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Comstock + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + /*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center; clear: both;} + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; + padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + hr {width: 33%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + hr.full {width:100%; margin-top:2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr.major {width:75%; margin-top:2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr.minor {width:30%; margin-top:0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; } + .blockquot {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .smcapc {text-align: center; font-variant: small-caps;} + .caption {font-size: small;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shield of Silence, by Harriet T. Comstock + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Shield of Silence + +Author: Harriet T. Comstock + +Illustrator: George Loughridge + +Release Date: April 22, 2006 [EBook #18225] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHIELD OF SILENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<table cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Title Page" border="1"> + <col style="width:80%;" /> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <br /> + <span style="font-size: 250%;">THE SHIELD OF<br />SILENCE</span> + <br /><br /> + BY + <br /> + <span style="font-size: 140%;">HARRIET T. COMSTOCK</span> + <br /><br /><br /> + <span style="font-size: smaller"> + AUTHOR OF + </span> + <br /> + <span class="smcap"> + JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, Etc. + </span> + <br /><br /><br /> + <span style="font-size: smaller"> + FRONTISPIECE BY + </span> + <br /> + <span style="font-size: 100%;"> + GEORGE LOUGHRIDGE + </span> + <br /><br /><br /> + <img src="images/illus-emblem.jpg" alt="emblem" title="" /> + <br /><br /><br /> + <span style="text-align:center; font-size: 120%"> + GROSSET & DUNLAP + </span> + <br /> + <span style="font-size: 80%">PUBLISHERS + + NEW YORK<br /><br /><br /> + </span> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align:center; font-size: smaller">Made in the United States of America</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: 80%"> +COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY<br /> +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br /> +<br /> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION<br /> +INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN +<br /> +</p> +<p class="center" style="font-size: 60%"> +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES<br /> +AT<br /> +THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. +</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<p class="center"> +TO MY SON<br /> +<span style="font-size: larger">PHILIP S. COMSTOCK</span><br /> +<br /> +"We will grasp the hands of men and women; and slowly<br /> +holding one another's hands we will work our way upwards."<br /> +</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;"> +<img src="images/illus-fp.jpg" alt="[Illustration: "Joan rose from her self-appointed task. She looked at +Thornton and throbbed with hate--but as she looked her mood again +changed--she felt such pity as she had never known in her life +before."" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"<i>Joan rose from her self-appointed task. She looked at +Thornton and throbbed with hate—but as she looked her mood again +changed—she felt such pity as she had never known in her life +before.</i>" +</span> +</div> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>Table of Contents</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<col style="width:65%;" /> +<col style="width:10%;" /> +<tr><td>THE SHIELD OF SILENCE</td><td align="right"><a href="#PREFACE">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER I</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">5</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER II</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">16</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER III</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">26</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER IV</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">38</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER V</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">48</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER VI</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">59</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER VII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">71</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER VIII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">82</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER IX</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">95</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER X</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">104</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XI</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">116</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">125</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XIII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">137</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XIV</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">146</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XV</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">159</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XVI</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">165</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XVII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">176</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XVIII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">187</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XIX</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">200</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XX</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">211</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XXI</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">225</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XXII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">238</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XXIII</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">250</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XXIV</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">265</a></td></tr> +<tr><td>CHAPTER XXV</td><td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">275</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> +<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>THE SHIELD OF SILENCE</h2> +<p class="center"><i>Let us agree at once that</i>—</p> +</div> + +<p>We are all on the Wheel. The difference lies in our ability to cling or +let go. Meredith Thornton and old Becky Adams—let go!</p> + +<p>Across the world's heart they fell—the heart of the world may be wide +or narrow—and, by the law of attraction, they came to Ridge House and +Sister Angela.</p> + +<p>Unlike, and separated by every circumstance that, according to the +expected, should have kept them apart—they still had the same problem +to confront and the solution had its beginning in that pleasant home for +Episcopal Sisters which clings so enchantingly along the north side of +what is known as Silver Gap, a cleft in the Southern mountains.</p> + +<p>To say the solution of these women's problems had its beginnings in +Ridge House is true; but that they were ever solved is another matter +and this story deals with that.</p> + +<p>Meredith Thornton was young and beautiful. Up to the hour that she let +go she had lived as they live who are drugged. She had looked on life +with her senses blurred and her actions largely controlled by others.</p> + +<p>Old Becky, on the other hand, had gripped life with no uncertain hold; +she, according to the vernacular of her hills, "had the call to larn," +and she learned deeply.</p> + +<p>Sister Angela had clung to the Wheel. She had swung well around the +circle and she believed she was nearing the end when the strange demand +was made upon her.</p> + +<p>The demand was made by Meredith Thornton and Becky Adams. Meredith, from +her great distance, somewhat prepared Sister Angela by a letter, but +Becky, being unable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> either to read or write, simply took to the trail +from her lonely cabin on Thunder Peak and claimed a promise made three +years before.</p> + +<p>And now, since <i>The Rock</i> played a definite part in what happened, it +should have a word here.</p> + +<p>In a land where nearly all the solid substance is rock—not stone, mind +you—<i>The Rock</i> held a peculiar position. It dominated the landscape and +the imagination of Silver Gap, and the superstition as well. It was a +huge, greenish-white mass, a mile to the east of Thunder Peak, and over +its smooth face innumerable waterfalls trickled and shone. With this +colour and motion, like a mighty Artist, the wind and light played, +forming pictures that needed little fancy to discern.</p> + +<p>At times cities would be delicately outlined with towers and roofs +rising loftily; then again one might see a deep wood with a road winding +far and away, luring home-tied feet to wander. And sometimes—not often, +to be sure—the Ship would ride at anchor as on a painted sea.</p> + +<p>The Ship boded no good to Silver Gap as any one could tell. It had +brought the plague and the flood; it brought bad crops and raids on +hidden stills; it waited until its evil cargo had done its worst and +then it sailed away in the night, bearing its pitiful load of dead, or +its burden of fear and hate. Surely there was good and sufficient reason +for dreading the appearance of The Ship, and on a certain autumn morning +it appeared and soon after the two women, unknown to each other, came to +Ridge House and this story began.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Wait and thy soul shall speak.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>There is, in the human soul, as in the depths of the ocean, a state of +eternal calm. Around it the waves of unrest may surge and roar but there +peace reigns. In that sanctuary the tides are born and, in their +appointed time, swelling and rising, they carry the poor jetsam and +flotsam of life before them.</p> + +<p>The tide was rising in the soul of Meredith Thornton; she was awake at +last. Awake as people are who have lived with their faculties drugged. +The condition was partly due to the education and training of the woman, +and largely to her own ability in the past to close her senses to any +conception of life that differed from her desires. She had always been +like that. She loved beauty and music; she loved goodness and happiness; +she loved them whom she loved so well that she shut all others out. +Consequently, when Life tore her defences away she had no guidance upon +which to depend but that which had lain hidden in the secret place of +her soul.</p> + +<p>As a little child Meredith and her older sister, Doris, lived in New +York. Their house had been in the Fletcher family for three generations +and stood at the end of a dignified row, opposite a park whose iron +gates opened only to those considered worthy of owning a key—the +Fletchers had a key!</p> + +<p>In the park the little Fletcher girls played—if one could call it +play—under the eye of a carefully selected maid whose glance was +expected to rest constantly upon them. The anxious father tried to do +his double duty conscientiously, for the mother had died at Meredith's +birth.</p> + +<p>The children often peered through the high fence (it really was more fun +than the stupid games directed by their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> elders) and wondered—at least +Doris wondered; Meredith was either amused or shocked; if the latter it +was an easy matter to turn aside. This hurt Doris, and to her plea that +the thing was there, Meredith returned that she did not believe it, and +she did not, either.</p> + +<p>Once, shielded by the skirts of an outgoing maid, Doris made her escape +and, for two thrilling and enlightening hours, revelled in the company +of the Great Unknown who were not deemed worthy of keys.</p> + +<p>Doris had found them vital, absorbing, and human; they changed the whole +current of her life and thought; she was never the same again, neither +was anything else.</p> + +<p>The nurse was at once dismissed and Mr. Fletcher placed his daughters in +the care of Sister Angela, who was then at the head of a fashionable +school for girls—St. Mary's, it was called.</p> + +<p>Sister Angela believed in keys but had ideas as to their uses and the +good sense to keep them out of sight.