When Joyce felt her wrists clasped in that iron grip in the darkness,
and felt the hot breath of a man on her face, she was more frightened
than she had ever been in her life. All the stories of horrors in the
night, of hold-ups and bandits and kidnappings came to her mind as
she struggled vainly for a moment in that vise-like grip. She tried
to scream, though she knew she was too far away from houses to reach
the ear of any people who lived about unless some one happened to be
going along that road; and people did not go along that road at night
unless they had to. It was lonely and desolate, and out of the way from
the main highway, a quiet remote place for the dead. She had a quick
feeling of thankfulness that Aunt Mary who had always been so careful
for her safety, so anxious when she was out alone at night, was where
she could not be alarmed; a quick wish that she could call to her. Then
the thought of God came and her heart cried for help.
The flashlight sprung in her face sent her almost swooning. She was
conscious that her senses were going from her, and that she must
somehow prevent herself from going out this way in the dark, and then
up through the billows of blackness that were surging to envelop her
soul she heard her own name in startled, almost tender tone:
“Joyce!”
And back through the blackness she came again to earth and
consciousness and opened her eyes, straight into the eyes that
searched her face; answering the call of that strangely familiar voice.
“Oh--was it you?”
There was troubled relief in the voice as she said it, relief as if
she would rather have had back the terror than to have found this one
involved in the mystery. There was question, pain, almost reproach, in
her tone; there was judgment held in suspense as if her soul rejected
the witness of her eyes. Then, as if she could not bear the conclusion
of her own judgment she cried out earnestly,
“Oh, _what_ were you doing there?”
He dropped her hands as if they had been shot away from him and his
head drooped, stooped perhaps would be better, as if a great burden had
suddenly been let upon his shoulders. He tried to speak and his voice
was husky, the words did not come from his lips. He half turned away
with a motion as if he would hide his face.
Then a low stealthy whistle rasped between them and he started back
toward her:
“Go!--” he said quickly, “Go! You must not be seen here! Joyce--Little
Joyce--” the last syllables were scarcely audible. She heard them in
her soul afterward, like a long echo of a very fine whisper. A clear
whistle close beside her, resonant, remembered from childhood, sounded
just above her bowed head as she turned, and she knew he was signalling
to the rest.
“Go! Straight down the road! Keep in the shadow. I’ll come back after
awhile and find you,” he whispered, “Don’t be afraid--” and in the same
breath, louder:
“All right, Kid, nothing but a scared rabbit. We’ll go up the other
way--”
He was striding away from her rapidly into the darkness and she stood
almost petrified in the road where he left her, till she heard a rough
laugh of one of his companions and fear lent strength to her feet once
more and sped her down the road again.
Her heart was beating wildly, and her thoughts in a chaos. She could
not think, nor analyze her own feelings. She could only fly along in
the shadow, stumbling now and again over a rough bit of road, straining
her ears to listen for sounds behind her, casting a fearful glance back.
But the darkness was reassuring. The dimmed lights of the automobile
that had stood by the roadside were no longer visible. The men had
gone away in the other direction. She was alone on the road--with at
least another mile to go before she could turn again into the highway,
and she found an overwhelming tremble upon her. Her very spirit seemed
to be quivering with it. The night which had been warm and balmy
seemed turned to fearful cold and she shivered as she tried to hurry
along. Now and then the moon swept out and threw her shadow along the
way, and she glanced furtively behind her and shrank into the shadow
of the elderberry bushes by the fence. Once a wild rabbit scuttled
across the road and startled her so that she almost fell. She began to
reproach herself for having gone away from home in this silly aimless
way, losing her temper like a child and walking out from safety and
protection without preparation. She wondered if God were angry with
her for it. She wondered why she had done it and what she was going
to do anyway, but most of all she wondered what those dark figures on
the hillside had been doing, and why the shoulders of her friend had
drooped as if with shame. Most of all this dragged upon her soul and
kept her from fleetness. For how must the feet drag when the heart is
weighed down!
She came at last into the highway, and heard by the tolling of the
clock on a distant barn that it was two o’clock. It gave her a strange
sense of detachment from the world to be thus adrift at that dark,
prowling time of the night.
The road was empty either way. Not even a light of a distant car was in
sight. If she could only hope to find a place of shelter before another
came. Surely it could not be much longer so empty on the highway. Some
one would be going by. Some one would see her. They would think it
strange. They would think ill of her if they saw her. There was no hope
for help from any passing car. She would not dare accept it if it were
offered.
Ahead she saw a strip of woods. Her brain began to function. That would
be the grove just before you came to old Julia Hartshorn’s house, and
Julia Hartshorn lived just outside of Heatherdell. Heatherdell was a
little town and she knew many of the people. She would not be lonely
there. But where could she go? She must not be seen out at that time
of night by any one she knew unless she came to it and appealed for
help. That would mean that she would have to tell the circumstances
of her being out from home in the blackness of night. That would mean
criticism for Eugene and Nannette, no matter how gently she might tell
her tale, nor how much she took the blame upon herself. And that would
have hurt Aunt Mary. For Aunt Mary’s sake she must not let any talk
go around. Aunt Mary knew that Nannette was jealous of her, and that
Eugene was sometimes hard on her, but Aunt Mary loved her son, even
though she knew his faults, and Joyce would never willingly make any
gossip that would reflect upon the family. Eugene was right. He knew
Joyce’s conscience. It was functioning right on true to type even now
in her terror and perplexity.
