Joyce did not faint, nor did she lose consciousness. A dull quiet
possessed her, and, had she tried to explain her state of mind, she
would have said she was thinking things out.
In reality Destiny, or whatever we choose to call that power which
controls things that _must be_, had the woman completely in its grip.
Whatever she was to do would be done without any actual forethought or
preparation; she would realize that afterward as we all do when we have
passed through a crisis and have done better, perhaps, than our poor,
unassisted thought might have accomplished for us.
Joyce was on the wheel, and the wheel was going at a tremendous speed.
There was no time for plotting or planning, with all the strength that
was in her, the girl was clinging, clinging to some unseen, central
truth, while she was being whirled through a still place crowded with
more or less distinguishable facts that she dared not close her eyes to.
One cruel thing made her cringe in the deep chair. She was losing her
clear, sweet vision of that blessed night when Gaston and she had stood
transfigured! If only she could have held to that, all would have been
so simple--but with that fading glory gone she would be alone in a
barren, cheerless place to act not merely for herself, but for Gaston
also.
She was no longer the beautiful woman in the golden dress; nor he the
man of the illumined face and pleading arms. No; she was old Jared's
wild little daughter; Jude Lauzoon's brutalized and dishonoured wife.
Nothing, nothing could do away with those awful facts.
He, the man she loved--who thought in one wild hour that he loved
her--was not of her world nor of her kind. He had given, given, given to
her of his best and purest. God! how he had given. He had cast a glamour
over her crudeness by his power and goodness, but underneath
was--Jared's daughter and Jude's wife.
If he took her courageously back to his world they, those others like,
yet unlike him, would see easily through the disguise, and would be
quick enough to make both him and her feel it.
Without her, they would accept him. The past would be as if it had not
been; but if he brought her to them from his past, it would be like an
insult to them--an insult they would never forgive. And then--he would
have no life; no place. He would have to go on being kind and good to
her in a greater loneliness and desolation than St. Angé had ever known.
She could not escape the responsibility of her part in his life. She
might keep on taking, taking, taking. On the other hand his old life had
come back to him, not even waiting for his choice.
The woman who had misunderstood, had failed him in that hour of his
need, had been sent by an all-powerful Force into the heart of the
Northern Solitude to reclaim him, now that he had accomplished that
which he had set himself to do.
Every barrier was removed. Even Death had been kind to that sweet, pale
girl--she was ready to perform the glorious act of returning Gaston's
own to him, if only she, Joyce, would let go her selfish, ignoble hold.
Now, if she were as noble as Gaston had striven to make her, there was
but one thing to do. Go to that woman up at the bungalow, tell her all
that she did _not_ know. All about the heavy penalty weakness had paid
for the crime committed by another. Tell of the splendid expiation and
the hard-won victory, and then--let go her hold and, in Love's supreme
renunciation, prove her worthiness to what God withheld.
The little living room of Gaston's shack was the battle-ground of
Joyce's soul-conflict that winter day.
Pale and rigid, she crouched in the deep chair, her head buried on the
arm where so often his dear hand had lain.
No; she could not! She would not! Then after a moment--"I must! or in
all the future I shall hate myself." Then she grew calmer, and
instinctively she began to plan about--going. She would leave both fires
ready to light--he might come now at any time.
The letter Billy had brought had not for a moment deceived her. She
counted it now as but one of the links in the chain that was dragging
her away from Gaston.
It was either Jude or her father who had sent the note. Well, it did not
matter, it was the best possible escape that could have been conceived.
Then her plans ran on. She would pack her own pretty things--out of
sight! They must not confuse, or call for pity. There would be no note.
She, that woman at the bungalow would explain, and would tell him that
there could be no reconsideration, for she, Joyce, had gone to
her--husband!
At that point Joyce sprang up, and her eyes blazed feverishly.
No; she was going to do no such thing. She was going to wait just where
she was with folded hands and eager love. When Gaston came he should
decide things. She would not interfere with her future. She would hide
nothing; neither would she disclose anything. Why should she strangle
her own life, with the knowledge she had neither sought nor desired?
The brilliant afternoon sun crept toward the west, and it shone into
the side window and through the screen of splendid fuchsias which
clambered from sill to top of casement.