</p> + +<p>Under her wise and loving rule Doris Fletcher never suspected the hold +upon her and, while she did not forget the experience she had once had +outside the park, she no longer yearned to repeat it, for the present +was wholesomely full. As for Meredith, she felt that all danger was +removed—for Doris; for herself, what could shatter her joy? It was only +running outside gates that brought trouble.</p> + +<p>Just after the Fletcher girls graduated from St. Mary's Sister Angela's +health failed.</p> + +<p>Mr. Fletcher at this time proved his gratitude and affection in a +delicate and understanding way. He bought a neglected estate in the +South and provided a sufficient sum of money for its restoration and +upkeep, and this he put in Sister Angela's care.</p> + +<p>"There is need of such work as you can do there," he said; "and it has +always been a dream of my life to help those people of the hills. +Sister, make my dream come true."</p> + +<p>Angela at once got in touch with Father Noble, who was winning his way +against great odds in the country surrounding Silver Gap, and offered +her services.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Come and live here," Father Noble replied. "It is all we can do at +present. They do not want us," he had a quaint humour, "but we must +change that."</p> + +<p>Mr. Fletcher did not live long enough to see his dream do more than help +prolong Sister Angela's days, for he died a year later leaving, to his +daughters, a large fortune, well invested, and no commands as to its +use. This faith touched both girls deeply.</p> + +<p>"I want to travel and see all the beautiful things in the world," +Meredith said when the time for expression came.</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear," Doris replied, "and you must learn what life really means."</p> + +<p>Naturally at this critical moment both girls turned to Sister Angela, +but with the rare insight that had not deserted her, she held them from +her, though her heart hungered for them.</p> + +<p>"Ridge House is in the making," she wrote. "I am going slow, making no +mistakes. I am asking some Sisters who, like me, have fallen by the way, +to come here and help me with my scheme, and in the confusion of +readjustment, two young girls, who ought to be forming their own plans, +would be sadly in the way.</p> + +<p>"Go abroad, my dears, take"—here Sister Angela named a woman she could +trust to help, not hinder—"and learn to walk alone at last."</p> + +<p>Doris accepted the advice and the little party went to Italy.</p> + +<p>"Here," she said, "Merry shall have the beauty she craves and she shall +learn what life means, as well."</p> + +<p>And Meredith's learning began.</p> + +<p>They had only been in Italy a month when George Thornton appeared. He +was young, handsome, and already so successful in business that older +men cast approving eyes upon him. He had chosen, at the outset of his +career, to go to the Philippines and accepted an appointment there. He +had devoted himself so rigidly to his duties that his health began to +show the strain and he was taking his first, well-won, vacation when he +met the Fletchers.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> + +<p>Thornton's past had been spent largely with men who, like himself, were +making their way among people, and in an environment in which the finer +aspects of life were disregarded. He had enjoyed himself, made himself +popular, and for the rest he had waited until such a time as his success +would make choice possible. When he met Meredith Fletcher he felt the +time had come. The girl's exquisite aloofness, her fineness and +sweetness, bewitched him. The real meaning of her character did not +interest him at all. Here was something that he wanted; the rest would +be an easy conquest. Thornton had always got what he wanted and lay +siege to Meredith's heart at once.</p> + +<p>His approach, while it swept Meredith before it, naturally aroused fear +and apprehension in Doris. To Meredith, Thornton was an ideal +materialized; to Doris, he was a menace to all that she held sacred. She +distrusted him for the very traits that appealed to her sister. But she +dared not oppose, for to every inquiry she hurriedly made—and there was +need of hurry—she received only favourable reports.</p> + +<p>Thornton's own fortune and prospects set aside any fears as to mercenary +designs; he had no near relatives, but distant cousins in England were +people of refinement and culture and on excellent terms with Thornton. +Breathlessly Thornton carried everything before him. Six weeks after he +met Meredith he married her.</p> + +<p>"Why, you do not know the child," Doris had faltered when the hasty +marriage was proposed, "I'm only learning to know her myself. She has +never grown up. She sees life as she used to see it through the gates of +the park in which she played as a little girl. She has been locked away. +It is appalling. I could not believe, unless I knew, that any one could +be like Merry."</p> + +<p>Of course Thornton did not understand.</p> + +<p>"Let me have the key," he jokingly said, "let me lead Merry out. It will +be the biggest thing of my life."</p> + +<p>And Doris knew that unless the key were given he would break the lock, +so Meredith was married in the little American<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> chapel on the hillside +and she looked as if she were walking in a love-filled dream as she went +out of Doris's life.</p> + +<p>Thornton took his wife to the Philippines by way of her New York home. +For a week they stayed in it, and it was there that the first sense of +loss touched Meredith. The stirring effect of all that she had recently +gone through was wearing away, and Doris, and all that Doris meant in +the past, haunted the big, quiet house.</p> + +<p>"This will never do," thought Thornton, and for the first time he sensed +the power the older sister had over the younger. It was already making +its way into his kingdom, and Thornton never shared what was his own!</p> + +<p>Doris remained abroad for a time, readjusting her life as one does who +is maimed. Her devotion to Meredith, she saw now, had been her one +passion—to what could she turn?</p> + +<p>The letters that presently came from Meredith, while they set much of +her fear at rest, made her feel more lonely, nor did they seem to set +her free to make permanent plans. She sank into a waiting mood—waiting +for letters!</p> + +<p>"I'll play around Europe for awhile," she whimsically decided. "I'll buy +things for that chapel Sister Angela is planning, and polish my manners. +And," here Doris grew grave, "I'll think of David Martin! I wish I could +love Davey enough to marry him as I feel he wants me to—and let him +blot out this ache for Merry." But that was not to be.</p> + +<p>And Meredith wrote her letters to her sister and smiled upon her +husband—for after the third month of her marriage that was the best she +could do for either of them. All the ideals of her self-blinded life +were being swept away in the glaring flame of reality.</p> + +<p>Thornton was still infatuated and went to great lengths to prove to his +pale, starry-eyed wife her power over him. He was delighted at the +impression she made upon the rather hectic but exclusive circle in which +he moved; but he dreaded, vaguely to be sure, her hearing, in a gross +way, references to his life before she entered it. So quite frankly and +a bit sketchily he confided it to her himself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of course that is ended forever," he said; "you have led me from +darkness to light, you wonderful child! Why, Merry, you simply have made +a new and better man of me—I understand the real value of things now."</p> + +<p>But did he?</p> + +<p>Merry was looking at him as if she were doubting her senses. Things she +had heard in her girlhood, things that floated about in the dark corners +of her memory, were pressing close. Dreadful things that had been forced +upon her against her will but which she reasoned could never happen to +her, or to any of her own.</p> + +<p>"You mean," she faltered gropingly at last, "that another woman has——" +She could not voice the ugly words and Thornton was obliged to be a +little more explicit.</p> + +<p>Then he saw his wife retreat—spiritually. He hastened after her as best +he could.</p> + +<p>"You see, darling," he was frightened, "out here, where a fellow is cut +off from home ties and all that, the old code does not hold—how could +it? I'm no exception. Why, good Lord! child——" but Meredith was not +listening. He saw that and it angered him.</p> + +<p>She was hearing words spoken long ago—oh! years and years ago it +seemed. Words that had lured her from Doris, from safety, from all the +dangerous peace that had been hers.</p> + +<p>"Sweetheart," that voice had said, "there is one right woman for every +man, but few there be who find her. When one does—then there is no time +to be lost. Life is all too short at the best for them. Come, my +beloved, come!"</p> + +<p>And she had heeded and, forsaking all else, had trusted him.</p> + +<p>According to his lights Thornton had sincerely meant those words when he +spoke them. He was under the spell, still, as he looked at the small +frozen thing before him now.</p> + +<p>If he could win her from her absurd, and almost unbelievable, position; +if he could, through her love and his, gain her absolutely; make her +<i>his</i>—what a conquest!</p> + +<p>"My precious one, I am yours to do with what you will!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> he was saying +with all the fervour of his being; but Meredith looked at him from a +great distance.</p> + +<p>"You were never mine!" was what she said. Then asked:</p> + +<p>"Is that—that woman here? Will I ever—meet her?"</p> + +<p>Thornton was growing furiously angry.</p> + +<p>"Certainly not!" he replied to her last question, incensed at the +implied lack of delicacy on his part. Then he added, "Don't be a fool, +Merry!"</p> + +<p>"No, I won't," she whispered, grimly. "I won't be a fool, whatever else +I am. Do you want me to leave you at once, or stay on?"</p> + +<p>Thornton stared at her blankly.</p> + +<p>"Good God!" he muttered; "what do you mean, stay on?"</p> + +<p>"I mean that if I stay it will be because I don't want to hurt you more +than I must—and because things don't matter much, either way. I have my +own money—but, well, I'll stay on if it will help you in your +business."</p> + +<p>Then light dawned.</p> + +<p>"You will stay on!" Thornton snapped the words out. "You are my wife, +and you will stay on!"</p> + +<p>"Very well. I will stay," Meredith turned and walked away.</p> + +<p>Thornton looked after her and his face softened. Something in him was +touched by the spirit under the cold, crude exterior of the girl. It was +worth while—he would try to win her!</p> + +<p>And that was the best hour in Thornton's life.</p> + +<p>Could he have held to it all might have gone well, but Thornton's +successes had been due to dash and daring—the slow, patient method was +not his, and against his wife's stern indifference he recoiled after a +short time—she bored him; she no longer seemed worth while; not worth +the struggle nor the holding to absurd and rigid demands. Still, by her +smiling acquiescence, Meredith made things possible that otherwise might +not have been so, and she was a charming hostess when occasion demanded.</p> + +<p>During the second bleak year of their marriage Meredith<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> accompanied +Thornton to England—he was often obliged to go there on prolonged +business—but she never repeated the experiment.</p> + +<p>While it was comparatively easy to play her difficult rôle in her home, +it was unbearable among her husband's people, who complicated matters by +assuming that she must, of necessity, be honoured and uplifted by the +alliance she had made.</p> + +<p>After the return from England Thornton abandoned his puritanical life +and returned to the easy ways of his bachelor days.</p> + +<p>Meredith knew perfectly well what was going on, but she had her own +income and lived her own detached and barren life, so she clung to what +seemed to her the last shred of duty she owed to her marriage ties—she +served in her husband's home as hostess, and by her mere presence she +avoided betraying him to the scorn of those who could not know all, and +so might not judge justly.</p> + +<p>Then the crisis came that shocked Meredith into consciousness and forced +her to act, for the first time in her life, independently.</p> + +<p>Thornton was about to go, again, to England. The day before he sailed he +came into his wife's sitting room, where she lay upon a couch, suffering +from a severe headache.</p> + +<p>She never mentioned her pain or loneliness, and to Thornton's careless +glance she appeared as she always did—pale, cold, and self-centred.</p> + +<p>"Well, I sail at noon to-morrow!" he said, seating himself astride a +chair, folding his arms and settling his chin on them.</p> + +<p>"Yes? Is there anything particular that you want me to look after in +your absence?"</p> + +<p>Meredith barely raised her eyes. Her pain was intense, but Thornton saw +only indifference and an unconscious insolence in the words, tone, and +languid glance.