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 God!" ejaculated 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."