If only she had not gone to that cemetery! If only she had not turned
aside and allowed herself to give up and cry upon Aunt Mary’s grave,
and lose all that time. She might have been far away now, in a safe,
quiet room somewhere that she had hired for the night. There would
have been places where she could have found a room for a very little.
She had some money, she didn’t remember how much, with her--it didn’t
matter. There were a few dollars. Perhaps, too, she had put that gold
piece in her handbag, she wasn’t sure of that. The day had been so
long and hard, so many things had been within its hours. She could not
recall what she had picked up to carry with her that morning. She was
too weary to care.
But she couldn’t bear to go away without bidding good-bye to the spot
where Aunt Mary and her mother lay, and perhaps too she had felt she
could better think what to do, there in the quiet with the two graves.
Well, there was no use in excusing herself. She had gone. She shuddered
at the horror of the last hour, and then that burden again to find out
it was that one--and to wonder. What had he been doing? Was it then
true, all the whispers that had come to her ears, of his life?
Around the bend ahead dashed a light. A car was coming at last. She
remembered he had said he would come after her. She glanced back, but
it was all darkness. Even if he did come would she want to meet him?
Could she explain her presence out at night? He was now an almost
stranger. He knew naught of her life. And perhaps it would be better if
she did not know his.
She glanced fearfully ahead. The light was growing brighter, was almost
blinding. She stepped out of its range and crept among some bushes
till the glare and the swift passing car were gone, and watched the
little red tail light blink and disappear. Then keeping quite close to
the bank she slid along, fearful of another car so near to the bend of
the road. It might come upon her unaware and if she were in the glare
she would naturally be noticed by the driver. She trembled at the
very thought, and hurried along, limbs sometimes stumbling and almost
falling in the tall grass.
But presently she came in sight of Julia Hartshorn’s cottage, a little
quiet brown affair, with gingerbread fretwork on its porches and moss
on its roof, set far back from the street in a grove of maples, like a
tiny island off the mainland of the larger grove near by.
A picket fence with scaling ancient paint, and a gate with a chain and
weight guarded the quiet haven, and the fitful moonlight quavered out
and showed the dim outline of a hammock slung between the maples close
to the west porch. Joyce remembered a long, beautiful afternoon when
she had lain in that hammock and read a book while Aunt Mary sat on the
porch with Julia Hartshorn and sewed. How long ago and how beautiful
that seemed. How like heaven in contrast with what she had been going
through lately! Yes, here was a haven. She might go and knock at the
door, and Julia’s night-capped old head would appear at the window
above. She had only to tell who it was and that she was in trouble, and
the door would be open wide for her. Neither would Julia Hartshorn ever
tell.
But Julia Hartshorn was old, and she had a sharp-tongued niece who had
come to live with her and go to school. It would never do. She must
not venture that. The school in Heatherdell was too near to the school
in Meadow Brook, and too much gossip went back and forth. No, she must
keep to her lonely way and go on. But there was no reason why she might
not slip into that gate for a little while and lie in that hammock till
daylight began to come. She could steal in so quietly no one would ever
know, and get out again before the household was awake. She would be
entirely safe outside a dwelling house of course, and need not fear to
sleep for a few minutes under such protection.
Softly she lifted the latch of the old gate, lifting the gate as she
swung it cautiously open lest it creak, and let herself in, closing it
noiselessly behind her. Still as a creature of the woods she stole up
the grass and tiptoed across the walk to the hammock, sliding gently
into it, and slowly relaxing her tense muscles. It seemed as though she
had suddenly been tossed up by a terrible and angry sea where her very
soul had been racked from her body and laid upon a quiet stretch of
sand, so wonderful it was to lie and rest.
She scarcely knew when her thoughts relaxed from their intense strain
and rested with her body or when the night blurred into sleep and took
her trouble all away. She only realized as she was drifting off, that
her soul was crying, “Oh, God! Forgive me if I’ve done wrong. Take
care of me, and show me what to do! For Jesus’ sake--take care of
me--show me.”
Was that a dream or footsteps stealthily along the road, pausing at the
gate, noiseless footsteps like those in the cemetery? He was coming
back--but he must not. Oh, what was he doing out there in the dark!
Something that he was ashamed of? He had drooped and had not answered!
“Oh, God, show him!” Was there some one at the gate? Or was it fancy.
Ah--now they seemed to be going on. How sweet the breeze on her
forehead--like the breeze from the open kitchen door. “Oh, God. Save
him! Help me! Show me what to do.”