</p> + +<p>Never before in his life had he been balked and defied and resented as +he was by the pretty creature before him. The devil rose in him—and +generally Thornton rode his devil<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> with courage and control, but +suddenly it reared, and he was thrown!</p> + +<p>"Do you know," he said—and he looked handsome and powerful in his white +clothes; he was splendidly correct in every detail—"there are times +when I think you forget that you are my wife."</p> + +<p>"I try to." Like all quiet people Meredith could shatter one's poise at +times by her daring. She looked so small and defiant as she lay +there—so secure!</p> + +<p>"Suppose I commanded you to come with me to-morrow? Made my rightful +demand after this hellish year—what would you do?"</p> + +<p>Thornton's chin projected; his mouth smiled, not pleasantly, and his +eyes held Meredith's with a light that frightened her. She sat up.</p> + +<p>"Of course I should refuse to go with you," she replied, "and I do not +acknowledge any rights of yours except those that I give you. You +apparently overlook the fact that—I make no claims."</p> + +<p>"Claims?" Thornton laughed, and the sound had a dangerous note that +startled Meredith. "Claims? Good Lord! That's quaintly delicious. You +don't know men, my dear. It would be a deed of charity to—inform you. +Claims, indeed! You drove me, when you might have held me, and you talk +claims."</p> + +<p>"I did not want to hold you—after I knew that you had never really been +mine." Meredith's words were shaken by an emotion beyond Thornton's +comprehension; they further aroused the brute in him.</p> + +<p>"This comes of locks and bars!" he sneered, recalling Doris's +expression, "but, damn it all, unless you were more fool than most girls +you might have saved yourself."</p> + +<p>To this Meredith made no reply, but she crouched on the couch and +gathered her knees in her arms as if clinging to the only support at her +disposal.</p> + +<p>"See here!" Thornton bent forward and his eyes blazed. "I'm going to +give you a last chance. You'll come with me to-morrow and have done with +this infernal rot or I'll take<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> the woman with me who has made life +possible, in the past, for you and me. What do you say?"</p> + +<p>Horror and repulsion grew in Meredith's eyes. She went deadly white and +stretched her hands wide as if shielding herself from something +defiling.</p> + +<p>"Go!" she gasped. "Go with her! By so doing I will not have to explain; +I will be free to return—to Doris."</p> + +<p>"So!" And now Thornton got up and paced the floor; "having foresworn +every duty you owe me, having driven me to what you choose to call +wrong, you pack your nice, clean little soul in your bag and go back to +pose as—as—what in God's name will you pose as? You!"</p> + +<p>Meredith shrank back. She was conscious now of her danger.</p> + +<p>"Well, then!" Thornton came close and laughed down upon the shrinking +form—her terror further roused the brute in him; all that was decent +and fine in him—and both were there—fell into darkness; "you'll pay, +by heaven! before you go. You'll—"</p> + +<p>"Leave me alone!" Meredith sprang to her feet. "How dare you?"</p> + +<p>And again Thornton laughed.</p> + +<p>"Dare? You—you little idiot! You'll come with me to-morrow—by God!"</p> + +<hr class="minor" /> + +<p>But Meredith did not go with Thornton on the morrow, and if the other +took her place she did not seek to know.</p> + +<p>The weeks and months dragged on and she was thankful for time to think +and plot. It took so much time for one who had never acted before. And +then—she knew the worst!</p> + +<p>Thornton might return at any time and soon—her child would be born! +First terror, then a growing calmness, possessed Meredith. She forgot +Thornton in her planning, forgot her own misery and sense of wrong. She +did not hate her child as she might have—she learned in the end to +consider it as the one opportunity left to her of saving whatever was +good in her and Thornton. She clung to that good, she was just, at last, +to Thornton as well as herself. Both he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> and she were victims of +ignorance—the little coming child must be saved from that ignorance; +the father's and—yes, her own, for Meredith was convinced that she +would not live through her ordeal.</p> + +<p>Thornton must not have the child—he was unfit for that sacred duty of +giving it the chance that had been denied the parents. The new life must +have its roots in cleaner and purer soil. Doris must save it. Doris!</p> + +<p>Then Meredith wrote three notes. One was to Sister Angela:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>You remember how, as a little girl, you let me come to you and tell +you things that I could not tell even to God? I am coming now, +Sister—will be there soon after this reaches you; and then—I will +tell you!</p> + +<p>I want my child to be born with you and Doris near me. I have +written to Doris.</p> + +<p>And whether I live or die, my husband must not have my child. You +must help me.</p></div> + +<p>The second letter was longer, for it contained explanations and reasons. +These were stated baldly, briefly, but for that very quality they rang +luridly dramatic.</p> + +<p>The third note was left on Thornton's desk and simply informed him that +she was going to Doris and would never return.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Minds that sway the future like a tide.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>Sister Angela read her letter sitting before the fire in the living room +at Ridge House.</p> + +<p>She read it over and over and then, as was common with her, she clasped +the cross that hung from her girdle—and opened her soul. She called it +prayer. Meredith became personally near her—the written words had +materialized her. With the clairvoyance that had been part of her +equipment in dealing with people and events of the past, Angela began +slowly to understand.</p> + +<p>So actually was she possessed by reality that her face grew grim and +deadly pale. She was a woman of experience in the worldly sense, but she +was unyielding in her spiritual interpretation of moral codes. She felt +the full weight of the tragedy that had overwhelmed a girl of Meredith +Thornton's type. She had no inclination, nor was there time now, to +consider Thornton's side of this terrible condition. She must act for +Meredith and Meredith's child.</p> + +<p>Folding the letter, she dropped it into her pocket and sent for Sister +Janice, the housekeeper.</p> + +<p>Angela gave silent thanks for Janice's temperament.</p> + +<p>Janice was so cheerful as often to depress others; so grateful that she +gloried in self-abnegation and had no curiosity outside a given command.</p> + +<p>"The house must be got ready for visitors," Angela informed Janice. "Two +former pupils—and one of them is ill." When she said this Angela +paused. How did she know Meredith was ill?</p> + +<p>"Shall I open the west wing?" asked Janice, alert as to her duties.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Open everything. Have the place at its best; but I would like the +younger sister, Mrs. Thornton, to have the chamber on the south, the +guest chamber."</p> + +<p>When Janice had departed, Sister Constance appeared.</p> + +<p>In her early days Constance had been a famous nurse and for years +afterward the head of a school for nurses. Her eyes brightened now as +she listened to her superior. She had long chafed under the strain of +inaction. She listened and nodded.</p> + +<p>"Everything shall be done as you wish, Sister," she said at last, and +Angela knew that it would be.</p> + +<p>Lastly, old Jed was called from his outside duties and stood, battered +hat in hand, to receive his commands. Jed was old and black and his wool +was white as snow; his strong, perfect teeth glittered with gold +fillings. How the old man had fallen to this vanity no one knew, but +sooner or later all the money he made was converted into fillings.</p> + +<p>"They do say," he once explained to Sister Angela, "that 'tain't all +gold as glitters, but dis year yaller in my mouth, ma'am, is right sure +gold an' it's like layin' up treasure in heaven, for no moth nor rust +ain't ever going to distroy anythin' in my mouth. No, ma'am! No +corruption, nuther."</p> + +<p>Jed, listening to Sister Angela, now, was beaming and shining.</p> + +<p>"I want you to go to Stone Hedgeton to-morrow, Uncle Jed. You better +start early. You must meet every train until you see a young lady—she +will be looking about for someone—and bring her here. In between trains +make yourself and the horses comfortable at the tavern. I'm glad you do +not drink, Jed."</p> + +<p>"Yes-m," pondered Jed, "but I 'spect there might be mo' dan one young +lady. I reckon it would be disastering if I fotched the wrong one. Isn't +thar something 'bout her discounterments as might be leading, as yo' +might say, ma'am?"</p> + +<p>"Jed, I rely upon you to bring the right young lady!"</p> + +<p>There was no use of further arguing. Jed shuffled off.</p> + +<p>Alone, of all the household, little Mary Allan was not taken into Sister +Angela's confidence, and this was unfortunate, for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> Mary ran well in +harness, but was apt to go a bit wild if left to her own devices. +What people did not confide to Mary she generally found out for herself.</p> + +<p>Mary was known to Silver Gap as the "last of them Allans." Her father +and mother both died soon after Mary showed signs of persisting—her ten +brothers and sisters had refused to live, and when Mary was left to her +fate Sister Angela rescued her, and the girl had been trained for +entrance into a Sisterhood later on.</p> + +<p>She was abnormally keen but discouragingly superstitious; she had moods +when the Sisters believed they had overcome her inheritance of reticence +and aloofness. She would laugh and chat gaily and appear charmingly +young and happy, but without warning she would lapse back to the almost +sullen, suspicious attitude that was so disconcerting. Sister Angela +demanded justice for Mary and received, in return, a kind of loyalty +that was the best the girl had to give.</p> + +<p>She regarded, with that strange interpretation of the lonely hills, all +outsiders as foreigners. She was receiving benefits from them, her only +chance of life, and while she blindly repaid in services, Mary's roots +clung to the cabin life; her affections to the fast-decaying hovel from +which she had been rescued.</p> + +<p>Jed was the only familiar creature left to Mary's inner consciousness. +He belonged to the hills—if not of them, and while his birthright made +it possible for him to assimilate, he shared with Mary the feeling that +he was among strangers.</p> + +<p>Jed thought in strains of "quality"; Mary in terms of "outlanders." But +both served loyally.</p> + +<p>The morning that Jed was to start on his mysterious errand—and he +gloried in the mystery—Mary was "minding" bread in the kitchen and +"chuncking" wood in the stove with a lavish hand. The Sisters were at +prayer in the tiny chapel which had been evolved from a small west room; +and old Aunt Becky Adams was plodding down the rugged trail from Thunder +Peak. Meredith Thornton, too, was nearing her destination and The Ship +was on The Rock.</p> + +<p>Presently Mary, having tested the state of the golden-brown ovals in the +oven—and she could do it to a nicety—came<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> out of the kitchen, +followed by a delicious smell of crisping wheat, and sat down upon the +step of the porch to watch Jed polishing the harness of Washington and +Lincoln—the grave, reliable team upon whom Jed spared no toil.</p> + +<p>Mary looked very brief and slim in her scanty blue cotton frock and the +apron far too large for her. The hair, tidily caught in a firm little +knot, was making brave efforts to escape in wild little curls, and the +girl's big eyes had the expression seen in the eyes of an animal that +has been trapped but not conquered.</p> + +<p>"Uncle Jed," she said in an awed tone, and planting her sharp elbows on +her knees in order to prop her serious face, "The Ship is on The Rock."</p> + +<p>All the morning Jed had been trying to keep his back to the fact.</p> + +<p>"Yo' sure is one triflin' child," he muttered.</p> + +<p>"All the same, The Ship is there, Uncle Jed, and that means that +something is going to happen. It is going to happen long o' Ridge +House—and nothing has happened here before. Things have just gone +on—and—on and on——"</p> + +<p>The girl's voice trailed vaguely—she was looking at The Ship.</p> + +<p>Jed began to have that sensation described by him as "shivers in the +spine of his back." Mary was fascinating him. Suddenly she asked:</p> + +<p>"Uncle Jed, what are they-all sending you to—fetch?" Mary almost said +"fotch."</p> + +<p>"How you know, child, I is goin' to fotch—anything?" Jed's spine was +affecting his moral fibre.