Gaston might come--now! Perhaps he had failed to locate Jude, and would
return to consider. Well, then, she could put him on Jude's trail.
Gaston, not she, should meet the "woodsman" in Lola Laval's deserted
house.
In the sudden up-springing of this hope, Joyce quite forgot the face of
the woman at the bungalow.
A freakish yearning to reproduce the one crowning moment of her life
possessed the girl.
She would build a great fire upon the hearth, and make the room
beautiful. She would don--the yellow gown, and, if he came, he should
find her as he had left her.
If he still loved her--and she saw it in his eyes--then nothing, nothing
should part them.
She would go with him to Lola's house and together they would finish the
dreary search. She would beg him never to return to St. Angé. What did
the world matter, the people of the world? Nothing mattered but him and
her.
So Joyce flew to the bidding of her mad fancy. She drew the shades and
flung on log after log. She swept and dusted the room. Put Gaston's
slippers and house-coat close to the warmth. She lighted the lamp to
keep up the delusion, then stole to her room and made ready.
Again, as the garments of the daily task fell from her, Joyce felt the
sordidness and fearsomeness depart.
The lovely hair lent itself to the pretty design, and the golden gown
transfigured the wearer.
She felt sure Gaston was coming. The premonition grew and grew. He would
never leave her to bear the Christmas alone. He might return later to
search for Jude but, remembering her in the shack, he would come to her
for that one, holy day.
He would surprise her. And she?--why, she would surprise him.
How he would laugh and take her in his arms!--for it was all clear ahead
of them now. She would lead him to Jude!
A knock at the outer door startled her. She was about to leave her
bedchamber complete and beautiful--but the summons stayed the little
satin-shod feet, and the colour left the quivering face.
Perhaps Gaston had knocked to keep up the conceit of his home-coming
surprise!
Tiptoeing across the living room, Joyce took her stand by the table and
called timidly, expectantly and awesomely:
"Come."
The latch lifted and some one pressed against the door, and then, in
walked Ruth Dale.
She wore the heavy crimson cloak of Constance's, the fur-trimmed hood of
which encircled her face.
Coming from the outer sunlight into the lamp-lighted room, Ruth Dale
stood for a moment, dazzled and confused. Then her grave, kindly eyes
were riveted upon the splendid, straight young form confronting her.
Never in her life had Ruth Dale been so utterly confounded and taken
aback. For a full moment the two faced each other in solemn silence. It
was Joyce who spoke.
"I heard you say you were coming. I was in when you and Miss Drew called
before, but I wasn't ready for company then. Won't you sit down?"
Mrs. Dale sank into the nearest chair from sheer helplessness.
"Please take off your cloak. The room is very warm."
It was stifling, and Ruth Dale unfastened and let fall the heavy
fur-lined wrap.
Joyce took Gaston's chair. The contact seemed to strengthen her.
"Miss Drew--has--sent--this note." Ruth held it out helplessly.
"Thank you. I know what is in it; but I cannot come. I am going away."
The proffered note fluttered to the floor.
"Going away?"
"Yes." The word was almost agonizing in its intensity. "Yes!"
"Please--Mrs. Lauzoon," Ruth Dale stammered the name; "please may I
hear where you are going? My friends are so interested in you. I--I--am
sorry for you. We could not bear to have you lonely and sad here--on
Christmas--but if you are going away to be--happy, we will all be so
glad."
"Please tell Mr. Drew," Joyce clutched the arms of the chair, and Ruth
Dale continued to stare helplessly at the exquisite beauty of this
mountain girl, "tell Mr. Drew--I am--going--to my husband."
"Your husband!"
"Yes; he will be so glad, Mr. Drew will. He has always been so--good.
Tell him, please--and I think he will understand--that he made it
possible for me--to do this--thing."
The human agony contained in these words carried all before it. Ruth
Dale got up from her chair, and almost ran across the room to Joyce's
side. She leaned over her and a wave of pity seemed to bear the two
women along to a point where words--words from the heart--were possible.
"I--I have heard your story, dear. Ralph Drew is such a kind
_gentleman_, and he--we, all of us--pity you from the bottom of our
hearts. Believe me, you are doing the right thing, hard and cruel as it
may seem now. When God sets you free--then alone can you really be free.
