She could not escape the responsibility of her part in his life. She might keep on taking, taking, taking. On the other hand his old life had come back to him, not even waiting for his choice.
The woman who had misunderstood, had failed him in that hour of his need, had been sent by an all-powerful Force into the heart of the Northern Solitude to reclaim him, now that he had accomplished that which he had set himself to do.
Every barrier was removed. Even Death had been kind to that sweet, pale girl--she was ready to perform the glorious act of returning Gaston's own to him, if only she, Joyce, would let go her selfish, ignoble hold.
Now, if she were as noble as Gaston had striven to make her, there was but one thing to do. Go to that woman up at the bungalow, tell her all that she did _not_ know. All about the heavy penalty weakness had paid for the crime committed by another. Tell of the splendid expiation and the hard-won victory, and then--let go her hold and, in Love's supreme renunciation, prove her worthiness to what God withheld.
The little living room of Gaston's shack was the battle-ground of Joyce's soul-conflict that winter day.
Pale and rigid, she crouched in the deep chair, her head buried on the arm where so often his dear hand had lain.
No; she could not! She would not! Then after a moment--"I must! or in all the future I shall hate myself." Then she grew calmer, and instinctively she began to plan about--going. She would leave both fires ready to light--he might come now at any time.
The letter Billy had brought had not for a moment deceived her. She counted it now as but one of the links in the chain that was dragging her away from Gaston.
It was either Jude or her father who had sent the note. Well, it did not matter, it was the best possible escape that could have been conceived.
Then her plans ran on. She would pack her own pretty things--out of sight! They must not confuse, or call for pity. There would be no note. She, that woman at the bungalow would explain, and would tell him that there could be no reconsideration, for she, Joyce, had gone to her--husband!
At that point Joyce sprang up, and her eyes blazed feverishly.
No; she was going to do no such thing. She was going to wait just where she was with folded hands and eager love. When Gaston came he should decide things. She would not interfere with her future. She would hide nothing; neither would she disclose anything. Why should she strangle her own life, with the knowledge she had neither sought nor desired?