</p> + +<p>Mary gave her elfish laugh. She rarely smiled, and her laugh was a mere +sound—not harsh, but mirthless.</p> + +<p>"I <i>know!</i>" she said, "and it came—no matter what it is on The Ship, +and I 'low it will go—on The Ship."</p> + +<p>"Gawd A'mighty!" Jed burst out, "you make me creep like I had pneumonia +fever." With this Jed turned to The Rock and confronted The Ship.</p> + +<p>"Gawd!" he murmured, "I sho' am anxious and trubbled."</p> + +<p>Then he turned, mounted the step of the creaky carriage,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> and gave his +whip that peculiar twist that only a born master of horses ever can.</p> + +<p>It was like Jed to do that which he was ordained to do promptly.</p> + +<p>Mary watched him out of sight and then went indoors. She was depressed +and nervous; her keen ear had heard much not intended for her to hear, +but not enough to control the imagination that was fired by +superstition.</p> + +<p>"A happening" was looming near. Something grave threatened. The evil +crew of The Ship was but biding its time to strike, and Mary thrilled +and feared at once.</p> + +<p>The bread, as Mary sniffed, was ready to be taken from the oven. The +first loaf was poised nicely on the girl's towel-covered hand when a +dark, bent old woman drifted, rather than walked, into the sunny +kitchen. She came noiselessly like a shadow; she was dirty and in rags; +she looked, all but her eyes, as if she might be a hundred years old, +but her eyes held so much fire and undying youth that they were terrible +set in the crinkled, rust-coloured face.</p> + +<p>"I want her!" The words, spoken close to her shoulder caused Mary to +drop the loaf and turn in affright.</p> + +<p>"I want—her!"</p> + +<p>"Gawd! Aunt Becky!" gasped Mary, dropping, like a cloak, the thin veneer +of all that Ridge House had done for her. "Gawd! Aunt Becky, I done +thought you was—dead and all. I ain't seen you in ages. Won't you set?"</p> + +<p>The woman stretched a claw-like hand forth and laid it on the shoulder +of the girl.</p> + +<p>"Don't you argify with me—Mary Allan. I want her."</p> + +<p>There seemed to be no doubt in Mary's mind as to whom Aunt Becky wanted.</p> + +<p>"Sister Angela is at prayer, Aunt Becky," she whispered, trying to +escape from the clutch upon her shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Mary Allan—go tell her I want her. Go!" There was that in Becky's tone +that commanded obedience. Mary started to the hall, her feet clattering +as she ran toward the chapel on the floor above.</p> + +<p>Becky followed, more slowly. She got as far as the opened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> door of the +living room, then she paused, glanced about, and went in.</p> + +<p>There are some rooms that repel; others that seem to rush forward with +warm welcome. The living room at Ridge House was one that made a +stranger feel as if he had long been expected and desired. It was not +unfamiliar to the old woman who now entered it. Through the windows she +had often held silent and unsuspected vigil. It was her way to know the +trails over which she might be called to travel and since that day, +three years before, when Sister Angela had met her on the road and made +her startling proposition, Becky had subconsciously known that, in due +time, she would be compelled to accept what then she had so angrily +refused.</p> + +<p>On that first encounter Sister Angela had said:</p> + +<p>"They tell me that you have a little granddaughter—a very pretty +child."</p> + +<p>"Yo' mean Zalie?" Becky was on her guard.</p> + +<p>"I did not know her name. How old is she?"</p> + +<p>"Nigh onter fifteen." The strange eyes were holding Sister Angela's calm +gaze—the old woman was awaiting the time to spring.</p> + +<p>"It is wrong to keep a young girl on that lonely peak away from +everyone, as I am told that you do. Won't you let her come to Ridge +House? We will teach her—fit her for some useful work."</p> + +<p>Sister Angela at that time did not know her neighbours as well as she +later learned to know them. Becky came nearer, and her thin lips curled +back from her toothless jaws.</p> + +<p>"You-all keep yo' hands off Zalie an' me! I kin larn my gal all she +needs to know. All other larnin' would harm her, and no Popish folk +ain't going to tech what's mine."</p> + +<p>So that was what kept them apart!</p> + +<p>Sister Angela drew back. For a moment she did not understand; then she +smiled and bent nearer.</p> + +<p>"You think us Catholics? We are not; but if we were it would be just the +same. We are friendly women who really want to be neighbourly and +helpful."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You all tote a cross!" Becky was interested.</p> + +<p>"Yes. We bear the cross—it is a symbol of what we try to do—you need +not be afraid of us, and if there is ever a time when you need us—come +to Ridge House."</p> + +<p>After that Becky had apparently disappeared, but often and often when +the night was stormy, or dark, she had walked stealthily down the trail +and taken her place by the windows of Ridge House. She knew the sunny, +orderly kitchen in which such strange food was prepared; she knew the +long, narrow dining room with its quaint carvings and painted words on +walls and fireplace; she knew the tiny room where the Sisters knelt and +sang. One or two of the tunes ran in Becky's brain like haunting +undercurrents; but best of all, Becky knew the living room upon whose +generous hearth the fire burned from early autumn until the bloom of +dogwood, azalea, and laurel filled the space from which the ashes were +reluctantly swept. Every rug and chair and couch was familiar to the +burning eyes. The rows of bookshelves, the long, narrow table and—The +Picture on the Wall!</p> + +<p>To that picture Becky went now. She had never been able to see it +distinctly from any window. It was the Good Shepherd. The noble, patient +face bent over the child on the man's breast had power to still Becky's +distraught mind. She could not understand, but a groping of that part of +her that could still feel and suffer reached the underlying suggestion +of the artist. Here was someone who was doing what, in a vague and +bungling way, Becky herself had always wanted to do—shield the young, +helpless thing that belonged to her.</p> + +<p>The old face twitched and the soiled, crinkled arms—so empty and +yearning—hugged the trembling body. And so Sister Angela found her.</p> + +<p>The three years since Angela had seen Becky Adams had taught her much of +her people—she called them <i>her</i> people, now.</p> + +<p>"I am so glad to see you, Aunt Becky," she said, smiling and pointing to +a chair by the hearth, quite in an easy way. "Are you tired after your +long walk?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sorter." Becky came over to the chair and sank into it. Then she said +abruptly: "Zalie's gone!"</p> + +<p>The brief statement had power to visualize the young creature as Angela +had once seen her: pretty as the flower whose name she bore, a little +shy thing with hungry, half-afraid eyes.</p> + +<p>"Is she—dead?" Sister Angela's gaze grew deep and sympathetic.</p> + +<p>"Not 'zactly—not daid—jes now." Poor Becky, breaking through her own +reserve and agony, made a pitiful appeal.</p> + +<p>"She has—gone away? With whom?" Sister Angela began to comprehend and +she lowered her voice, bending toward Becky.</p> + +<p>"She ain't gone with any one—she didn't have ter—but she'll fotch up +with someone fore long. She's gone to larn—she got the call, same as +all her kin—it's the curse!"</p> + +<p>Now that the wall of reserve was down the pent waters rushed through and +they came on the fanciful, dramatic words peculiar to Becky and her +kind. Angela did not interrupt—she waited while the old, stifled voice +ran on:</p> + +<p>"I had to larn, and I went far and saw sights, and when it was larned I +cum back, with Zalie's mother rolled up like she was a bundle. The old +cabin was empty 'cept for wild things as found shelter there—me and her +settled down and no one found out for some time, and then it didn't +matter!</p> + +<p>"Zalie's mother, she had to larn and she went with a man as helped her +larn powerful quick. He don killed my gal by his ways an' he left her to +die. It was a stranger as brought Zalie to me, and then I set myself to +the task of keeping her from the curse—but she got the call and she +went! I can see her"—here the strange eyes looked as the eyes of a seer +look—they were following the girl on the "larnin' way"; the tired voice +trailed sadly—"I can see how she went. It was nearing morning and all +the moonlight that the night had left was piled like mist down in the +Gap. Her head was up and she had her hands out—sorter feelin', feelin', +and she would laugh—oh! she would laugh—and then she'd catch the +scent, and be off! Oh! my Gawd, my Gawd!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<p>Becky swayed back and forth and moaned softly as one does who has +emptied his soul and waits.</p> + +<p>Sister Angela got up and bent over the old woman, her thin white hand on +the crouching back.</p> + +<p>"When did this happen?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Mos' a year back!"</p> + +<p>"And you have only come now to tell me? Why did you wait?"</p> + +<p>"Twasn't no use coming before—but now, I 'low she's coming back, same +as all us does, after the larnin'! I had a vision las' night—and this +morning—I saw The Ship on the Rock—she'll come!"</p> + +<p>Again the old woman's eyes were lifted and she peered into the depths of +the fire.</p> + +<p>"I seed Zalie las' night! She come with hit."</p> + +<p>"With what?" Sister Angela had that peculiar pricking sensation of the +skin caused by tense nerves.</p> + +<p>"With hit. Her young-un! That's what larnin' means to us-all. Hit! After +that, nothin' counts one way or 'other. Zalie spoke in her vision—clear +like she was in the flesh. She don made me understand that I mus' give +hit a chance; break the curse—there is only one way!"</p> + +<p>"What way, Becky?" Angela was whispering as if she and the old woman +near her were conspiring together.</p> + +<p>"Hit mus' go where no one knows—no one ever can know. It's the knowin' +that damns us-all. Folks knowin' an' expectin'—an' helpin' the curse. +Hit's got to start fresh an' no one knowin'."</p> + +<p>Becky's voice was sepulchral.</p> + +<p>"You mean," Angela asked, "that if Zalie comes back with a child that +you want me to take it, find a home for it—where no one will ever +know?"</p> + +<p>"You-all don promised to help me," Becky pleaded, for she caught the +doubting tone in Angela's voice; "you-all ain't goin' back on that, air +yo'?"</p> + +<p>The burning eyes fell upon the cross at Angela's side.</p> + +<p>"No," she said. "No. Becky, I promise to help you. But suppose Zalie, +should she have a child, refused to give it up?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p> + +<p>Becky's face quivered.</p> + +<p>"She won't las', Zalie won't." The stricken voice was as confident as if +Zalie already lay dead. "Zalie ain't got stayin' powers, she ain't. She +don have fever an' what-all—an' she won't las' long—she'll go on The +Ship! But if you-all hide hit—so The Ship can't take hit—if you-all +give hit hit's chance—then the curse will be broke."</p> + +<p>There was pleading, renunciation, and command in the guttural voice:</p> + +<p>"Becky, I will promise to help you. If there is a child and you renounce +all claim to it, I will find a home for it. It shall have its chance. +And now sit here and rest—I am going to bring some food to you."</p> + +<p>Sister Angela arose and passed from the room. The doing of the kindly, +commonplace thing restored her to her usual calm.</p> + +<p>She was not gone long, but when she returned, bearing the tray, Becky +had departed and the chair in which she had sat was still swaying.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>I brushed all obstructions from my doorsill and stepped into the road.</i>"</p> +</div> + + +<p>It was just after sunset the following day when Jed turned from the Big +Road into the River Road and thanked God that the next five miles could +be made before early darkness set in.</p> + +<p>Beside him sat Meredith Thornton, white lipped and wide-eyed, and her +aristocratic bags rattled around in the space behind.</p> + +<p>The smile with which Meredith had faced her past three years lingered +still on the set mouth—the smile was for Jed.</p> + +<p>"There seem to be more downs than ups on this road," the girl said, in +order to cover a groan. "It will be awful after dark."</p> + +<p>"Dark or light, ma'am," Jed returned, "it's all the same to me, ma'am. I +know dese little ole humps like I know my fingers and toes, ma'am."</p> + +<p>"Do—do you always hit the same humps?" Jed was hitting one now, +squarely.</p> + +<p>"Mostly, ma'am; but I'm studyin' to get there before dark, ma'am. If +Washington now, ma'am"—Jed indicated the sleeker of the two +horses—"had the ginger, so to speak, ma'am, as Lincoln has got—why, +ma'am, the River Road would be flyin' out behind, ma'am, like it war a +tail of a kite."