When Joyce went with bowed head from the only semblance of a home that
had ever been hers, she carried with her, in the rough basket, all that
she could rightfully call her own in personal effects. The load was not
heavy and she scarcely noticed it as she walked rapidly through the
maple thicket which divided her father's garden-place and the Long
Meadow.
She felt like an exile, indeed. A friendless creature who had no real
hold upon any one.
She thought of Gaston--but he no longer suggested safety to her. She
thought of Lauzoon, and a wave of fear and repulsion swept over her. She
knew she was driven to him. She knew she must accept whatever fate he
offered, but with the remnant of her intuitive belief in her personal
charm and beauty, she paused at the edge of the wood, to plan some sort
of attitude that would secure Jude's admiration as well as his
protection. She must not call upon him in a moment of weakness and
defeat. That would be putting a weapon in his hand that no St. Angé man
could be trusted to wield mercifully.
She must hide all traces of outraged feeling; she must find a vantage
point from which Jude might take her. He must come to her; she must not
go to him. Thus she pondered. For one wild instant she turned her face
toward Hillcrest. There were those over the hill who might give her
work--what work? What could she do? But granting that she obtained work,
how long could she retain a position, with her father and Jude in
pursuit? No; she was a product of St. Angé and had all the faltering
distrust of other environments common to the shrinking childhood of the
poor village.
Down beside the last tree of the thicket the girl crouched with her
shabby basket beside her.
The elemental woman in her saw, as clearly as any cultivated sister
might have seen, that if she hoped for success in her married life, she
must not throw herself upon Jude crushed and downed. A brave front must
be the breastwork behind which she was to fight.
When she had told her father she was going to Isa Tate, she had spoken
wildly; but the inevitable closed upon her. Every one went to Leon Tate
in trouble. Leon, like the old gods, first made mad whom he wished to
destroy; for the trust that all St. Angé put in Leon's bland generosity
was nothing short of madness. When any difficulty arose, private or
public, it was carried to the Black Cat for adjustment and final
settlement. By putting every individual under deep obligation to him,
Leon controlled money, loyalty and obedience. Every man in St. Angé was
in his debt, and every woman had accepted, in some form or other, his
wife's services. The difference between Isa and her husband was,
however, vital. Tate was a friend to man in order that he might draw his
victims into his net. Isa had a woman's soul hidden under her rough
exterior and, while she played the part assigned her by her diplomatic
lord, she found comfort for her own lonely nature in giving comfort.
Joyce, in going to Isa for protection, would in no wise interfere with
her father's welcome at the tavern. Leon would arrange that, and bring
about a brilliant climax for himself; at least he always had done so in
emergencies.
Crouching under the tree, as the sun went down behind Beacon Hill, Joyce
saw the future unfold itself. There was nothing to do but go to Isa.
Then Leon would, by his subtlety, make it seem that she had come there
to get ready for her marriage to Jude. He'd even arrange, perhaps, the
marriage, and so clutch Jude and her closer to his power. He'd smooth
the way for her father, too, and hush tongues and smile--oh, how he
would smile on them all!--and no one would ever know.
The sun went down and the stars came out. Still the girl sat there; but
presently a healthy appetite was the call that roused her. She had not
eaten since noon of the day before. She was weak and suffering. She
thought with a kind of comfort that perhaps it was hunger alone that
was now causing her mental and physical agony. After she had eaten, all
would be well with her. She could control Jude and her own fate. She
would never let any one think--Gaston above all--that she was not
mistress of her own shabby little life.
She got up dizzily, and was shocked to find how heavy the basket was;
still, with a constant shifting from hand to hand, she could manage it.
Lola's giddy little lark song sprang to memory out of the ashes of her
hurt and pain, and rose and rippled in the fragrant darkness as she
entered the Long Meadow.
Beacon Hill stood gloomily to the west, and above it gleamed a
particularly bright star. Across Long Meadow the lights in the houses
flickered from open windows, and the Black Cat's glare seemed to control
her motions. It drew her on and on. It was to play a part in her future
as it did in the futures of all--sooner or later.
Wearily she mounted the steps of the tavern and went to the side door
that opened into whatever there was of privacy in Leon's establishment.
Isa was washing the supper dishes. She was a tall, gaunt woman with a
kindly glance that Nature had, for a safeguard, hidden under heavy black
brows.
"You, Joyce?" she said, going on with her task. "I thought maybe it was
some one else."
"Isa," the girl stepped cautiously forward, "I want to tell you
something."
The gathering hilarity in the tavern made this moment secure. Isa put
down her dish and faced the girl.
"What?" she asked bluntly.
Quickly, breathlessly the truth, with all its hideous colouring, truth
bald, and yet with a saving clause for Gaston, was whispered in Isa's
ear.
When the parting with Jared was confided, the woman put her arms about
the girl.