I think every good woman knows this. Man can only give freedom within
limitations. I know I am right. Have you heard from--your husband?"
"Yes. He has sent for me."
"Have you any message to leave? I will tell Mr. Drew anything you care
to entrust to me--he will deliver the message to--any one."
"Please--sit down." Joyce motioned stiffly to a chair across the table.
"I have a great deal to say to you."
Ruth obeyed with a dull foreboding in her heart. She felt constrained
and awkward. The unusual and expensive gown Joyce wore acted as an
irritant upon her, now that she considered it. It seemed so vulgar, so
theatrical for the girl to deck herself in this fashion; and the very
gown itself spoke volumes against any such lofty ideals as Ralph Drew
had depicted in the woman. Evidently Joyce was expecting Gaston back;
the statement as to her going to her husband was either false, or a
subterfuge.
With Ruth Dale's discomfort, too, was mingled a fear that Gaston might
return and find her there. From Drew's description of Gaston she knew he
was a person above the ordinary St. Angé type, and might naturally, and
rightly, resent her visit. But Joyce, more mistress of the situation
than the other knew, was feeling her way through the densest thicket of
trouble that had ever surrounded her. Here was her chance, in
woman-fashion, to test that strange double code of honour about which
Gaston had spoken, and Drew had hinted. Here, woman to woman, she could
question and probe, and so have clearer vision.
This woman visitor was from his world. She was kind and was, perhaps,
the best that existed down beyond the Southern Solitude. If she bore the
test, then Joyce would relinquish her rights absolutely--but only after
that woman knew why she did so.
"I--I suppose you think I have been a very bad woman?" Joyce turned sad,
yet childlike eyes upon her companion.
"I think you have acted unwisely." Ruth Dale crimsoned under the steady
glance. "You see, Mr. Drew has always had a deep interest in you. His
sister and I heard about you long before we came up here. He says you
had grave provocation. What you have done was done--in ignorance. It
would only be sin--after you knew the difference."
"I see. But what--what would you think about Mr. Gaston?"
The colour died from Ruth's face, only to return more vivid.
"I think he has treated you--shamefully. He knew how such things are
viewed. He took advantage of your weakness and innocence. I hate to say
this to you--but I have no two opinions about such things. I think this
Mr. Gaston must be a very wicked man."
A sudden resolve had sprung up in Ruth's mind. If she could rescue this
poor, ignorant girl from the toils of the man who had misled her, she
would befriend her. She might even save her from the depraved husband
who was now her only apparent safety. The girl was lovely beyond
expression. It would be a splendid thing to do.
With this in sight, her interference took on an appearance of dignified
philanthropy.
"Will you let me help you?" she asked wistfully; "be your friend? I have
money; I would love to do what I can. I have deep sympathy with you
and--I am very lonely and sad myself. I have recently lost my husband--I
have no one."
Joyce continued to hold her visitor with that solemn, intense glance.
"You loved your--husband--very much?" Ruth winced. She could hardly
resent the curiosity, but she stiffened.
"Of course. But if I had not, I should have been--lonely and sad. It is
a relationship that cannot be dissolved either by death or in any way
without causing pain and a deep sense of loss."
"Oh, yes, it can." Joyce spoke rapidly. "The loss may mean--life to you.
It may take fear away and a hideous loathing. It may let you be
yourself, the self that can breathe and learn to love goodness."
This outburst surprised and confused Ruth Dale. The expression of face,
voice and language swept away the sense of unreality and detachment.
Here was a vital trouble. A tangible human call. It might be that she,
instead of Ralph Drew or Constance, or any other person, might touch and
rescue this girl who was finding herself among the ruins of her life.
Ruth Dale was no common egotist, but her charm and magnetism had often
taken her close to others' needs, and she was eager, always, to answer
any demand made upon her.
"Joyce," she said softly, "please let me call you that. You see, by that
name I have always heard you called, and Constance Drew and I felt we
knew you before we saw you. I believe you have suffered horribly. All
women suffer in an unhappy marriage--but you suffered doubly because you
have always been capable of better things, perhaps, than you have ever
had. You do not mind my speaking very plainly?"
"No. I want you to."
"But you cannot find happiness--I know I am right about this--by taking
from life what does not really belong to you. Do you see what I mean?"