</p> + +<p>Meredith managed to give a weak laugh and, as the wagon hit another +hump, she edged toward Jed. After a few moments he felt her head against +his shoulder—from suffering and exhaustion she fell into a brief and +troubled sleep.</p> + +<p>Like one carved from rock, Jed held his position while a reverent +expression grew upon his face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> + +<p>The glow showed yellow through the western sky, The Gap was growing +purplish and dim, and just then, across a foot bridge over the river, a +hurrying, bent form appeared. It swayed perilously—Jed heard a muttered +curse.</p> + +<p>"Gawd A'mighty," he breathed, "it's ole Aunt Becky come back to add to +trubble after us-all hopin' she was daid—or something."</p> + +<p>Becky was coming toward the road, bending over the bundle she bore; she +paused, looked down, and then darted ahead right in the path of the +horses. They reared and something snapped.</p> + +<p>Meredith awoke and sat up with a cry.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter?" she asked. "An accident?"</p> + +<p>"'Tain't nothin' so bad as an accident, ma'am," Jed reassured her, "but +I don't take no chances with Lincoln's hind hoofs, ma'am, an' somethin' +done cracked in dat quarter."</p> + +<p>The pause gave Aunt Becky time to reach Ridge House and play her part in +the scheme of things.</p> + +<p>Panting and well nigh exhausted, the old woman staggered on and was +thankful to see at her journey's end that but one light shone in the +quiet house. The light was in the living room where Angela sat alone +waiting for Meredith Thornton. She had quite forgotten, in her growingly +anxious hours, all about poor Becky and her sorrows. So now, when the +long window, opening on the west porch, swayed inward, she started up +with outstretched arms—and confronted Becky.</p> + +<p>"I've brung hit!" Becky staggered to a chair, uninvited, and sat down +with her burden, wrapped in a dirty, old quilt, upon her knees.</p> + +<p>Angela sat down also—she was speechless and frightened. She watched the +old woman unfold the coverings, and she saw the form of a sleeping +new-born baby exposed to the heat and light of the fire. She tried to +say something, to get control of herself, but she only succeeded in +bending nearer the apparition.</p> + +<p>"Zalie she cum las' night like I told you she would. She's daid +now—Zalie is. I don buried her at sun-up—an' I want<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> it tole—if it +ever is tole—that the child was buried long o' Zalie. She done planned +while she was a-dying.</p> + +<p>"I told her what you-all promised an' she went real content-like after +that."</p> + +<p>There was sodden despair in Becky's voice.</p> + +<p>"Who—is the father of this child?"</p> + +<p>The commonplace question, under the strain, sounded trivial—but it was +rung from Angela's dismay.</p> + +<p>Becky gave a rough laugh.</p> + +<p>"Not the agony o' death an' the fear o' hell could wring that out of +Zalie," she said. Then: "Yo' ain't goin' back on yo' promise, are yo'?"</p> + +<p>Sister Angela rallied. At any moment the wheels on the road might end +her time for considering poor Becky.</p> + +<p>"You mean," she whispered, "that you renounce—this child; give it to +me, now? You mean—that I must find a home for it?"</p> + +<p>"Yo' done promised—an' it eased Zalie at the end."</p> + +<p>Angela reached for the child—she was calm and self-possessed at last. +This was not the first child she had rescued.</p> + +<p>"It is—a girl?" she asked, lifting the tiny form.</p> + +<p>"Hit's a girl. Give hit a chance."</p> + +<p>"I will." Then Angela wrapped the child in the old quilt and turned +toward the door.</p> + +<p>"Will you wait until I return?" she paused to ask, but Becky, her eyes +on that picture of the Good Shepherd, replied:</p> + +<p>"No—I don let go!"</p> + +<p>With that she passed as noiselessly from the room as if she were but a +shadow sinking into the darkness outside.</p> + +<p>Angela went upstairs and knocked at Sister Constance's door. Sister +Constance was alert at once. Every faculty of hers was trained to +respond intelligently to taps on the door in the middle of the night.</p> + +<p>"This is—a child—a mountain child," whispered Sister Angela. "It has +been left here. Take it into the west wing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> and tell no one of its +presence until we know whether it will be claimed!"</p> + +<p>"Very well, Sister." Constance folded the child to her ample breast; the +maternal in her gave the training she had received a divine quality. The +baby stirred, stretched out its little limbs, and opened its vague, +sleep-filled eyes as if at last something worthy of response had +appealed to it.</p> + +<p>Sister Angela stood in the cold, dark hall listening, and when the door +of the west wing chamber closed, she felt, once more, secure. Sister +Angela was never able to describe afterward the state of mind that made +the happenings of the next few hours seem like flaming pillars against a +dead blur of sensation.</p> + +<p>There was the sound of wheels. That set every nerve tense.</p> + +<p>Meredith was in her arms—clinging, sobbing, and repeating:</p> + +<p>"He must never have my child, Sister. Promise, promise!"</p> + +<p>"I promise, my darling. I promise." Angela heard herself saying the +words as if they proceeded from the lips of a stranger.</p> + +<p>"Has Doris come?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet. She will be here soon."</p> + +<p>"I can trust you and Doris. Doris knows. And now—I let go!"</p> + +<p>Where had Sister Angela heard those words before? They went whirling +through her brain as if on a mighty wheel.</p> + +<p>"I have—let go!"</p> + +<p>Then followed terrible hours in the guest chamber with Sister Constance +repeating over and over: "It is a perfectly plain case. All is well."</p> + +<p>Finally, there was quiet, and then that cry that has power to move the +world's heart, a plaintive wail weighted with relinquishment +and—acceptance. Meredith's little daughter was born just as the clock +below chimed four.</p> + +<p>"I will take it to the west wing," Constance said. "Call me if you need +me."</p> + +<p>But everything seemed settling into calm, and Meredith<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> fell asleep +looking as she used to look in the old days before she had been forced +outside the gates. At daylight she opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Is it morning?" she asked of Sister Angela who sat beside her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear heart."</p> + +<p>"Raise the shade, Sister." Then, as Angela raised it—"Why, how strange! +What is that, Sister?"</p> + +<p>Angela looked and saw The Ship! In that hour when vitality runs low and +with the past horrors of the night still holding her, all the +superstition of The Gap claimed her.</p> + +<p>"I—I was afraid I would lose the ship." Meredith's mind wandered back +to her hurried home-leaving; the dread that the ship that was to bear +her from the Philippines might have gone. The mystic Ship upon The Rock +was all that was needed to fix her fancy.</p> + +<p>"But—I was in time. I <i>am</i> in time. The Ship—is waiting. Everything is +all right now!—quite all right, Sister?"</p> + +<p>Angela went close to the bed.</p> + +<p>"My dear one!" she whispered and slipped her arm under Meredith's head.</p> + +<p>"It all seems so—plain in the morning, Sister. It is the night that +makes us afraid. The night! I cannot remember—what it was—I dreamed."</p> + +<p>"Never mind, little girl"—Angela's tears were dropping on the soft, +smooth hair that was growing clammy; she felt the cold breath on her +face—"never mind, little girl, the dream is past."</p> + +<p>"Sister, it was a bad dream. I do not like bad dreams—tell Doris—what +is it that I want you to tell Doris?"</p> + +<p>"Try to sleep, beloved." Angela knelt.</p> + +<p>Meredith slipped back to her childhood—she gave a short, hurting laugh. +"Tell her—tell Doris—I did try to learn my lesson—but——"</p> + +<p>It was the opening of the door that startled Angela into consciousness. +Doris Fletcher stood within the room. Her eyes took in the scene, the +pretty face against Sister Angela's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> bosom; the sunlight lying full +across the bed and picking out into a gleam the golden cross that hung +to the floor.</p> + +<p>"I'm too—late!"</p> + +<p>Agony rang in the quiet words.</p> + +<p>"And I've travelled day and night! Her letter was forwarded to me."</p> + +<p>The letter burned against Doris's bosom like a tangible thing. She +crossed the room and sank beside the bed.</p> + +<p>They all slipped through the following days as people do who realize +that troubles do not come to them, but are overtaken on the way. They +seemed always to have been there; some people pass on the other side, +but if one's path lies close, then one must go with what courage +possible—look hard, feel and groan with the understanding, and pass on +as best he can bearing the memory with him.</p> + +<p>Father Noble came from many miles back in the hills. Riding his sturdy +little horse, his loose black cloak floating like benignant wings +bearing him on; his radiant old face shining even in the face of death.</p> + +<p>He stayed until the wound in the hillside was covered over Meredith's +little form; stayed to see the flowers hide the scar, murmuring again +and again: "In the hope of joyful resurrection." His was the task to +bridge life and death, and there was no doubt in his beautiful soul.</p> + +<p>"And now," he said, after four days, "I must go to Cleaver's +Clearing"—the Clearing was twenty hard miles away. "There are children +there who never heard of God until I took some toys to them last +Christmas. Then they thought that I was God. They are sick now, poor +children—bad food; no care—ah! well, they will learn, they will +learn."</p> + +<p>And the old man rode away.</p> + +<p>And still Doris had not seen Meredith's child.</p> + +<p>"I cannot, Sister," she had pleaded. "I can think of it only as George +Thornton's child."</p> + +<p>The hate in Doris's heart was so new and appalling a sensation that it +frightened her.</p> + +<p>She tried to think of the unseen child with the love that she felt for +all children—but that one! She struggled to overcome<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> the sickening +aversion that grew, instead of lessened, while the days dragged on. But +always the helpless child represented nothing but passion, brutality, +suffering, and disgrace. It was <i>not</i> a child, a piteous, pleading +child—it was the essence of Wrong made visible.</p> + +<p>Sister Angela was deeply concerned. The unnatural attitude called forth +her old manner of authority. Sitting alone with Doris before the fire in +the living room the evening of Meredith's funeral and Father Noble's +departure she grew stern and commanding.</p> + +<p>"This will never do, my dear," she said. "It cannot be that life has +made of you a cruel, unjust woman."</p> + +<p>Doris dropped her eyes—they were wonderful eyes, her real and only +claim to beauty. Dusky eyes they were, with a light in them of amber.</p> + +<p>"How much did Merry tell you?" she asked, faintly, for the older woman +looked so frail and pure that it seemed impossible that she knew the +worst.</p> + +<p>"My dear, she told me—nothing. Her letter said that she wanted to tell +me things—things that she could not tell to God"—Angela unconsciously +touched her cross—"but there was no time. No time."</p> + +<p>"There are things that women cannot tell to God, Sister. Things that +they can only tell to some women!"</p> + +<p>A bitterness that she could not control shook Doris's voice. She shrank +from touching the exquisite detachment of Sister Angela by the truth, +and yet she must have as much sympathy as possible and, certainly, +coöperation.</p> + +<p>"Sister, this child should never have been born!"</p> + +<p>The words reached where former words had failed. A flush touched +Angela's white face—it was like sunrise on snow. Then, after a pause:</p> + +<p>"Did—Meredith—think that?" A growing sternness gave Doris hope that +she might be saved the details that were like poison in her blood.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Protected by—by what is law—George Thornton——"</p> + +<p>But Angela raised her thin, transparent hand commandingly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> It was as if +she were staying the torrents of wrong and shame that threatened to +deluge all that she had gained by her life of renunciation and +repression—and yet in her clear eyes there gleamed the understanding of +the depths.</p> + +<p>"May God have mercy upon—the child!" was what she said, and by those +words she took her stand between past wrong and hope of future justice. +"You must take this child, Doris," she said. "All that you know and feel +but make the course imperative and inevitable."</p> + +<p>"Sister, how can I—feeling as I do?"</p> + +<p>"Can you afford not to? Can you leave it—to such a man?"