Joyce of the North Woods Part 45

Coming from the outer sunlight into the lamp-lighted room, Ruth Dale stood for a moment, dazzled and confused. Then her grave, kindly eyes were riveted upon the splendid, straight young form confronting her.

Never in her life had Ruth Dale been so utterly confounded and taken aback. For a full moment the two faced each other in solemn silence. It was Joyce who spoke.

"I heard you say you were coming. I was in when you and Miss Drew called before, but I wasn't ready for company then. Won't you sit down?"

Mrs. Dale sank into the nearest chair from sheer helplessness.

"Please take off your cloak. The room is very warm."

It was stifling, and Ruth Dale unfastened and let fall the heavy fur-lined wrap.

Joyce took Gaston's chair. The contact seemed to strengthen her.

"Miss Drew--has--sent--this note." Ruth held it out helplessly.

"Thank you. I know what is in it; but I cannot come. I am going away."

The proffered note fluttered to the floor.

"Going away?"

"Yes." The word was almost agonizing in its intensity. "Yes!"

"Please--Mrs. Lauzoon," Ruth Dale stammered the name; "please may I hear where you are going? My friends are so interested in you. I--I--am sorry for you. We could not bear to have you lonely and sad here--on Christmas--but if you are going away to be--happy, we will all be so glad."

"Please tell Mr. Drew," Joyce clutched the arms of the chair, and Ruth Dale continued to stare helplessly at the exquisite beauty of this mountain girl, "tell Mr. Drew--I am--going--to my husband."

"Your husband!"

"Yes; he will be so glad, Mr. Drew will. He has always been so--good.

Tell him, please--and I think he will understand--that he made it possible for me--to do this--thing."

The human agony contained in these words carried all before it. Ruth Dale got up from her chair, and almost ran across the room to Joyce's side. She leaned over her and a wave of pity seemed to bear the two women along to a point where words--words from the heart--were possible.

"I--I have heard your story, dear. Ralph Drew is such a kind _gentleman_, and he--we, all of us--pity you from the bottom of our hearts. Believe me, you are doing the right thing, hard and cruel as it may seem now. When G.o.d sets you free--then alone can you really be free.

I think every good woman knows this. Man can only give freedom within limitations. I know I am right. Have you heard from--your husband?"

"Yes. He has sent for me."

"Have you any message to leave? I will tell Mr. Drew anything you care to entrust to me--he will deliver the message to--any one."

"Please--sit down." Joyce motioned stiffly to a chair across the table.

"I have a great deal to say to you."

Ruth obeyed with a dull foreboding in her heart. She felt constrained and awkward. The unusual and expensive gown Joyce wore acted as an irritant upon her, now that she considered it. It seemed so vulgar, so theatrical for the girl to deck herself in this fas.h.i.+on; and the very gown itself spoke volumes against any such lofty ideals as Ralph Drew had depicted in the woman. Evidently Joyce was expecting Gaston back; the statement as to her going to her husband was either false, or a subterfuge.

With Ruth Dale's discomfort, too, was mingled a fear that Gaston might return and find her there. From Drew's description of Gaston she knew he was a person above the ordinary St. Ange type, and might naturally, and rightly, resent her visit. But Joyce, more mistress of the situation than the other knew, was feeling her way through the densest thicket of trouble that had ever surrounded her. Here was her chance, in woman-fas.h.i.+on, to test that strange double code of honour about which Gaston had spoken, and Drew had hinted. Here, woman to woman, she could question and probe, and so have clearer vision.

This woman visitor was from his world. She was kind and was, perhaps, the best that existed down beyond the Southern Solitude. If she bore the test, then Joyce would relinquish her rights absolutely--but only after that woman knew why she did so.

"I--I suppose you think I have been a very bad woman?" Joyce turned sad, yet childlike eyes upon her companion.

"I think you have acted unwisely." Ruth Dale crimsoned under the steady glance. "You see, Mr. Drew has always had a deep interest in you. His sister and I heard about you long before we came up here. He says you had grave provocation. What you have done was done--in ignorance. It would only be sin--after you knew the difference."

"I see. But what--what would you think about Mr. Gaston?"

The colour died from Ruth's face, only to return more vivid.

"I think he has treated you--shamefully. He knew how such things are viewed. He took advantage of your weakness and innocence. I hate to say this to you--but I have no two opinions about such things. I think this Mr. Gaston must be a very wicked man."

A sudden resolve had sprung up in Ruth's mind. If she could rescue this poor, ignorant girl from the toils of the man who had misled her, she would befriend her. She might even save her from the depraved husband who was now her only apparent safety. The girl was lovely beyond expression. It would be a splendid thing to do.

With this in sight, her interference took on an appearance of dignified philanthropy.

"Will you let me help you?" she asked wistfully; "be your friend? I have money; I would love to do what I can. I have deep sympathy with you and--I am very lonely and sad myself. I have recently lost my husband--I have no one."

Joyce continued to hold her visitor with that solemn, intense glance.

"You loved your--husband--very much?" Ruth winced. She could hardly resent the curiosity, but she stiffened.

"Of course. But if I had not, I should have been--lonely and sad. It is a relations.h.i.+p that cannot be dissolved either by death or in any way without causing pain and a deep sense of loss."

"Oh, yes, it can." Joyce spoke rapidly. "The loss may mean--life to you.

It may take fear away and a hideous loathing. It may let you be yourself, the self that can breathe and learn to love goodness."

This outburst surprised and confused Ruth Dale. The expression of face, voice and language swept away the sense of unreality and detachment.

Here was a vital trouble. A tangible human call. It might be that she, instead of Ralph Drew or Constance, or any other person, might touch and rescue this girl who was finding herself among the ruins of her life.

Ruth Dale was no common egotist, but her charm and magnetism had often taken her close to others' needs, and she was eager, always, to answer any demand made upon her.

"Joyce," she said softly, "please let me call you that. You see, by that name I have always heard you called, and Constance Drew and I felt we knew you before we saw you. I believe you have suffered horribly. All women suffer in an unhappy marriage--but you suffered doubly because you have always been capable of better things, perhaps, than you have ever had. You do not mind my speaking very plainly?"

"No. I want you to."

"But you cannot find happiness--I know I am right about this--by taking from life what does not really belong to you. Do you see what I mean?"

"No, but go on; I may see soon." The quiet face opposite made Ruth Dale more and more uncomfortable. She had, for a moment, forgotten the possibility of Gaston's return; the yellow gown was losing its irritating power; she truly had a great and consuming desire to be of service to this woman who was following her words with feverish intensity, but she was ill at ease as she proceeded.

"If we have bungled our lives, made grave mistakes, it's better to abide by them courageously than defy--well, the accepted laws.

"Perhaps you ought not go back to your husband; I would not dare decide that; Ralph Drew would know, but this I know, you should not stay here.

I will befriend you, Joyce, in whatever other course you choose. Please let me help you; it would help me."

She stretched her pretty, pleading hands across the table, and her eyes were full of tears. She felt old, and worldly-wise beside this mountain girl, and she was adrift on the alluring sea of personal service.

Joyce took no heed of the waiting hands, the inspired face held her.

"Don't you see, Joyce, even if this is love that controls you, you would not want it to be selfish?"