What was Jude doing?
Trembling in every limb, she went forward and peered through the rose-vine into the room.
The rain was cooling her face and the wind was clearing the agonized brain.
Inside, the scene struck terror to the watcher's heart.
Jude was crashing the furniture to pieces in a frenzy of revenge.
The chairs were dashed against the chimney; the books hurled near and far. One almost hit the white face among the vines, as it went crashing outward.
Then Jude attacked the pictures—her beautiful pictures!
The mountain peak was shattered by a blow from the remnant of the little rocker, then the ocean picture fell with the sound of splintered glass. Last the Madonna! Joyce clutched her heart as the heavenly face was obliterated by the savage blow. Then, maddened still further by his own excesses, Jude laughed and struck with mighty force, the lamp from the table—and the world was in blackness!
How long Joyce stood clinging to the vine in abject terror, she was never to know.
Consciousness of the live, vivid sort, was mercifully spared her for a space. She knew, but did not comprehend, the true horror of her situation.