Part 22 (1/2)

There was no time nor inclination for him to fall back upon that inner sense of his and seek to peer beyond the present and its need. He strode to the door, flung it open, and Joyce and the terrific storm burst into the room together!

”He--he's driven me from the house.” The girl's wild face made unnecessary the idle question that Gaston spoke.

”Who?”

”Jude.” Then Gaston shut and barred the heavy door. He could at least exclude the rain and wind.

”Look here! and here!” the girl pointed to her bruised face upon which the storm's moisture rested, and the slender arm with its brutal mark.

”Good G.o.d!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Gaston, as he gazed in horror, ”and on this day!”

Rage against Jude, tenderness for Jude's victim, struggled hotly in Gaston's mind; but presently a divine pity for the girl alone consumed him.

Her misery was appalling. Now that she was comparatively safe, bodily weakness overpowered her. She swayed, and put her hands out childishly for support--any support that might steady her as her world went black.

Gaston caught her and placed her gently in his deep, low chair.

”Poor girl!” he murmured, ”Poor Joyce! You're as wet as a leaf. Here!”

He quickly brought one of the red blankets from the inner room. ”Here, let me at least wrap you in something dry. And now drink this, it will do you good.”

He poured some wine into a gla.s.s and held it to her blue, cold lips.

”Come, Joyce! We'll straighten things out. Trust me.”

She gulped the warming wine, and s.h.i.+vered in the blanket's m.u.f.fling comfort.

”And now,” Gaston was flinging logs on the blazing embers, ”you're coming around. Whatever it is, Joyce, it isn't worth all this agony of yours.”

”I'm--I'm afraid they'll come and kill us.” Joyce's eyes widened and the old fear seized her again. The momentary comfort and thought of safety lost their hold.

”In G.o.d's name, Joyce, hus.h.!.+ You're safe and I'm not afraid. Come, don't you see if you want me to help you, you must pull yourself together?”

”Yes; yes; and we--I must hurry.”

Now that he had time to think, Gaston knew pretty well what had occurred. The vulgar details did not matter. The one important and hideous fact was, that for some reason, Jude, with the crazy brutality that had long been gathering, had flung his young wife from his protection on to Gaston's.

Well, he would accept the responsibility. He was quite calm, and his blood was up. A pleasurable excitement possessed him, and he laughed to calm the fear he saw in Joyce's eyes.

The clock struck nine. All that was respectable and innocent in St. Ange was in bed at that hour.

Gaston wondered what he was going to do with the girl. The thought did not disturb him; but, of course, he must make arrangements.

Long ago he had so shut out his own world that he could not, now, call upon it for Joyce's protection. St. Ange was impossible as a working basis--his thoughts flew to Filmer. Yes; as soon as Joyce could explain, he would go for Filmer and together they would solve this riddle for the poor, battered soul, shrinking before him.

He must hurry her a little. St. Ange and nine o'clock must be considered.

The wine had brought life and colour into the white face. The glorious hair, now rapidly drying in the warm room, was curling in childish fas.h.i.+on above the wide eyes.

She was certainly too young and pretty to run the risk that the night might bring.