</p> + +<p>"But, Sister, you do not know him. If I should conquer my aversion and +take the child, if I succeeded in loving it—he would bide his time and +claim it. The law that made this horrible thing possible covers his +claim to the child."</p> + +<p>Angela drooped back in her chair. She looked old and beaten.</p> + +<p>"He must not have the child," she murmured. "It's the only chance for +the salvation of Meredith's little girl. He <i>shall</i> not have it!"</p> + +<p>Doris bent toward the fire holding her cold, clasped hands to the heat. +Suddenly she turned.</p> + +<p>"I am growing nervous," she said, "I thought I heard someone pressing +against the window—I thought I saw—a shadow drift outside in the +moonlight."</p> + +<p>Angela started and sat upright. Every sense was alert—she was +remembering her promise to old Becky!</p> + +<p>"I wish," she said, haltingly, "I wish I had consulted Father Noble. I +have undertaken too much."</p> + +<p>"Consulted him about what, Sister?" Doris was touched by the quivering +voice and strained eyes; she set her own trouble aside.</p> + +<p>Again that pressing sound, and the wind swirling the dead leaves against +the house.</p> + +<p>"About a little deserted mountain child upstairs. I have promised to +find a home for it, but I cannot manage such things any more—I am too +old."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> + +<p>The words came plaintively, as if defending against implied neglect.</p> + +<p>Doris's eyes grew deep and concerned.</p> + +<p>"A deserted child?" she repeated. In the feverish haste and trouble of +the past few days the ordinary life of Ridge House had held no part. It +seemed to be claiming its rights now, pushing her aside.</p> + +<p>Then Sister Angela, her tired face set toward the long window whence +came that pressing sound and the swish of the wind, told Becky's story. +She told it as she might if Becky were listening, ready at any lapse to +correct her, but she carefully refrained from mentioning names.</p> + +<p>It eased her mind to turn from Doris's trouble to poor Becky's, and she +saw with relief that Doris was listening; was interested.</p> + +<p>"It is strange," Sister Angela mused, when the bare telling of the story +was over, "how the deep, cruel things in life are met by people in much +the same way—the ignorant and the wise, when they touch the inscrutable +they let go and turn to a higher power than their own. Meredith felt +that her child's chance in life lay in a new and fresh start. The +mountain woman's curse, as she termed it, could only be conquered, so +she pleaded, by giving her grandchild to those who did not know. It +amounts to the same thing.</p> + +<p>"Meredith is—gone; the old woman of the hills cannot last long. I +wonder, as to the children—I wonder!"</p> + +<p>Doris's eyes were burning and her voice shook when she spoke. Her words +and tone startled Angela.</p> + +<p>"Where is the—the mountain child?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Upstairs, my dear. Why, Doris, you are shaking as if you had a chill. +You are ill—let me call Sister Constance."</p> + +<p>But Doris stayed her as she rose.</p> + +<p>"No, no, Sister. I am only trembling because my feet are set on a +possible way! I am—I am pushing things aside. Tell me, is this child a +girl?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"How old is it?"</p> + +<p>"It was born the night before Meredith's child. It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> survived against +grave dangers—it had no care, really, for twenty-four hours."</p> + +<p>"You—you think it will live?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Do you think—the grandmother will ever reclaim it?"</p> + +<p>"No, my dear. She is very old. I do not know how old, but certainly she +cannot last much longer. She is a strange creature, but I am confident +she realizes all that she said."</p> + +<p>"And she is right—it is the only way." Doris was now speaking more to +herself than to Angela. It was as if she were arguing, seeking to +convince her conservative self before she stepped out upon a new and +perilous path.</p> + +<p>"No one knowing! Then the start could be new. It is the knowing, +expecting, and suggesting that do the harm. We may call it inheritance, +but it may be that we evolve from our knowledge and fears the very thing +we would avert if we were left free."</p> + +<p>Sister Angela bent forward. She whispered as if she felt the necessity +of secrecy.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Sister, can you not see? Suppose it were possible for me to take +Merry's child without the knowledge of its inheritance from the father. +Suppose this little mountain child were given its chance among people +who did not know."</p> + +<p>"The children would reveal themselves, my dear." Angela was defending, +she knew not what, but all her nature was up in arms. "It is God's way."</p> + +<p>"Or our bungling and lack of faith, Sister, which?"</p> + +<p>All the weariness and hopelessness passed from Doris's face; she was +eager, her eyes shone. Presently she stood up, her back to the fire, her +glance on that far window that opened to the starry night and the +narrow, flower-hidden bed on the hill.</p> + +<p>"Sister Angela," the words were spoken solemnly as a vow might be taken +before God, "I am going to take—both children. But on one condition—I +am not to know which is Meredith's."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p>A log rolling from the irons startled the women—their nerves were +strained to the breaking point.</p> + +<p>"Impossible!" gasped Angela.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Your own has claims upon you!"</p> + +<p>"None that I am not willing to give—but this is the only way. If, as +you say, it is God's way that they reveal themselves, then I lose; if +God is with me, I win."</p> + +<p>"Dare—you?"</p> + +<p>Doris stretched her arms as if pushing aside every obstacle.</p> + +<p>"I do," she said. "I am not a daring woman: I am a weak and fearful +one—this, though, I dare!"</p> + +<p>"But the father——" Angela whispered.</p> + +<p>"The—father——" Doris's eyes flamed.</p> + +<p>"But he may, as you say, claim the child." Angela hastened breathlessly +as one running.</p> + +<p>"How could he, if I did not know which child was his?"</p> + +<p>The blinding light began to point the way clearer, now, to the older +woman.</p> + +<p>"It's—unheard of," she murmured, "and yet——"</p> + +<p>"I will write to Thornton, offer to take his child," Doris was pleading, +rather than explaining. "I think at the first he will agree to the +proposal—what else can he do? The shock—remember, he does not even +know that a child is expected! Dare we refuse Meredith's child this only +and desperate chance—knowing what we do?"</p> + +<p>Angela made no reply. She was letting go one after another of her rigid +beliefs. Again Doris spoke, again she pleaded:</p> + +<p>"I will abide by your decision, Sister, but only after you have gone to +the chapel—and seen the way. I will wait here."</p> + +<p>Angela rose stiffly, holding to her cross as if it were a physical +support. With bowed head she passed from the room and Doris sat down +thinking; demanding justice.</p> + +<p>A half hour passed before steps were heard in the hall. Doris stood up, +her eyes fixed on the door.</p> + +<p>Sister Angela entered, and in her arms, wrapped in the same<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> blanket, +were two sleeping babies wearing the plain clothing that Ridge House +kept in store for emergencies. Doris ran forward; she bent over the +small creatures.</p> + +<p>"Which?" Nature leaped forth in that one palpitating word—it was the +last claim of blood.</p> + +<p>"I—forgot—when I brought them to you. We have all—forgot. It <i>is</i> the +only way—the chance."</p> + +<p>Doris took both children in her arms.</p> + +<p>"I shall name them Joan and Nancy," she whispered, "for my mother and +grandmother. Joan and Nancy—Thornton!"</p> + +<p>Then she kissed them, and it was given to her at that moment to forget +her bitter hatred.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Just as much of doubt as bade us plant a surer foot upon the sun-road.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>Doris Fletcher had no turning-back in her nature. She never reached a +goal but by patient effort to understand, and she was able to close her +eyes to by-paths.</p> + +<p>Having adopted the children, having foregone her prejudices—good and +evil—having set her feet upon the way, she meant to go unfalteringly +on, and because doubts would assail her at times, she held the surer to +her task.</p> + +<p>She remained a month at Ridge House. She wrote to Thornton and in due +time his reply came.</p> + +<p>Apparently he had written while bewildered and shocked. The old arrogant +tone was gone. He accepted what Doris offered and set aside a generous +sum of money for his child's expenses.</p> + +<p>It was Sister Angela's suggestion that Mary should become the nurse for +the children.</p> + +<p>"How much does she know, Sister?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing—but what we have permitted her to know. The girl, since +knowing of the children, has astonished me by her interest in them. +Nothing before has so brought her out of her native reserve. I never +suspected it—but the girl has maternal instincts that should not be +starved."</p> + +<p>But Sister Angela was mistaken. Mary knew more than she had been +permitted to know.</p> + +<p>A closed door to Mary meant seeking access through other channels. +Sister Constance had not screened the windows of the west chamber which +opened on the roof of the porch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> and were next to the window of Mary's +small chamber. She had forgotten to ward against the startling sound of +a baby's cry. But Mary, the night that Becky had left her burden to the +care of Sister Angela, had heard that cry and it reached to the hidden +depth of the girl's nature. It chilled her, then set her blood racing +hotly. She got up and went to the window—it was moonlight in The Gap +and the night was full of a rising wind that rattled the vines and set +the leaves swirling.</p> + +<p>Covering herself with a dark shawl, she crept from her window and, +clinging close to the house, reached the west chamber.</p> + +<p>Inside, by the light of a candle, Sister Constance sat, hushing to sleep +a little child! The sight was burned upon Mary's consciousness as if +Fate pressed every detail there so it might not be forgotten. Mary saw +the small, puckered face. It was individual and distinct.</p> + +<p>She almost slipped from her place on the roof; her breath came so hard +that she feared Sister Constance might hear, and she groped her way +back.</p> + +<p>All next day Mary worked silently but with such haste that Sister Janice +took her sharply to task.</p> + +<p>"'Tis the ungodly as leaves the dust under the mats, child," she +cautioned.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sister." Mary attacked the mats!</p> + +<p>"And a burnt loaf cries for forgiveness."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sister, but the burnt loaf I will myself eat to the last crust."</p> + +<p>"Indeed and you shall—for the carelessness that you show."</p> + +<p>Somehow Mary lived through the day with her ears strained and a mighty +fear in her heart.</p> + +<p>It was nearing morning of the following day—that darkest hour—when the +girl arose from her sleepless bed and stole forth again.</p> + +<p>It was just then that Sister Constance, her face distorted by grief and +the play of candlelight upon it, entered the west chamber with a baby in +her arms!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mary gripped the shutters—she felt faint and weak. Suppose she should +slip and fall?</p> + +<p>And then she saw two children on the bed and Sister Constance—bent in +prayer—her cross pressed to her lips.</p> + +<p>All this Mary had seen, but when Sister Angela asked her if she would +like to go with Miss Fletcher and care for the children, so great was +her curiosity that she, mentally, tore her roots from her home hills; +let go her clinging to the deserted cabin where she had been born, and +almost eagerly replied: "I'd like it powerful."</p> + +<p>So Mary took her place.</p> + +<p>Doris Fletcher had her plans well laid.</p> + +<p>"I must have myself well in hand," she said to Sister Angela, "before I +go to New York. There's the little bungalow in California where father +took mother before Merry's birth. It happens to be vacant. I will go +there and work out my plans."</p> + +<p>It seemed a simple solution. The children throve from the start in the +sunshine and climate; the peace and detachment acted like charms, and +Mary, stifling her soul's homesickness, grew stern as to face, but +marvellously tender and capable in her duties. Doris grew accustomed to +her silence and reserve after a time, but she never understood Mary, +although she grew to depend upon her absolutely. To friends in New York, +especially to Doctor David Martin, Doris wrote often. She was never +quite sure how the impression was given that Meredith had left twins; +certainly she had not said that, but she had spoken of "the children" +without laying stress upon the statement, and while debating just what +explanation she would make. After all, it was her own affair. Some day +she would confide in David, but there were more important details to +claim her attention.