Jude had only one thought--a thought lashed to the fore by his jealous rage, and defeated hopes. And poor Joyce, distraught and grief-crazed, realized not the terrible blunder he was making.
"You're--staying--just--for him?" Jude was close to her now, and his breath came short and hard.
"Yes; I know you won't ever understand. If I was away, I couldn't bear my life--this--this longing would be always tugging at me--and I could never help it. If we stay here, Jude, I'll go on just the--same; it's being--near--that counts!"
"You--tell me this to my face--you fool!"
For an instant Joyce's dull agony wavered, and an inkling of what Jude meant rushed upon her.
"Oh!" she gasped, and put her hands out to him. But it was too late. The hot blood was surging in the weak brain. With a violence he had never shown before, the man flung the outstretched hands from him, then he struck viciously the white terrified face twice, leaving dull, red marks to bear witness.
His rage fed upon the brutality. Now that he had let himself loose, he gave full rein to his hate and revenge.
He gripped the slim, childish arm, and pushed the shrinking form before him.
"Go--you!" With one hand he drew the door back, and hurled the girl out into the black storm. "Go to _him_!"
Joyce kept her feet, but she staggered on until a tree stopped her course. The contact was another hurt, but she gave small heed to it.
Like a burning flash she seemed to see two things: Jude's true understanding of her blundering words; and her possible future, after she had made him understand. For, of course, she must go back and _make_ him understand, and then--well, after such a scene, a woman's life was never safe in St. Angé. It was like a taste of blood to a wild animal. Still she must go back. In all the world there was nothing else for her to do.
Her face stung and throbbed, her arm ached where Jude had crushed the tender flesh. She leaned against the tree that had added to her pain, and wept miserably for very self-pity. She was downed and beaten. After all she was to be like the rest of St. Angé women.
Sounds roused her. Strange, terrific sounds.
Trembling in every limb, she went forward and peered through the rose-vine into the room.