There were always surprises when Gaston returned from Hillcrest. From out the Somewhere, somehow there drifted marvellous things—books, pictures, dresses, dainty slippers and home furnishings. Things that St. Angé gaped silently upon. Joyce never asked questions. Like a child she shielded this fairy-like mystery from her own curiosity. She was happier not to know.
But to-night the boxes seemed heavy. Not from what they held, but from the weight of her unrest, which was returning with added force.
She obeyed, however, with that quivering smile still upon her lips. Almost staggering under the load, she turned and entered the chamber that had once been Gaston's. It was a woman's room now in every sense. Gone were the rough furniture, the pipes and books. In their places were the white bed, the low rocker, the many trifles that go to meet the endless whims of a woman's fancy and taste. It was an odd room for the shack of a backwoodsman. It had taken Joyce long to settle into it comfortably. Her brief apprenticeship in the home that Gaston had helped Jude make for her was the only preparation she had had for ease among these refinements.
Once within the shelter now, Joyce almost flung the boxes from her. It was dark and cold in the room, and the stillness soothed her. She groped her way to the window and looked out at the little mound near the pines, where all that was really her own—her very own—lay. It had always been a comfort to have the little body so near her place of safety. She had ceased to grieve when once the baby was brought away from the ruin of the former home; but to-night the small oval, under its crust of glittering snow, made her shudder. It was her own—but oh! it was cold and dead like all the rest of her hope and joy. She knew it now. Not even Gaston's coming had cleared the doubt.
She had believed herself so good and happy—and here it was made plain, horribly plain. Everything was wrong. It had always been wrong.
But she dared not shrink into her pain. She must obey, and play her part. Awkwardly she lighted her lamp; tremblingly she untied the boxes—they bore the same mystic signs and the oft-repeated words, "New York." It did not matter. New York or the New Jerusalem, one was as unreal as the other to the backwoods girl.
Oh, but here was surprise indeed!
Joyce had not, as yet, sunk so far in doubt and apprehension, but that the contents of the boxes moved her to interest and delight.
A gown of golden silk, clinging and long. The daintiest of gloves, silken hose, and satin slippers. Filmy skirts, and bewildering ruffles of cobwebby lace. What wild imagination ever conceived of such witcheries; and what power could command their materialization in the North Woods?
Joyce sank beside the boxes, gasping with delight. Then suddenly, as the shock of pleasurable surprise passed, the mockery of the gift struck her. Down went the humbled head, and the girl wept as if her heart would break.