</p> + +<p>The babies were adorable, but in neither could she trace an expression +or suggestion of Meredith. Their childish characteristics gave no +clue—they were simply healthy, normal creatures full of the charm that +all childhood should have in common. And gradually, as time passed, +Doris lost herself in their demanding individualities; she became +absorbed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> Joan was larger, stronger, seemed older. She had brown eyes +of that sunny tint which suggest sunshine. Her hair was brown, almost +from the first, with gold glints. She was fair, had little colour unless +the warm glow that rose and fell so sweetly in her face could be called +colour. Excitement brought the flush, disappointment or a chiding word +banished it. At other times Joan had the warm, ivory-tinted skin of +health, not delicacy. Nancy was, from the first, frankly blonde. She +never changed from the lovely, fair promise of her first year. She was +the most feminine creature one could imagine; a doll brought the light +to her violet eyes.</p> + +<p>"She takes that rather than her milk," Mary explained, then gravely: +"She'll take her milk if I hold off the doll."</p> + +<p>Nature was never quite sure what to do with Joan. She changed with the +years in tint, colouring, and character, but Nancy was fair, fine, and +delicately poised from her baby days.</p> + +<p>Both children worshipped Doris—Auntie Dorrie, they were taught to call +her—and it was amusing to watch their relations to her. To please her, +to win her approval, were their highest hopes. Mary clearly preferred +Nancy and, for that reason, gave more attention to Joan.</p> + +<p>When the children were nearly two Doris wrote to David Martin:</p> + +<p>"I am coming home. I am glad that I have always kept the house in +commission; I feel that I can trust myself there now."</p> + +<p>And so the little family travelled east. Mary in trim uniform (and how +she silently hated it) of black, with immaculate cuffs, collars, and +cap; the babies perfect in every way and Doris, herself, happier than +she had ever been in her life—handsomer, too. Her life had developed +normally around the children; she felt a wide and deep interest in +everything, and always the sense of high adventure, a daring in her +relations to the future.</p> + +<p>The old Fletcher house set the standard for the others down the long +row. It was brick, with heavy oak, brass-bound<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> doors. The marble steps +and white trim were spotless and glistening and behind it lay a deep +yard hidden by a tall brick wall. The house had reserved, as the family +had, the right, once its civic duty was performed, to develop inwardly +along its own lines.</p> + +<p>The three generations, in turn, had set their marks upon it. The first +Fletcher had been a genial soul given to entertaining, and the dining +room, back of the drawing room, gave evidence of the old gentleman's +taste. It was a stately and beautiful room and each article of furniture +had been made to fit into the space and the need by an artist.</p> + +<p>Doris's father was not indifferent to his father's tastes, but he was a +student at heart and had a vision as to libraries. He encroached upon +the ample space back of the house and had built an oval room through +whose leaded panes the peach and plum trees could be seen like traceries +on the clear glass. Around the walls of this room the book shelves +ranged at just the right height, and above them hung pictures that +inspired but did not obtrude. The high, carved chimney with its deep, +generous hearth was a benediction.</p> + +<p>When Doris had come home from St. Mary's she made known a family +trait—she voiced what to her seemed an inspiration but which to the +father, at first, seemed madness. Still, he complied and spent many +happy hours before his death in what he called "Doris's Daring."</p> + +<p>"I want the west wall of the library knocked out, Father," she had said, +but Mr. Fletcher only stared.</p> + +<p>"We can have the books and pictures in my room—my sunken room. There is +enough garden to spare and we can save the roses. We'll drop down from +the library by a shallow flight of steps; we'll have a little fountain +and about a mile of nice low window seats rambling around the room. I +don't want nymphs in the fountain but dear, adorable children tossing +water at each other.</p> + +<p>"We must have birds in cages, and plants and pictures—it must be a room +where we can all take what is dearest to us—and live."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> + +<p>Of course it was an expensive and daring conception, but it was carried +out by an inspired young architect, and it was Meredith who had posed +for the figures in the fountain.</p> + +<p>When Doris returned to New York with her children this room became the +soul of the house.</p> + +<p>The year after Doris's adoption of the children Sister Angela died +suddenly. "She simply fell asleep," Sister Constance wrote.</p> + +<p>After that the other Sisters could not feel happy and content in the +atmosphere of antagonism that Sister Angela had partially overcome, but +with which they had no sympathy. They returned to the Middle West and +entered a Sisterhood where their duties and environment were more +congenial. Ridge House reverted to the Fletcher estate and Uncle Jed was +put in charge.</p> + +<p>"I may use it later," Doris explained, "or I may turn it over to Father +Noble if he ever needs it."</p> + +<p>What this all meant to Mary no one ever knew—she saw, now, no return to +her hills, and her longing for them grew as the years passed, and her +curiosity flattened in the dull round of duties and commonplace routine. +Only one emotion largely controlled her thought and that was a dumb +gratitude for what she believed she was receiving. She could not agree +that her devoted service gave ample return. She was under obligation, +and the feeling was blighting to the girl's independence. Work, the +necessity for work, was an accepted state of mind to poor Mary. The +luxury and consideration that were hers in her present life took from +labour, as far as she mentally considered it, all the essential +qualities that gave her independence. She was accepting—so she +reflected in that proud detached logic of the hills—from outsiders what +no mere bodily labour could repay, certainly not such service as she was +giving. Just loving and caring for two little children!</p> + +<p>With cautious and suspicious watchfulness through the years Mary +regarded Doris Fletcher still as "foreign." Foreign to all that was born +and bred in the girl's inheritance of mountain aristocracy, but she had +been touched by the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> justice, the unerring kindness of the woman, who, +to Mary's wrong ideals, gave and gave and constantly made it impossible +for her to make return.</p> + +<p>"Some day," the girl vowed, when her manner was most grim and repelling, +"some day I'll do something to pay back!" And then she grew bewildered +in the maze of wondering if the "quality" so precious to her +understanding might not exist in all places? Might it not be?—but here +Mary became lost.</p> + +<p>When she recalled, as less and less she did, the unlawful spying of hers +on the west chamber of Ridge House, she set her lips in a firm line. She +had gone far enough on her upward way to detest the cringing, deceitful +methods of her childhood and she sternly sought to right herself, with +her burdening conscience, by putting away forever what possible +significance lay in the strange coming of that first and second child to +Ridge House.</p> + +<p>"Were they twins? Were—they?" But Mary always was frightened when she +got into her mental depths.</p> + +<p>Three or four vital and significant events marked the years intervening +between Doris's return to New York and the day when Joan and Nancy +entered womanhood.</p> + +<p>The first incident seemed slight in itself but proved the truth of the +need for caution when one is on a blind trail. With all her good +intentions and high hopes Doris was bewildered as to her steps. She who +had been the soul of frankness and cheerful friendliness was now +reticent and reserved.</p> + +<p>"It is poor Meredith's business," friend after friend decided. Where +little was known, much was suspected. "The Fletchers cannot easily brook +<i>that</i> sort of thing."</p> + +<p>Just what that "sort" was depended upon the temperament and character of +the person speaking.</p> + +<p>Then among the first to call after Doris's return was Mrs. Tweksbury, an +old and valued family friend, a woman who was worth one's while to gain +as friend, for she could be a desperate foe. She had formed all her +opinions of Meredith Thornton's tragedy upon what she knew and loved +concerning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> the girl, and what she knew nothing whatever about, +concerning Thornton.</p> + +<p>To Mrs. Tweksbury he was a black villain who had murdered—there was no +other word for it—an innocent young creature who belonged to that class +(Mrs. Tweksbury was frank and clear about "class") not supposed to be +subject to the coarser dealings of life.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury relied absolutely upon what she termed her inherited +intuition. This was quite outside feminine intuition. The Tweksbury male +intellect had been judicial from the first, and "the constant necessity +of knowing men and women," as Mrs. Tweksbury often explained, "had left +its mark upon the family."</p> + +<p>"<i>We know!</i> That is all there is to say. We know!"</p> + +<p>So Mrs. Tweksbury "knew" all about everything when she folded Doris in +her motherly arms.</p> + +<p>"There is no need of a word, my dear," she said, "and you are dealing +with the whole thing superbly. Let me see the children. How fortunate +that they are twins <i>and</i> girls! Girls may inherit from the father, but +thank God! nature saves them from the developing along his line. And +being <i>twins</i> certainly modifies what might otherwise be concentrated."</p> + +<p>Doris felt her heart beat fast. She was not prepared to confide in Mrs. +Tweksbury, certainly not at present. She loved the old woman for her +good qualities, but she shrank from putting herself at the mercy of Mrs. +Tweksbury's "inherited intuitions!"</p> + +<p>So she said nothing, but sent for the children.</p> + +<p>Hidden deep in the old woman's heart were all the denied and suppressed +yearnings of a love that had escaped fulfilment—a love that had entered +in after her marriage to a man utterly without sympathy with her, but +which had been rigidly ignored because of the stern moral fibre that +marked her. After the death of all those who had been concerned in her +secret romance she had taken upon herself the more or less vicarious +guardianship of the son of the man she had loved and foregone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> + +<p>The boy lived with his mother's people, and Mrs. Tweksbury only visited +him occasionally; but her proud, stern old heart knew only one undying +passion now—her passion for children.</p> + +<p>When Nancy and Joan stood before her, she regarded them with almost +tragic, and, at the same time, comic expression. The children were +frightened at her twitching, wrinkled face and glanced at Doris, who +smiled them into calmness.</p> + +<p>In Joan, Mrs. Tweksbury saw resemblance to no one she remembered, so she +concluded she must be like the father, physically, whom they must all +ignore absolutely. Try as she valiantly did, the old lady felt her +quick-beating heart falter before Joan's earnest, searching gaze. It was +a relief to turn to Nancy and permit her eyes to dim and soften.</p> + +<p>"My dear, my dear," she said to Doris, "how like dear Merry the baby is! +Just so, I recall—"</p> + +<p>Doris's face grew strained and ashy. "Please," she implored, "please, +Aunt Emily—don't!"</p> + +<p>"Of course, of course, my child. Very indiscreet of me—but I was taken +off my guard." Then—"My dears, will you kiss me?" This to the children +keeping their courage up by clinging together.</p> + +<p>"No," Joan replied in a tone entirely free from bad manners but weighted +with simple truth; "Joan likes to kiss Auntie Dorrie." The inference +stiffened Mrs. Tweksbury and caused Doris a qualm.</p> + +<p>"And you?" The old lady's tone was pathetic in its appeal to Nancy—her +"intuition" was at stake.</p> + +<p>Nancy drew nearer. She was fascinated, afraid, but guided by a strange +impulse. "Nancy will," she panted, "Nancy will kiss you—two times!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury's breath caught in her throat—she strangled but +controlled herself and bent as a queen might to the sweet uplifted face +at her knee.