyce, it isn't worth all this agony of yours."

"I'm--I'm afraid they'll come and kill us." Joyce's eyes widened and the old fear seized her again. The momentary comfort and thought of safety lost their hold.

"In G.o.d's name, Joyce, hus.h.!.+ You're safe and I'm not afraid. Come, don't you see if you want me to help you, you must pull yourself together?"

"Yes; yes; and we--I must hurry."

Now that he had time to think, Gaston knew pretty well what had occurred. The vulgar details did not matter. The one important and hideous fact was, that for some reason, Jude, with the crazy brutality that had long been gathering, had flung his young wife from his protection on to Gaston's.

Well, he would accept the responsibility. He was quite calm, and his blood was up. A pleasurable excitement possessed him, and he laughed to calm the fear he saw in Joyce's eyes.

The clock struck nine. All that was respectable and innocent in St. Ange was in bed at that hour.

Gaston wondered what he was going to do with the girl. The thought did not disturb him; but, of course, he must make arrangements.

Long ago he had so shut out his own world that he could not, now, call upon it for Joyce's protection. St. Ange was impossible as a working basis--his thoughts flew to Filmer. Yes; as soon as Joyce could explain, he would go for Filmer and together they would solve this riddle for the poor, battered soul, shrinking before him.

He must hurry her a little. St. Ange and nine o'clock must be considered.

The wine had brought life and colour into the white face. The glorious hair, now rapidly drying in the warm room, was curling in childish fas.h.i.+on above the wide eyes.

She was certainly too young and pretty to run the risk that the night might bring.

A complication arose. Divine pity made way for a sense of the girl's beauty and helplessness. The bruise upon the soft cheek cried out for tenderness and protection. Gaston strove to detach himself from the personal element. He strove to feel old and fatherly but he was still young; Fate was tempting him in the subtlest manner. The best and the worst of the man came to the fore.

The wind howled outside; the warmth and comfort held them close--together, and alone.

What did anything matter? They had both done their parts. They had tried to be what the world called good--and here they were tossed back upon each other, and not a hope beyond.

Then Gaston found himself speaking quite outside of the consciousness that was almost stifling him with its allurement.

"Joyce, I must take you home as soon as you can walk. I can straighten this out. It shall not happen again. You forget I have a certain hold over Jude."

"There is no home." The words fell dully from the girl. "He--he broke and destroyed everything before--he went to the Black Cat."

Gaston started.

"But he--did not know you came here? You see it will be in your favour, if they find you there among the ruins. I'll see to it--that they go and find you there. Can you walk now?"

"Yes, but--but you do not understand. The money--it was that I came to tell you about--Jude has a great deal of money--I think Mr. Drew has just sent it. He's going to--get away--with my--father."

Gaston now saw that no time must be wasted. If necessary he must carry Joyce, and set her down near her fallen shrine--then he must stop Jude.

The money did not matter; but a frenzy of self-preservation, mingled with his desire to save Joyce, rose within him. The money was his hold on Jude; it was the only salvation for this critical moment.

Now that he faced the grim possibility, he found that he was as eager to preserve a clean future for himself as for her.

He must get her back. He must find Filmer, and he must lay hold of Jude.

"Come, Joyce, trust me, I swear to you that it will be all right."

He took her hand and led her toward the door. Then a confused noise outside stayed them.

There was a crus.h.i.+ng of underbrush as if a light wagon was being driven over the narrow path; a mingling of voices rose excitedly.

"You d.a.m.ned scoundrel!" It was Filmer's voice. "Don't you utter that lie again until he's had a chance to fling it back in your teeth. Whatever your cursed row has been, he's got nothing to do with it. Shut up!"

"Hold on there, Filmer." It was Tate speaking. "This here wagon's got wedged in the trees. I want to see this thing settled square. If she's--" a bristling string of epithets followed, then Tate apparently freed the vehicle he was in, for he jumped to the ground and joined the knockers at the door.

So the morality of St. Ange was at stake! Gaston showed his teeth in a hard smile. There was but one conclusion for them all to come to, of course.

"Say, Gaston, old man!" Filmer shouted; "open up. I thought maybe you'd like to bid Jude an affectionate farewell before he skipped. If he owes you--_anything_, here's your chance!" Another knock shook the door.

The two inside looked at each other--man and woman! They both knew with what they had to deal. A dare-devil expression rose to Gaston's face. He tossed precaution to the winds.

Abject terror possessed Joyce and she reeled as she stood, clutching the blanket closer. Gaston put an arm about her, strode to the door, unbarred it, and flung it back.

"Well," he said to the men on the threshold, "what are you going to do about it?"

Filmer staggered as if Gaston had struck him, and the look in his eyes went scathingly to Gaston's heart. But while it hurt, it aroused resentment. What right had Filmer to judge--Who knew _his_ past? But Gaston knew Filmer was _not_ judging. He knew he was only bidding farewell to his one friend of the Solitudes. The friend he had trusted and revered.

The effect upon Jude was quite different. No doubt swayed him--he was merely debating in his mind whether he could now get away with the money and the wagon he had hired.