Joyce of the North Woods | Page 7

her fairy stories--it was all the
same to him, until--" the wonderful colour that very pale people often
have rose suddenly to Joyce's face, and the eyes became dreamy--"one
day a week ago."
"Well," Jude urged her on--he was sensing the situation from the man's
standpoint.
"It was nothing. I had been reading a book there by myself. It was the
kind of story that makes you feel like you was the woman it tells about.
Then Mr. Gaston came in, and stood looking at me from the doorway;
he seemed like the man in the book too. We looked at each other,
and--and I was frightened and I guess he was--for I was grown up all of

a sudden. Jude"--the girl was appealing to the familiar in him, the
comradeship that would stand with her and for her--"he took me in his
arms and--and--kissed me. Then he begged my pardon--and he pushed
me away; then he led me to the door and said he--he didn't understand,
but I--I mustn't come again to the shack alone, but to meet him in the
Long Meadow to-day."
"Curse 'im," muttered Jude; "curse 'im." But the move was a wrong one.
Joyce rose to her own defence and Gaston's.
"If you feel that way," she cried, "you can take yourself off."
"I--I don't feel that way," Jude returned illogically and meekly; "go on."
"He's a good man, Jude Lauzoon; better than any one here in St. Angé;
and he isn't our kind--not mine, yours, or any one else's around here. He
just made me feel ashamed of myself out in the Meadow to-day. I felt
as if I had been bold and--and all wrong, but he wouldn't let me feel
that way. He acted like I was a little girl to him again--only different;
and--I'm going to tell you something." The pink flush dyed even the
white throat now. "He said he wished I would get married--it was for
the best. That's the way he wanted me for himself!" Joyce laughed with
a bitterness that changed suddenly as she recalled the subtle power she
had felt over Gaston even while he was forcing her out of his life.
"He asked me about Jock Filmer."
"Jock Filmer?" Jude's jaw dropped. Was all St. Angé hurtling around
Joyce? "Jock Filmer--why--why--" Words failed him and he laughed
noisily.
"Oh, I don't know," Joyce tossed her head. "You seem to think nobody
would want me--I guess--they would--if I wanted them!" The girl was
worn out; racked by the emotions that were reflected from the new
attitude of others toward her.
And now Jude came around the table again. This time he walked
steadily, and he was quite himself. The best self he had ever yet been.

"I want you Joyce--God knows I do."
"He said you did."
"Who?"
"He--Mr. Gaston."
"He--said that? Then why in thunder did--he kiss you?"
That rock Jude dashed against at every turn.
"He didn't until--until I told him--I liked you."
Poor Joyce! She was never to tell any one that that admission had been
wrung from her in order to make Gaston think he himself had not been
deeply in her thoughts. It had been a difficult fencing match that
afternoon.
"You told him that?" A light came into Jude's handsome, heavy face,
which quickly vanished as the torturing jealousy, feeding upon a new
hope, rose, defiantly. "You told him you cared--and then he kissed you,
damn him! Maybe he thinks he'll get you to take me, and then he'll go
on with hand-holding and kissing all the safer."
"Take that back," cried Joyce harshly. "Take that back, Jude Lauzoon."
Yet as she resented the implied insult, the primitive woman in her
admired Jude as it had never admired him before.
"I didn't mean it against you, Joyce, I swear it. Can't you see how I love
yer and I don't want yer hurt? No one ain't going to hurt yer!" He had
clutched her to him roughly but tenderly. "Maybe he wouldn't want ter,
maybe I don't understand--but he can't, anyway!"
She was sobbing hysterically against his breast.
"You're mine, lass; you're just a little one; you don't know things.
You're no older than you was when you toted over to Hillcrest and--and
never felt afraid."

Jude tried to kiss the tear-stained face, but she pressed it closer against
him. He had to be content with the satin softness of her thick hair.
Suddenly she sprang from him. A sickish odour was filling the room.
"Everything's burned," she gasped; "everything!" She drew the pot
from the stove and ruefully carried it outside. "Nothing left, Jude;" she
laughed nervously. "Nothing but crusts and leavings."
"You go to bed," commanded Jude authoritatively; "that's what you
need more than anything!"
"Yes, yes, that's what I need--sleep. I'm