"Honourable—or otherwise?"
A silence followed. Something was born, and something died in the sunlighted room while that silence lasted.
The child's dependence upon its father fell, torn and quivering, before the new-risen self-protection of the pitiful girlhood.
For the first time, consciously, Joyce experienced the soul-loneliness for which there is no aid. Her deep eyes pleaded for help and mercy where there was no help, and alas! no mercy. Birkdale had his answer now, though no word had been uttered by those quivering lips.
"You can't be expected to act for yourself in these matters." Jared put his pipe on the table and brought his chair to the floor. "You ain't the first girl as has been game for such as Myst., but he's made a damned mistake if he thought two couldn't play at his game here in St. Angé. We'll make something out of him no matter which way you put it."
"Make something—out—of—what?" Joyce bent forward and real horror filled her eyes. Was even the security of Jude to be wrenched from her?
"Out of Myst. He's got money, It comes in letters—checks. Tate has ways of finding out. Myst. has a fat account over to Hillcrest. He thought we took him on trust. We knowed what we wanted to know."
"And so, and so," panted Joyce, "what next?"
"Well, by the living God, if he wants to marry you, let him come out and say so, and I won't hold back my presence nor my blessing."
It was quite plain now. Gaston was the target at which Jared aimed. In some way she must shield him and shield him so effectually that no harm could reach him. There was no escape for her. Every path was closed through which she had hoped to go free and happy.