But his spiritual sight was blinded by a firm, deadening blankness! Whatever was to be the outcome must be of his own choosing.
Again she knocked, that poor little temptress in the dark. What had Fate decreed that he was to do? Gaston knew as well as if Joyce had told him, why she had come. Her soul had revolted from her concession to Jude. In the bewitched hours of darkness, the primitive, savage instinct had driven the girl to the only one who could change her future. Worn, weary, defiant, she had come to him; not questioning further than her despair and his power.
Well, why not? Who would be the worse, and who the better—if he drew her within and closed the door upon—St. Angé?
Another tap—this time upon the wooden shutter of the bedchamber!
Gaston shivered and trembled. He was not outside; he was stifling in the dark room. The light had gone entirely, and he was struggling to free himself from an intangible enemy or friend; a thing that had, unknown to himself, evolved during those isolated years among the pines, and was restraining his lower nature now.
He battled to get to that little, insistent girl. He heard her sob, a childish sob, half desire, half fear. The veins stood out on his forehead and his hands gripped the edge of his desk as he got upon his feet.
The sob outside was echoed by a stifled groan from within—then all was still.
Slow retreating steps presently sounded without. She, that sad, broken, little temptress, was going to meet the fore-ordained future that lay before. There was nothing else left for her to do. All her reserves were taken.
Then Gaston, when all was beyond his power of recall or desire, opened the window.
Softly, sweetly, the fresh morning air entered. It was a young and good morning. A morning cool and faintly tinted, a morning to soothe a hurt heart, not to stimulate it too harshly.