"Now you hush, Joyce, I've heard enough. This is a man's world, God help
us! Us women, when we can, must cling together. Me and Tate pull in
harness because we find it pays--we'll help you out--Tate in _his_ way,
me in mine, but, Lord a-mighty, don't I hope there'll be a heaven just
for women, some day!
"Sit down, you poor, little haggled thing, I don't believe you've eat a
morsel. You look fagged out. They ain't worth it, Joyce, men ain't.
Father, husband--not one of them. But since we've got to use them, we
must make out some kind of game. Here!"
She set food before the wan girl, and the readjustment of life, in her
masterful hands, seemed already begun.
It was comparatively easy, later on, to go into particulars with Isa.
With the roar and clatter growing hourly more deafening in the tavern,
Isa and Joyce, sitting on the back porch under the calm stars, spoke
freely to each other.
Isa, like a dutiful wife, had, while Joyce satisfied her hunger,
confided as much of the girl's trouble to Leon as she thought advisable.
Leon had recognized the opportunity as one by which to capture what was
left of Jared's independence, and rose to the emergency.
"Leave it to me," he said. "Everything will be blooming to-morrow
like--like a--garden--er--Eden."
So now Isa had only Joyce's sore little heart to deal with.
"Come, girl," she began at last; "tears never yet unsnarled a knot. Be
you, or be you not, going to marry Jude?"
"Yes--I am." There must be no doubt upon that score and Joyce sat up
stiffly and faced her helper.
"Well, then, look at the thing sensible. In a place like St. Angé, where
there ain't women to spare, you either got to be a decent married woman
or you ain't. Long as I've lived in St. Angé, and that's been more'n
twenty years, I ain't never yet seen a comfortable, respectable,
satisfied, old maid--they ain't permitted here, and you know it. In
season, of course, you'd marry--that's to be looked for. It chances to
be Jude--and after you get over the strangeness, he'll do as well as any
other. They are all powerfully alike when they have their senses. The
sameness lies in their having their faculties. The only man as was ever
different in St. Angé was Timothy Drake. He got smashed on the head by a
falling tree up to Camp 3, and his wits was crushed out of him. But do
you know, what was left of Tim was as gentle and decent and perticerlar
as you'd want to find in any human. He never drank again, never cussed
nor stormed, and I've laid it by as an item, that the badness and
sameness of men lies in their wits--if you want a companionable, safe
man, you've got to turn to sich as are bereft of their senses--and most
women is that foolhardy they prefer wits and diviltry, to senselessness
and decency."
Joyce smiled feebly at this philosophy.
"You are the one to decide," Isa went on. "Now see here, girl, I ain't
lived fifty years for nothing. I ain't been in and out of my neighbour's
houses, in times when all the closets are open, without learning a heap
about things. Men is men and there's no getting around that. So long as
you can, you better let them think they amounts to something even when
you own to yourself they don't. Private opinions ain't going to bring on
trouble; it's only when they ain't private. Now granting that man is
what we know he is--it's plain common sense to get as much out of him as
you can. Make the place you live in the best thing he's got; and just so
long as you can, keep yourself a little bit out of his reach--tantalize
him. There ain't nothing so diverting to a man as to claw after a woman,
when he's got the belief in himself that when he _wants_ to clutch her,
he can.
"I know the kind of naked feeling you've got when you sense your power
with men first; but that wears off when you get your bearings and find
out that it's only a shuffle in the game, anyway. Land of love! if man
and woman was _all_, then when they came face to face with life they
would get smashed; but housework tempers the matter powerfully; and
man's work out among other men; and then when children come and you have
to contrive and pinch, why you just plod along and don't ever get
flustered. It's just the first dash of cold water in the face, child;
after that all lives is pretty much the same."
Joyce had grown quieter as Isa's words droned on. It was, for all her
commotion, a very humdrum thing that had happened to her.
As it was she, Joyce, was going to be very respectable. She'd manage,
and Jude would always find her worth his while to be decent for. She
would wrench what she could from him and St. Angé and be a commonplace
married woman.
Now that all the fuss and fury were over, it seemed quite a silly
exhibition she had made of herself. She almost wished that she had
stayed at home.
"The little loft room is yours, Joyce, for as long as you want it," Isa
was saying, through the sobering silence. "I ain't going to side with
Jared Birkdale when a woman's sense of right has been roused. Jared's
wits are the keenest and the cruelest round here, and the poison in his
tongue is the deadliest; I guess _I_ know. Are you coming in, child? The
bed's made, but you best carry a pitcher of fresh water up with you."
"I'll be there in a minute, Isa, and the cracked pitcher's by the well,
isn't it?"
"Yes," Isa replied; "and I'll leave a lighted candle for you, the ile is
pretty low in the lamp. Good night, child, and don't fuss. I never saw
fussing hurt any one but the fusser."
Joyce rose stiffly and stood by the open door. She stretched her limbs
and winced at the pain in them. Then she clasped her aching hands above
her head and permitted her tired spirit one long, heavy sigh.
