CHAPTER VI
WhenJoyce felt her wrists clasped in that iron grip in the darkness, and felt the hot breath of a man on her face, she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. All the stories of horrors in the night, of hold-ups and bandits and kidnappings came to her mind as she struggled vainly for a moment in that vise-like grip. She tried to scream, though she knew she was too far away from houses to reach the ear of any people who lived about unless some one happened to be going along that road; and people did not go along that road at night unless they had to. It was lonely and desolate, and out of the way from the main highway, a quiet remote place for the dead. She had a quick feeling of thankfulness that Aunt Mary who had always been so careful for her safety, so anxious when she was out alone at night, was where she could not be alarmed; a quick wish that she could call to her. Then the thought of God came and her heart cried for help.
The flashlight sprung in her face sent her almost swooning. She was conscious that her senses were going from her, and that she must somehow prevent herself from going out this way in the dark, and then up through the billows of blackness that were surging to envelop her soul she heard her own name in startled, almost tender tone:
“Joyce!”
And back through the blackness she came again to earth and consciousness and opened her eyes, straight intothe eyes that searched her face; answering the call of that strangely familiar voice. “Oh—was it you?”
There was troubled relief in the voice as she said it, relief as if she would rather have had back the terror than to have found this one involved in the mystery. There was question, pain, almost reproach, in her tone; there was judgment held in suspense as if her soul rejected the witness of her eyes. Then, as if she could not bear the conclusion of her own judgment she cried out earnestly,
“Oh,whatwere you doing there?”
He dropped her hands as if they had been shot away from him and his head drooped, stooped perhaps would be better, as if a great burden had suddenly been let upon his shoulders. He tried to speak and his voice was husky, the words did not come from his lips. He half turned away with a motion as if he would hide his face.
Then a low stealthy whistle rasped between them and he started back toward her:
“Go!—” he said quickly, “Go! You must not be seen here! Joyce—Little Joyce—” the last syllables were scarcely audible. She heard them in her soul afterward, like a long echo of a very fine whisper. A clear whistle close beside her, resonant, remembered from childhood, sounded just above her bowed head as she turned, and she knew he was signalling to the rest.
“Go! Straight down the road! Keep in the shadow. I’ll come back after awhile and find you,” he whispered, “Don’t be afraid—” and in the same breath, louder:
“All right, Kid, nothing but a scared rabbit. We’ll go up the other way—”
He was striding away from her rapidly into the darknessand she stood almost petrified in the road where he left her, till she heard a rough laugh of one of his companions and fear lent strength to her feet once more and sped her down the road again.
Her heart was beating wildly, and her thoughts in a chaos. She could not think, nor analyze her own feelings. She could only fly along in the shadow, stumbling now and again over a rough bit of road, straining her ears to listen for sounds behind her, casting a fearful glance back.
But the darkness was reassuring. The dimmed lights of the automobile that had stood by the roadside were no longer visible. The men had gone away in the other direction. She was alone on the road—with at least another mile to go before she could turn again into the highway, and she found an overwhelming tremble upon her. Her very spirit seemed to be quivering with it. The night which had been warm and balmy seemed turned to fearful cold and she shivered as she tried to hurry along. Now and then the moon swept out and threw her shadow along the way, and she glanced furtively behind her and shrank into the shadow of the elderberry bushes by the fence. Once a wild rabbit scuttled across the road and startled her so that she almost fell. She began to reproach herself for having gone away from home in this silly aimless way, losing her temper like a child and walking out from safety and protection without preparation. She wondered if God were angry with her for it. She wondered why she had done it and what she was going to do anyway, but most of all she wondered what those dark figures on the hillside had been doing, and why the shoulders of her friend had drooped as if with shame.Most of all this dragged upon her soul and kept her from fleetness. For how must the feet drag when the heart is weighed down!
She came at last into the highway, and heard by the tolling of the clock on a distant barn that it was two o’clock. It gave her a strange sense of detachment from the world to be thus adrift at that dark, prowling time of the night.
The road was empty either way. Not even a light of a distant car was in sight. If she could only hope to find a place of shelter before another came. Surely it could not be much longer so empty on the highway. Some one would be going by. Some one would see her. They would think it strange. They would think ill of her if they saw her. There was no hope for help from any passing car. She would not dare accept it if it were offered.
Ahead she saw a strip of woods. Her brain began to function. That would be the grove just before you came to old Julia Hartshorn’s house, and Julia Hartshorn lived just outside of Heatherdell. Heatherdell was a little town and she knew many of the people. She would not be lonely there. But where could she go? She must not be seen out at that time of night by any one she knew unless she came to it and appealed for help. That would mean that she would have to tell the circumstances of her being out from home in the blackness of night. That would mean criticism for Eugene and Nannette, no matter how gently she might tell her tale, nor how much she took the blame upon herself. And that would have hurt Aunt Mary. For Aunt Mary’s sake she must not let any talk go around. Aunt Mary knew that Nannette was jealous of her, andthat Eugene was sometimes hard on her, but Aunt Mary loved her son, even though she knew his faults, and Joyce would never willingly make any gossip that would reflect upon the family. Eugene was right. He knew Joyce’s conscience. It was functioning right on true to type even now in her terror and perplexity.