"No, but go on; I may see soon." The quiet face opposite made Ruth Dale
more and more uncomfortable. She had, for a moment, forgotten the
possibility of Gaston's return; the yellow gown was losing its
irritating power; she truly had a great and consuming desire to be of
service to this woman who was following her words with feverish
intensity, but she was ill at ease as she proceeded.
"If we have bungled our lives, made grave mistakes, it's better to abide
by them courageously than defy--well, the accepted laws.
"Perhaps you ought not go back to your husband; I would not dare decide
that; Ralph Drew would know, but this I know, you should not stay here.
I will befriend you, Joyce, in whatever other course you choose. Please
let me help you; it would help me."
She stretched her pretty, pleading hands across the table, and her eyes
were full of tears. She felt old, and worldly-wise beside this mountain
girl, and she was adrift on the alluring sea of personal service.
Joyce took no heed of the waiting hands, the inspired face held her.
"Don't you see, Joyce, even if this is love that controls you, you would
not want it to be selfish?"
"No. Oh! No."
"What do you know of this man Gaston, really? Mr. Drew says he is quite
different from the people hereabout. You do not even know the true man,
his name, nor antecedents. The time may come when he will return to his
former life, whatever it was; can you not see how you would--interfere
with such a plan? If he left you--what would he leave you to? And if he
were one of a thousand and took you with him--what then? In either case
it would mean your unhappiness and his--shame."
Joyce winced, and Ruth Dale saw the hands clutch the arms of the chair.
She felt that she was making an impression, and her ardour grew.
"I do not know Gaston," she went on, "but I do know the world; and for
women placed as you are, Joyce, there is no alternative. Your very love
should urge you to accept the situation, hard as it may seem."
"It does." For a moment the lovely head drooped and the white lids
quivered over the pain-filled eyes.
"No matter how--good a man--this Mr. Gaston has been to you--he knew the
price you would have to pay some day. He has been either wilfully
weak--or worse. A man takes a mean advantage of a woman in all such
matters. It is not a question of right or wrong altogether--it isn't
fair.
"I have burned over such things ever since I was a girl--I am ready now
to prove to you my desire to help you. Will you let me, Joyce?"
"You are very, very good. I can see you are better and kinder than any
other woman I ever knew. I believe all that you say is true. If I did
not think that, I could not do what I am going to do."
Joyce spoke very quietly, very simply. She was not even confused when
she poured out the deepest secrets of her heart. She was worn and spent;
loneliness, conflict and soul-torture had torn down all her defenses.
"You are right in all that you have said--but you don't know all!" The
flame rose in the pallid face; "but if you did, the truth of what you
have said would be all the deeper.
"My love has been a selfish one because I never thought it lay in my
power to do anything for--him. I see there is something now that I can
do--and I mean to do it so thoroughly that even his goodness cannot
prevent. He is so very, very good; oh! if you could only know him as I
know him!
"I am--going to my husband, then--that will finish it! But I must tell
you something--first."
Joyce caught her breath, and she sat up straight and rigid.
"I suppose in your life you could not believe that a man like Mr. Gaston
could be just good to me--and nothing else?"
Woman looked at woman. The world's woman noted the beauty and tender
grace of the unworldly woman, and her eyes fell.
"It would be difficult to believe that. I have heard of such cases--I
never knew one--and for that very reason of unbelief, it does not
greatly matter--the outcome would be the same--for the woman and the
man."
"Yes; but they would know, and God would know; might that not be
enough?"
"No. Believe me--it would not be enough."
"Do you believe me when I tell you that, in this case, it is true?"
Again the two held each other in a long challenge. Then:
"Joyce, as God hears me, I _do_ believe you. Now I am more eager than
ever to be your friend."
"You--cannot be mine--but you must be his!"
"His?" Ruth started back.
"Yes. I do know--something of his life. He belonged--to your world. He
had a great, a terrible trouble--but through it all he saw the stars,
not the mud, and he came out of it--a strong, tender, brave man."
A dull sob shook the low, sweet voice.
