Joyce of the North Woods | Page 4

from the enfolding arms, and, clinging to the
man's hands, looked up into his face. Sometimes she bowed her head,
and once she passed her hand across her eyes as if to wipe away tears.
Then the man drew her close again. He raised the face that was crushed
against his shoulder; he kissed the brow, the eyes, the chin--and then
the lips.
Something blinded Jude. Something thick and hot like blood, and when
he could see again, the two had parted. The man stood with bared head
watching the slim, drooping figure as it retraced its steps with never a
backward turn. When it was gone he replaced his hat and took his
way--this time, toward the Black Cat.
Jude stood alone on his hilltop and watched the lights spring to life in
cottage and tavern. The stars twinkled above him in the calm evening
gloaming. The little river trilled a vesper hymn as it felt its way along
the dark rocky path--and then tears came to Jude's relief, impotent,
boyish, weak tears, such tears as he had not shed since his father and
mother lay dead, and in childish fright and sorrow he had not known
what to do next. But now, as then, he pulled himself together and set
his teeth grimly.
He did the wisest thing he could have done. He went down the hill and
strode toward the Birkdale house.
But he did not walk alone. Almost forgotten memories rose sharply and
kept him company as he pushed on to meet his Fate.
Womankind in St. Angé was monotonous. There was a shading of
individuality in the girls and newly-wed women, but it faded soon into
the dull drab that seemed the only possible wearing-colour of the place.
Occasionally, though, the sameness had been relieved by a vivid touch,
but only for a short hour. The Fate who snips the threads, had
invariably clipped such colouring from the St. Angé design, and tossed
it aside as useless.

Jude remembered Marsena Riddall. What a woman she had been! What
a menace to man's rights and woman's position.
She had demanded, and got her husband's wages as he returned from
camp. She met him at the edge of the North Wood, and held him up,
morally and physically. That she kept a clean and respectable house;
that her children were well fed, clothed and cared for, had not counted
to her credit one jot among the powers that be. Her husband was not
safe on the man's side of the Black Cat screen. At ten o'clock, did
Riddall brave his chances to that hour, Marsena would march boldly
into the arena and claim her quarry. If a man rose to expostulate,
Marsena was equal to him with tongue and wit. Masculine superiority
trembled during Marsena's reign, which lasted five years; then Fate
downed her.
Riddall was called away from his jailer by the command that even
Marsena could not defy, and she and her children faced life in a village
where a man was an absolute necessity unless there was money to take
his place. Jude grimly smiled as he recalled how the men and boys gave
Marsena and her brood a jeering send-off as the rattling train bore them
away soon after Riddall had been laid behind the disused church.
So while Marsena was still in Jude's memory, he came upon the
deserted and decaying cottage where once Lola Laval had sung her
pretty French-Canadian song.
It was odd how Lola came always with that song accompaniment. Try
as he might, even now, in this disordered moment, Jude heard the
rippling little lark song rise and fall in the fragrant darkness.
Jude, while but a boy, liked to draw water for Lola and run her errands
when young Pierre, the husband, was in camp. When the logging
season was over, Lola's cottage vied with the Black Cat in popularity.
Pierre was a noted card player, but, oh! Lola's song sounded above the
slap of pasteboard and the click of glasses. How pretty she was--and
how the women hated her! The men were eager to serve her. She had
no need to command; her desires seemed granted before she voiced
them--poor, pretty Lola!

Alouette, alouette, alouette, alouette. Oh, alouette, chantez alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai. Alouette, chantez alouette, Alouette, je te
plumerai. Je te plumerai le bec, Je te plumerai le bec A le bec, A le bec,
Alouette, Alouette.
Lola had not lasted long; only nineteen she was when Pierre in his
jealousy struck the light from her eyes by a cruel blow, and the song
fled from her lips; then taking warning from a well-directed signal from
Beacon Hill, he had sought the Southern Solitude just before Justice, in
the form of the Hillcrest constable, came stalking