Joyce of the North Woods | Page 3

Jude had struck him across the cheek with the back of a hand
trembling with new-born emotion.
"Take that, you impish brat," he had said, "and more like it if you stand
there another minute with your lying capers."
"They ain't lies," wailed Billy, edging away and nursing his smarting
face; "he did! he did! It was in his shack--I saw 'em!"
"Get out," yelled Jude, glowering darkly; "and you tell that to any one
else and," he came nearer to the shrinking child, "I swear I'll choke yer
till yer can't speak." So changed was Jude that Billy trembled before
him.
"I won't," he whispered, "I swear I won't, Jude; don't--don't hit me
again; I won't tell."
He was gone, but the old Jude was gone also. The new man finished the
gun cleaning, his breath coming hard and fast meanwhile, and then,

taking the gun with him, he went into the deep woods on the northern
edge of the village.
All the rest of the day he watched Gaston's shack from a distance; as
the darkness drew on he crept closer.
Joyce did not come near the place, and Gaston himself only returned
when the night was well advanced.
Jude watched him light his lamp, and prepare his supper. Watched him,
later, go into the inner room, and then he crept close to the broad
window to see what Gaston was doing in there where no foot but
Gaston's own, so it was said, ever entered. As he had raised his eyes to
the level of the casement, Gaston's calm gaze met his with a laugh in it.
"Hello, Jude," the voice was unshaken; "playing Indian Brave? Got
your gun, too? What you after, big game or--what?" Jude rose to his
feet. He was trembling violently. Gaston watched him closely. "Come
in?" he asked presently.
"No. I was only passing--thought I would look in. I'm going now."
"Hold on there, Jude, what's up?" Gaston leaned from the window.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes. There ain't anything the matter."
"All right." Gaston looked puzzled. "Good night." He watched Jude
until he was lost in the shadows, then he drew the heavy wooden
shutters close, bolted the door and placed his pistol near at hand.
All the next day Jude haunted the vicinity of Joyce Birkdale's home,
but he kept hidden, for Joyce was safe within doors and a drizzly rain
was falling. Night again found him on guard; and now he lay on
Beacon Hill in the hot sun, napping by snatches (for he was woefully
tired) and scanning the Long Meadow, with his feverish eyes, in
between times.

In his dreams the scene Billy Falstar had so luridly described was
enacted again and again, until he felt as if he, Jude, had been the
onlooker.
The people whom he had taken for granted in the past now assumed
new meaning and importance. Gaston had slipped in among them three
years before, and after the first few months of observation he had
aroused no interest. He had minded his business, paid his way, taken
his turn in camp at greenhorn jobs, accounted for his presence on the
ground of seeking health, and that was all. Life went on as usual,
sluggishly and dully--but on.
Jude had, before Billy's illumination, been thinking that after the next
logging season he would annex Joyce Birkdale to his few
belongings--the cabin, his dog and gun. The idea had not roused him
much, but it had been a pleasurable conclusion to arrive at; and now?
Every nerve was aching and the boy's heart was thumping heavily.
Again he dropped his head, and he cursed everything his thought
touched upon--even the girl he meant, in some way, still to have.
One, two, three hours passed. Jude's hilltop was touched by the sun, but
in the meadow the purpling shadows were gathering slowly.
Suddenly Jude sprang up--something was happening down there below.
Something in him had warned him.
From the southern edge of the meadow a tall man was swinging along
with easy strides. He carried his broad-brimmed hat in his right hand
and waved it as if in greeting. From the opposite direction a girl was
approaching. She wore a blue-checked gown, and her pale hair seemed
to shine in the dimming light. She wore no hat, and she walked with the
quick freedom of a child who longed to reach something precious.
Midway of the meadow the girl and man met. He stretched out his arms,
and they closed about the slim form.
Then he bent his head over the fair one on his breast--but he did not
kiss it! Jude was burning and palpitating. He strained his hearing,

forgetting time and space. They were talking, and he would never know
what they said.
Presently the girl slipped