She had feared if the baby died it might kill her, and now that it was dead she did not mind at all.
Her arms ached a little at times. She thought that was queer; they had never ached when they bore the baby.
At last she and Jude were back in the awful, quiet house. It was more awful now that Jude was there. For after the burial, and before the evening meal, he had been lessening his tension with some boon companions, down at the Black Cat, and Joyce had had the place to herself.
Jude, having relaxed to the state of geniality, was willing to let bygones be bygones in the broadest sense of the word. He had big plans afoot—he had had them the night he came home and found Gaston and Joyce hanging over the baby. These plans had been set aside while the baby was taking his pitiful leave of life after his one smile, but Jude must hurry his case now. Nothing stood in the way—and, although many a woman might get what she deserved, Jude was going to forgive Joyce again and take her to his bosom in a new life, and they'd both forget what was past.
The hold of youth and beauty clutched the man's inflamed senses. The evening meal, which Joyce had mechanically prepared, had been partaken of—by Jude—until little but fragments was left.
A black shower, which had passed over St. Angé in the late afternoon, had changed the sultry heat to ominous chill. The wind among the pines sobbed dismally as if it were a human thing and could understand.
Jude got up and shut the door. It was quite dark outside, and the lamp flickered in the breeze.
At his action Joyce sprang from the chair, and the dull calm that had possessed her for the past day or so was shattered. Her eyes blazed, and the colour came and went in the stern, white face.
"Don't—do—that!" she panted, springing to the door and flinging it back.
"What in thunder is the matter with you?" Jude stepped aside. Something in this change and fury startled him.