Joyce of the North Woods | Page 7

'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. Ang��; 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. Ang�� 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 almost dead, I'm so tired."
Jude looked at her hungrily. The sudden happy ending of his torture gave him an unreal, unsafe feeling.
He wanted to touch her again in the new, thrilling way, but she was forbidding even in her sweet yielding.
"You go to bed," he said vaguely; "I'll go down to the Black Cat, and see that your father gets home all right."
Joyce stepped backward to the chamber door beyond.
"Thank you," she murmured; "I certainly am dead tired."
CHAPTER II
There was only a path leading from the highway to John Gaston's shack. A path wide enough for a single traveller, and the dark pointed pines guarded it on either side until within ten feet of the house. The house itself sat cosily in the clearing. It was a log house built by amateur hands, but roughly artistic without, and mannishly comfortable within.
The broad door opened into the long living room, where a deep fireplace (happily the chimney had drawn well from the first, or the builder would have been sore perplexed) gave a look of hospitality to the otherwise severe furnishings. The fireplace and mantel-shelf were Gaston's pride and delight. Upon them he had worked his fanciful designs, and the result was most satisfactory. There was a low, broad