If only she had not gone to that cemetery! If only she had not turned aside and allowed herself to give up and cry upon Aunt Mary’s grave, and lose all that time. She might have been far away now, in a safe, quiet room somewhere that she had hired for the night. There would have been places where she could have found a room for a very little. She had some money, she didn’t remember how much, with her—it didn’t matter. There were a few dollars. Perhaps, too, she had put that gold piece in her handbag, she wasn’t sure of that. The day had been so long and hard, so many things had been within its hours. She could not recall what she had picked up to carry with her that morning. She was too weary to care.
But she couldn’t bear to go away without bidding good-bye to the spot where Aunt Mary and her mother lay, and perhaps too she had felt she could better think what to do, there in the quiet with the two graves.
Well, there was no use in excusing herself. She had gone. She shuddered at the horror of the last hour, and then that burden again to find out it was that one—and to wonder. What had he been doing? Was it then true, all the whispers that had come to her ears, of his life?
Around the bend ahead dashed a light. A car was coming at last. She remembered he had said he would come after her. She glanced back, but it was all darkness.Even if he did come would she want to meet him? Could she explain her presence out at night? He was now an almost stranger. He knew naught of her life. And perhaps it would be better if she did not know his.
She glanced fearfully ahead. The light was growing brighter, was almost blinding. She stepped out of its range and crept among some bushes till the glare and the swift passing car were gone, and watched the little red tail light blink and disappear. Then keeping quite close to the bank she slid along, fearful of another car so near to the bend of the road. It might come upon her unaware and if she were in the glare she would naturally be noticed by the driver. She trembled at the very thought, and hurried along, limbs sometimes stumbling and almost falling in the tall grass.
But presently she came in sight of Julia Hartshorn’s cottage, a little quiet brown affair, with gingerbread fretwork on its porches and moss on its roof, set far back from the street in a grove of maples, like a tiny island off the mainland of the larger grove near by.
A picket fence with scaling ancient paint, and a gate with a chain and weight guarded the quiet haven, and the fitful moonlight quavered out and showed the dim outline of a hammock slung between the maples close to the west porch. Joyce remembered a long, beautiful afternoon when she had lain in that hammock and read a book while Aunt Mary sat on the porch with Julia Hartshorn and sewed. How long ago and how beautiful that seemed. How like heaven in contrast with what she had been going through lately! Yes, here was a haven. She might go and knock at the door, and Julia’s night-capped old headwould appear at the window above. She had only to tell who it was and that she was in trouble, and the door would be open wide for her. Neither would Julia Hartshorn ever tell.
But Julia Hartshorn was old, and she had a sharp-tongued niece who had come to live with her and go to school. It would never do. She must not venture that. The school in Heatherdell was too near to the school in Meadow Brook, and too much gossip went back and forth. No, she must keep to her lonely way and go on. But there was no reason why she might not slip into that gate for a little while and lie in that hammock till daylight began to come. She could steal in so quietly no one would ever know, and get out again before the household was awake. She would be entirely safe outside a dwelling house of course, and need not fear to sleep for a few minutes under such protection.
Softly she lifted the latch of the old gate, lifting the gate as she swung it cautiously open lest it creak, and let herself in, closing it noiselessly behind her. Still as a creature of the woods she stole up the grass and tiptoed across the walk to the hammock, sliding gently into it, and slowly relaxing her tense muscles. It seemed as though she had suddenly been tossed up by a terrible and angry sea where her very soul had been racked from her body and laid upon a quiet stretch of sand, so wonderful it was to lie and rest.
She scarcely knew when her thoughts relaxed from their intense strain and rested with her body or when the night blurred into sleep and took her trouble all away. She only realized as she was drifting off, that her soul wascrying, “Oh, God! Forgive me if I’ve done wrong. Take care of me, and show me what to do! For Jesus’ sake—take care of me—show me.”
Was that a dream or footsteps stealthily along the road, pausing at the gate, noiseless footsteps like those in the cemetery? He was coming back—but he must not. Oh, what was he doing out there in the dark! Something that he was ashamed of? He had drooped and had not answered! “Oh, God, show him!” Was there some one at the gate? Or was it fancy. Ah—now they seemed to be going on. How sweet the breeze on her forehead—like the breeze from the open kitchen door. “Oh, God. Save him! Help me! Show me what to do.”