"All the shameful sorrow served as a purpose to make him noble--and
splendid; but his soul was sad and hurt. He never blamed any one, though
there were others who should have suffered more than he. He just gave
himself up to the chance of gaining good out of all the evil. Then he
came here--to rest. But he could not help being kind and helpful. He
found--me. He taught me, he gave me hope and showed me--how to live. Oh!
you can never understand. You have always had life--I never had it
until he took the blindness from me.
"He tried to do the best for me--he wanted me to marry Jude Lauzoon. He
tried to make Jude good, too--but that was more than even _he_ could
accomplish. Then I'm--afraid I cannot tell you--this it might--soil your
soul."
"Go on." Ruth spoke hoarsely. She was spellbound and a deathly coldness
crept over her.
"Well, Jude dragged all of me down, down, down--all of me but the part
that--Mr. Gaston had made. That part clung to him as if he were its
God."
"I see, I see. Go on!"
"It was all low--and evil, that life with Jude, except the poor baby.
That had a soul, too, but the dreadful body could not hold it. It had to
go--and oh! I am so glad.
"Then, in all the world, there was nowhere for me to go but--here. I
did not mean to fling myself upon him. I came to save him. There was
money Jude had--oh! it doesn't matter, but anyway, things happened, and
I was left--on Mr. Gaston's mercy.
"I had only one idea of men--then. You see Jude had almost made a beast
of me, too." The great eyes shone until they burned into Ruth Dale's
brain.
"But Mr. Gaston rose high and far above my low fear and thought. How I
hated myself then for daring to judge him by--Jude. No, he made a clean,
holy place for me to live in. He saw no other way to help me--perhaps he
did not look far enough in the future, it did not matter--but he never
came down from his high place except to make me better by his heavenly
goodness.
"After a while it grew easy--after I comprehended his thought for
me--and we were very happy--just as we might have been had we been
brother and sister. I grew to think his own kind would know and
understand how impossible it would be for him to be other than what he
was; and for what the lower people thought I had no care. I was--just
happy!
"But something happened. Perhaps being near such goodness made me a
little better; and a great happiness and lack of fear helped--I think I
got nearer to his high place. He loved to give me pretty things. He gave
me this"--the fumbling fingers touched the yellow gown; "and I suppose I
looked--different, and then he saw that I had--changed and--and
he--loved me! I know he loved me; women can tell. I could not be wrong
about that. You see I had always loved him--and had once hungered
so for his love that when it came I could not be deceived.
It--was--that--last--night he told me--about--the past! Then he went
away to find Jude--to get Jude to set me free--and we were--going
to--be--" the words trailed into a faint moan. "But I see, I see! Even
if it had come out right--I'd always be, for all his goodness, old Jared
Birkdale's daughter, and Jude Lauzoon's wife. That, he would have to
bear and suffer for me--and his world would never forgive him--nor me!
"No; I do love him too well for that. I give him back to his place, and
you."
"To me?" And Ruth Dale, haggard and trembling, came slowly around the
table, clinging to it for support. When she reached Joyce, she put out
cold, groping hands and clutched her by the shoulders.
"You--give him back to me--why? Who is he?"
"John Gaston is--John Dale. It has all come to me so suddenly, I cannot
explain, but there is no mistake. I am going to Jude Lauzoon, so that
neither you nor he can keep me--from what alone is mine; but be--good to
him--or God will never forgive you! Please go now. I must hurry.
Good-bye."
"Joyce!" Ruth Dale was crouching at her feet.
"I am--so tired." A long sigh broke from Joyce's lips. "Please do not
make it harder. It _must_ be; and I have much to do."
"But--there may be some mistake." A horrible fear shook Ruth Dale. Joyce
rose and confronted the woman who knelt on the floor.
"Do you believe there is?" she flung the question madly. "Do you?" There
was no faltering, only a stern command.
"No," shuddered Ruth Dale.
"Then please, go. My part is all--over! But--be--oh! be heavenly good to
him."
Blinded and staggering under the blow, Ruth Dale got to her feet and
went from the house. The outer cold steadied her somewhat, but when, a
half-hour later, she entered Ralph Drew's study, the man by the fire
gazed upon her as if she were a stranger.
"What has happened?" he asked affrightedly, springing to her side.
She let him take her icy hands in his. "I've found--John!" she gasped
hoarsely.
"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. Angé. 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 reassuring 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.