She stood for some time in that relieved state. The chill of the
deepening night soothed her, and the late new moon looked down through
the pines at her--then she turned sharply. Some one was near!
Her startled glance fell upon Jude Lauzoon. He was crouching upon the
step of the porch.
"I thought you was sleeping, standing up," he whispered hoarsely. "I
didn't want to scare you none."
"Why are you here?" Joyce's heart fluttered. Had he heard all?
"Why are you?" Jude turned the tables.
"Where else should I be--to--to--" she looked at him appealingly, "to
get ready to be married?"
Jude was master of the situation in a way Joyce did not know. He could
afford to be condescendingly gracious. He, of all who had taken part in
this poor little drama, now held the centre of the stage, and the
knowledge gave him a certain manliness highly becoming.
"Stay here until we get married--is that it?"
Joyce nodded.
Jude felt a pity for her that would have been contempt had not her
beauty and charm mastered him. He was going to clutch her once and for
all, but he was willing to let her see that he only meant, since he must
have her, to clutch close enough to bind her to him. He was not going to
strangle her: he meant only to stifle her. Jude was cool now, and alert.
"I've got something to say to you, Joyce, and it better be said and done
with. I slept on it last night and most of to-day. I went to your
father's this evening to have it out, but you wasn't there. I met Jock
Filmer in the Long Medder and he told me where you was, and why. Your
father had aired his affair in the tavern."
Joyce clasped her cold fingers nervously. There was nothing for her to
do but wait Jude's pleasure. Leon had not been able to overpower Jared's
personality evidently.
"I saw you go to Mr. Gaston's shack night before last! I'd been there
before you, and I was lying off in the pine grove when you came
a-visiting."
The widening eyes of the listener were the only sign that this
information was startling.
"Do you know," Jude gave a chuckle, "up to that minute when I saw you
a-knocking, and him taking no heed, I had thought 'twas him as had been
shining up to you. I was actually hard agin him, and once went so far as
to go up there with my gun!" Joyce shivered. "Yes, by gosh! with my
gun. Just suppose I'd killed him, and him not to blame either?
"Now there be some men, Joyce, that wouldn't have you after knowing what
I know, but I ain't one as goes off the handle without looking on both
sides. Since I know _he's_ all right, I can manage you proper
enough--and I own up to wanting you, and I'm willing to let bygones _be_
bygones, only--and you might as well know this--once I've had my eyes
open, I ain't going to shut them again. I'll always be within call if
you should forget yourself, and take to attracting Mr. Gaston's
attention. He's my _friend_ now, by gosh! He's going to stand by me.
He's the real stuff and shows up to me in the finest colours, never once
hinting that your seeking him had made you cheap. He's a bigger feller
than I ever thought, and I ain't going to have no foolishness. You
understand?"
"Yes; oh, yes; I understand!" Again the shivering seized Joyce.
"I should think to have a man turn a deaf ear to you like that, would
end any nonsense without more fuss."
"It--it will." The low voice shook.
"But you see, protecting a young girl agin herself is one thing. He
might feel different if a married woman wanted to turn fool. Now, Joyce,
I ain't ever going to say anything more about this, 'less it's
necessary. I know you're pretty and maybe a bit more flighty along of
that, but being married and having your own work, may tone you down. If
you'll stick by me, I'll stick by you; and in time Mr. Gaston can be a
friend to both of us and no harm done. You understand, don't you? I
ain't hard, I'm only letting light in on the whole thing."
"I--I understand, Jude."
"And now, as to marrying. Mr. Gaston is going to lend me money, and I'm
going to put up an addition to my shack, and get some fixings over to
Hillcrest. If you want, we'll get married over there and rough it
together before the buildin's done."
"I--I'd rather wait, Jude if you're willing. I want to get some--some
things." Joyce's teeth were chattering. "But if a minister should
happen in St. Angé in the meanwhile, I'd--I'd marry you." This seemed a
reasonable request--"I don't like the minister over at Hillcrest, he's
so fearful in his sermons, he makes me afraid."
"Well," Jude rose, "when the house gets along, we'll see. Things are
tight and trim now. Good night! Go to bed--and forget it."
He put his hands on her shoulders and bent and kissed the cold, upturned
face. Then he laughed: for he had got what he wanted, and she was very
sweet and pretty.
"Go to bed now--trot on!"
Joyce staggered indoors and hurriedly bolted the door behind her. She
took the spluttering candle and mounted the steep stairs. Once alone in
the small stifling room, she gasped, and put her hands to her throat as
if to remove a pressure that was there.
Presently she blew out the light, set the shutters wide to the pale
moonlight, and undressed herself quietly and methodically.
Already she seemed used to her lot. It was very ordinary, tame and
familiar.
She had received the first dash of cold water in the face, and had
accepted the new situation.
There was no longer even the excitement of trying to dangle a little
above Jude. He had her close in his grip. She must accept whatever he
doled out to her--and that was the fate of all respectable married women
in St. Angé.