Joyce turned to obey the commands. Not slavishly; after all it was but part of her woman-task. Jude feeling it necessary to tell her was the lash. It was cruelly superfluous—that was all.
She laid two heavy logs on the red embers, and stooped to brush the ashes from the hearth. Then she went to the north window and raised the sash. Before she drew the shutters she stood and looked out into the brilliant night.
Black and white. Sharp, clean and magically glittering it all looked; and the keen cold cleared the fear and fever from her head and heart.
Yes, off there in the distance Gaston was entering the pine thicket through which his private path ran. He must have walked slowly—or had all this new knowledge come so rapidly?
Gaston stood still at the entrance to the woods. Was he looking back?
Then something occurred. Once or twice before Joyce had been conscious of this. Something seemed to go out from her and follow Gaston. She, or that strange something, escaped the fear and smothering closeness of the little house. It was free and happy out there with Gaston in the night. He was strong—stronger than anybody in St. Angé. Nothing could really happen while he was near. She saw his smile; felt his compelling touch—no, not even Jude would dare hurt her, or go too far.
Gaston passed into the dim thicket. Joyce, too seemed to be going on quite happily and lightly, when——
"I say, Joyce, shut that winder, can't you?"
A silence. As Joyce had followed a certain call the night she had promised to marry Jude, and had gone to Gaston's house, so now she was going on—and on—and——
"Joyce!" At last the real clutched the unreal. The girl, for the first time, was conscious of the biting cold. She shivered and seemed to travel back to that rough call over frozen distances. With stiff fingers she drew the heavy wooden shutters together and lowered the sash. Then feeling her way with outstretched hands, like a bewildered child, she made her way to the inner chamber and Jude.