Joyce of the North Woods. Harriet T. Comstock
surroundings and you'd have a father that any girl might be proud of!"
Joyce noted now, as she had more than once before, since Hillcrest training had given her a certain power of discrimination, her father's style of speaking.
"What happened, father, before you came here?" she asked quickly. Her directness, and the slight she paid to his personal reflections, ruffled Jared's complacency. He was not ready to confess more than was absolutely necessary.
"Just one of them misunderstandings," he replied, slipping into St. Angé's carelessness of speech, "that happens now and again to any young man with a fine taste and slim purse. A matter of business! I always calculated to go back and make it straight, after the first flash had passed and I had money enough. I never give up or got discouraged. It was your mother losing grip sort of set me back; and then your raising and expenses here, kinder held me down. But the spirit in me has soared nevertheless."
"Sometimes it seems to me," Joyce's eyes grew dreamy, "that every one in St. Angé has something to keep still about. Every one seems to be here because he has to, not because he wants to. People seem to drift in here like logs after a spring freshet—and they get jammed."
Jared laughed. The idea caught his fancy.
"You've hit it, Joyce!" he said, "You've hit it all right. Jammed, by damn! that's it; but to carry the simile further, when the jam is loosened up, there's going to be some logs as gets away."
"Where could we go, father, and how?"
The pleading intensity of the girl encouraged Jared. He refilled his pipe, imagined himself in the mirror trimmed up and fashionably attired, and then drove his axe to the heart of the matter.
"When all's said and done, girl," he began, "I've been a pretty good dad to you. Given you years of schooling and stood by you when I might have skipped and led my own life. Many a man with his wife dead, and a kid on his hands, has done it. I've worked for you, and given you the best home in St. Angé; and now if you let me play the cards that you've got in your hands, we'll get out of this and live in clover to the end o' time."
"I don't know what you mean," Joyce gasped.
This was no idle talk. She was fascinated and frightened. It seemed as if her father had his fingers on the rope that was strangling the life out of her.
"You've got the winning cards, my girl, if I don't miss my guess. It's all in the playing now. I've had one eye on you all along, Joyce. I've seen, like any kind father might, that there ain't a young feller between here and Hillcrest but would be glad to have you. But like a rap on the shut eye it has just been sprung on me that Myst. has had his mind on you as well!"
Joyce's eyes dilated and the colour rose through her soft paleness, but she did not speak.
"It's always the way. Them most concerned gits wind of scandal last. Even the brats have caught on before me. But once your father has both eyes open, folks better watch out."
"Who do you mean by Myst.?" asked Joyce, and her strained voice sounded unnatural.
"Gaston, to be sure! I've got a wit of my own, Joyce. Myst.—short for Mystery. That's what Gaston is. No one knows a damned thing about him."
"Well, that's to his credit, anyway." Joyce flung up a defence now. She must fight, but she must keep herself out of sight.
Jared glared angrily. He did not like the tone.
"Oh! I ain't the one to object to you keeping your mouth shut," he returned. "Jammed logs"—the phrase stuck in his mind—"jammed logs don't creak any; but when it comes to joining forces, like two jams together for instance, there's got to be, in the nature of things, some demonstration. What I'm aiming at is this. Has this here Myst. meant business or has he not? I'm a man of the world—so is Gaston—he ain't never hoodwinked me. I had my reasons for coming here, and likewise, so has he. That's my business and his, by thunder! but when he meddles in my affairs he's got to show his hand. Now is it, or ain't it, business 'twixt you and him?"
"What kind of business?" Joyce's voice was low and even. She was approaching her father cautiously and fearfully.
"Honourable—or otherwise?"
A silence followed. Something was born, and something died in the sunlighted room while that silence lasted.
The child's dependence upon its father fell, torn and quivering, before the new-risen self-protection of the pitiful girlhood.
For the first time, consciously, Joyce experienced the soul-loneliness for which there is no aid. Her deep eyes pleaded for help and mercy where there was no help, and alas! no mercy. Birkdale had his answer now, though no word had been uttered by those quivering lips.
"You can't be expected to act for yourself in these matters." Jared put his pipe on the table and brought his chair to the floor. "You ain't the first girl as has been game for such as Myst., but he's made a damned mistake if he thought two couldn't play at his game here in St. Angé. We'll make something out of him no matter which way you put it."
"Make something—out—of—what?" Joyce bent forward and real horror filled her eyes. Was even the security of Jude to be wrenched from her?
"Out of Myst. He's got money, It comes in letters—checks. Tate has ways of finding out. Myst. has a fat account over to Hillcrest. He thought we took him on trust. We knowed what we wanted to know."
"And so, and so," panted Joyce, "what next?"
"Well, by the living God, if he wants to marry you, let him come out and say so, and I won't hold back my presence nor my blessing."
It was quite plain now. Gaston was the target at which Jared aimed. In some way she must shield him and shield him so effectually that no harm could reach him. There was no escape for her. Every path was closed through which she had hoped to go free and happy.
"I ain't going, though," Jared was whining in his semi-religious tone, "to have my reputation smirched. Either he marries you, or he pays well, and we'll get out. See?"
"Oh, yes, I see!" Joyce shivered in the hot room; "I see what you think, but why do you suppose I'd marry Mr. Gaston if he did want me? Sometimes girls don't—marry—men even when they are asked. Books are full of such things." A heavy sob came after the pitiful words.
"Oh! that's your dodge, eh?" Jared laughed comfortably from the secure position he had gained for himself from this misery. "Trying to shield him, eh? It won't do, Joyce. Your daddy's too much a man of the world for that. Now here it is in a nutshell: The boys at the tavern are back of me. How do I know? You leave that to me. Now I calculate that Gaston don't want any of the dust of his past stirred up by us. If he's been playing with you, it's for you to say whether you'd rather have him forced to marry you, or have him pan out money enough to hush the matter up. I'm willing to sacrifice something for you, Joyce. I'm willing to go so far as to say I don't want the dust of my past raised—I'm actually willing to sacrifice—anything."
"Even me!" The words were a moan of fear and misery.
"Sure!" Jared did not catch the point. "This is an opportunity that don't come often. Retribution for Myst., by thunder, and clear gain for me and you! Out beyond the high trees, girl, there's better diggings for us. God! how I've smothered, these long years. The end justifies the means—you will say so, too, when you see what lies down to the south."
Jared laughed wildly as if the ambition of all the desolated years had been achieved. Joyce, compelled by his delirious words and excitement, almost felt a responsive sympathy; but her words, slow and hard, brought her and Jared down to the bleakness of St. Angé again.
"You are wrong, terribly wrong. Mr. Gaston never wanted to marry me, and I can take care of myself—I always have—taken care of myself! Why—why, I'm engaged to Jude Lauzoon. I'm going to marry him right away. We can't even wait for him to build a new shack. If a minister doesn't happen this way, we're going over to Hillcrest. Oh, what a joke we've played on you!"
Jared