</p> + +<p>After that visit Doris would have had a difficult task in stemming a +flood that Mrs. Tweksbury directed, having removed the dam. While she +fairly grovelled, emotionally,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> before Nancy, the old lady defended Joan +by stern insistence upon traits of nobility unsuspected by others in the +child.</p> + +<p>"The wretch of a father," she mentally vowed, "shall not have the child +if suggestion can prevent."</p> + +<p>Spiritually she fell in line with Doris, and where Mrs. Tweksbury led it +were wiser and easier to follow than to blaze new trails.</p> + +<p>The second event that marked a new epoch was the coming of George +Thornton to claim his own.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>And when it fails, fight as we will, we die.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>George Thornton was a man who believed, or thought he did, in two +controlling things in life: Intellect, and the training of intellect, by +education and stern attention, to the task at stake.</p> + +<p>He had intellect and he had devoted himself to his task, that of worldly +success, but he had never recognized nor admitted the necessity of the +spiritual in his development, and so it had failed him—and, in a deep, +tragic way, he was dying. Had been dying through the years since his +devil took the reins, in a mad hour, and rode him.</p> + +<p>There had been weeks and months after his leaving Meredith when his soul +cried aloud to him but was smothered. He would not heed. He let business +and coarse, pleasurable excitement gain power over him, and when they +lagged he drank his conscience to sleep.</p> + +<p>He knew the danger which lay in the last aid to deaden his pain, so he +rarely sought it.</p> + +<p>But something new had entered in—something that, in hours when he was +obliged to face facts, frightened him, and after months abroad, months +in which he nursed his resentment against Meredith and felt his defeat +with her, he decided to do the only decent thing left for him to +do—apologize and set her free.</p> + +<p>And then he found her note. The bald, naked statement drove all power to +act for the moment from him. Close upon that shock, which he smilingly +covered, by explaining on very commonplace grounds, came Doris's letter. +The purest elements and the most brutal in many natures lie close. They +did in Thornton. Had Meredith been a wiser,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> a more human and loving +woman, she might have helped Thornton to his full stature; but failing +him by her helpless insufficiency, she drove him to his shoals.</p> + +<p>Had she by the turn of Fortune been obliged, as many women are, to have +borne her lot though her heart broke her child might have saved her and +the man also—for Thornton had the paternal instincts, though they were +unsuspected and wholly dormant.</p> + +<p>Again Meredith had defeated him. What could he do with a helpless baby +on his hands? What else was there to do but accept Doris's offer? And of +course the child was dead to him except by the cold, legal tie that +bound them together. That, Thornton grimly held to.</p> + +<p>He would press it, too, in his good time!</p> + +<p>But Thornton's next few years proved to be a succession of mis-steps +with the inevitable results.</p> + +<p>He married the woman who could, when she had no actual hold on him, +soothe and comfort—not because of his need, but her own. Once, however, +she was placed in a secure position, she cast any need of his aside and +developed myriads of her own.</p> + +<p>If Thornton could not force a social position for her, then he must pay +for the luxury of her exile with him. Thornton paid and paid until every +faculty he had was strained to the snapping point. Finally he resorted +to the last and most dangerous aid he had at his disposal—he drank more +than ever before; but even in his extremity he recognized his danger and +always caught himself before the worst overcame him.</p> + +<p>Business began to show the effect of private troubles, and then Thornton +remembered the Fletcher fortune; his child, and the possibilities of +making the child a link between money and a growing necessity.</p> + +<p>Whatever natural tie there might have been in Thornton's relations with +his child had perished. There was merely a legal one now.</p> + +<p>And Thornton, having explained this at great length to his wife, and +finally getting her to agree to assume a responsibility<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> that he swore +should never embarrass her, travelled to New York.</p> + +<p>It was a bright, sunny June day when he rang the bell of the Fletcher +home and was admitted, by a trim maid, to the small reception room that +was a noncommittal link between the hall and the drawing room.</p> + +<p>Sitting alone in the quiet place, Thornton was conscious of a silvery +<i>drip, drip</i> of water. Sound, like smell, has a power to arouse memory +and control it. Thornton's thoughts flew back to the week he had spent +in this old house with his girl wife. He recalled the sunken room and +the fountain with those wonderful figures modelled after Meredith.</p> + +<p>Without taking into account the years and happenings that had made him +more than a stranger to the family he got up and followed a haunting +desire to see the room and the fountain again.</p> + +<p>He passed through the drawing room and shrugged his shoulders. It was +arrogant, self-assured—he hated that sort of thing. The dining room was +better—a fine idea as to colour and furniture; the library, +too—Thornton paused and took a comprehensive glance. He liked the +library, and the fireplace was perfect. He made a mental note. Then he +stepped down into the room with its memory-haunting fountain. He had +never seen it in action before, and so clever was the conceit that he +drew back, fearing that the tossing sprays would reach him. Then he sat +down in a deep chair, crossed his legs, smiled, and looked about.</p> + +<p>Here it was that Doris spent much of her time indoors. The window was +open and a rose vine was clinging to the frame, rich in bloom. There was +a work basket on the low, velvet-cushioned seat—a child's sock lay near +it and several ridiculous toys, rigidly propped against the wall, as if +on review. Birds sang outside in the plum and peach trees and birds +inside, not realizing their bondage, answered merrily—the room was +throbbing with life and joy and hope. Thornton smiled, not a pleasant +smile, and felt more important than he had felt in many a day; more +powerful, too.</p> + +<p>"Doris must be over thirty," he mused, "and not of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> marrying type. +There must be a pretty big pile to back all this." He got quickly to his +feet, for Doris appeared just then at the doorway leading to the +library. She paused at the top of the stairs—there was a strip of green +velvet carpet running down the middle of the marble steps; her white +gown came just to her ankles, and the narrow white-shod feet sank +lightly into the green carpet as if it were moss.</p> + +<p>"I am glad to see that you have made yourself comfortable, George," she +said, and smiled her very finest smile. There was no hint of reproof in +the tone, but Thornton instantly wondered if it would not have been +wiser to have kept to the reception room.</p> + +<p>"I hope I have not intruded," he went to the steps and held out his +hand, "it <i>is</i> home, you know, after all."</p> + +<p>This was meant to be conciliatory, but the appeal went astray.</p> + +<p>"Let us sit by the window," Doris remarked, "the air is delightful +to-day."</p> + +<p>And then came the pause during which the path leading to an +understanding must be chosen. Doris left the choosing to Thornton. He +took the wrong one.</p> + +<p>"It brings so much back," he half whispered, "so much!" He was a fairly +good actor, but Doris was not appreciative.</p> + +<p>"So much that had better be left where it rests," she said. "I have +learned that the present needs every energy—the past can take care of +itself."</p> + +<p>"You have had the real burden." Thornton meant to be magnanimous. "I +shall always be grateful for your splendid help at a time when so much +was at stake. Your goodness to my child——" For a moment Thornton +could not think whether the child was a girl or a boy. He was confused +and a bit alarmed.</p> + +<p>Doris came to his assistance.</p> + +<p>"Meredith's little girl was all that made the first bitter year possible +for me. I have done my best, George, my happiest best—she is lovely; +the most joyous thing you can imagine. Remembering how much Meredith and +I needed each other, I adopted a child at the same time I undertook the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +care of your baby—the two are inseparable and wonderfully congenial."</p> + +<p>Thornton's brow clouded. He could not have described his sensations, but +they were similar to those he had once experienced, standing alone in a +dense Philippine thicket, and suddenly recalling that he was not popular +with the natives. He sensed a menace somewhere.</p> + +<p>"You're quite remarkable, Doris," he said, "but was it altogether +wise—the adoption, I mean? I suppose you know everything about the—the +child, but even so, the break now will be difficult for—for everybody."</p> + +<p>Doris gave him a long, steady look.</p> + +<p>"I know very little about the child I adopted," she said. "The poor waif +was deserted, and as to the wrench now, why, life has taught me, also, +George, to take what joy one can and be willing to pay for it. We cannot +afford to let a great blessing slip because we may have to do without it +bye and bye."</p> + +<p>"But—inheritance, Doris! You, of all women, to undervalue that! It was +a bit risky, but of course while children are so young——" Thornton +paused and Doris broke in.</p> + +<p>"Inheritance is such a tricky thing," she said, looking out into the +flower-filled garden, "it is such a clever masquerader. Often it is like +those insects that take upon themselves the colour of the leaf upon +which they cling. It isn't what it seems, and when one really +knows—why, one can hardly be just, because of the injustice of +inheritance."</p> + +<p>"Queer reasoning," muttered Thornton. "Why, that—kid's father might +be—— well, anything!" Why he said "father" would be hard to tell.</p> + +<p>"Exactly!" agreed Doris. "But when I did not know, I could be fair and +unhampered. It has paid—the child is adorable."</p> + +<p>"Shows no—no—evil tendencies?" Thornton grew more and more restive.</p> + +<p>"On the contrary—only divine ones."</p> + +<p>"We're all lucky." The man sighed, then spoke hurriedly: "I'd like to +see my little girl. She is here—of course?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh! yes. I have never been separated from her. I suppose—you mean +to——" Doris paused.</p> + +<p>"I mean to relieve you, Doris, and assume my responsibility—now that I +dare."</p> + +<p>"Your wife—is she willing?" Doris longed to say "worthy" but she knew +that the woman was not.</p> + +<p>"More than willing." And now Thornton thought that the worst was over.</p> + +<p>"I will bring your little girl," Doris said, and went quietly from the +room.</p> + +<p>Something of the sweetness and strength of the place seemed to go with +her. Again Thornton became restless, and it came back to him that his +first aversion to Doris Fletcher was connected with this power of hers +to overturn, without effort, his peace of mind and self-esteem. But he +had outwitted her in marrying her sister—she had antagonized him but he +had won then and would win again now! The fountain irritated and annoyed +him. He got up and walked about the room.</p> + +<p>"A devilish freakish conception," he muttered, gazing at the fountain +and kicking at a rare rug on the floor, "a kind of madness runs through +the breed, I wager. Too much blood of one sort gets clogged in the human +system." And then he listened.</p> + +<p>There were childish voices nearing: sweet, piping voices with little +gurgles of laughter rippling through. The laugh of happy, healthy +childhood.</p> + +<p>"She's bringing them both!" thought Thornton, and an ugly scowl came to +his brow. He did not know much about children, knew nothing really, +except that they were noisy and usually messy—some were better looking +than others; gave promise, and he hoped his child would be handsome; it +might help her along, and she would need all the help she could muster. +Then he heard Doris instructing the children:</p> + +<p>"See, Joan, dear, hold Nan by the hand like a big, strong sister, this +is going to be another play. Now listen sharp! When we come to the steps +you must stand close together and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> give that pretty courtesy that Mary +taught you yesterday. Now, darlings—don't forget!"</p> + +<p>There are moments and incidents in life that seem out of all proportion +to their apparent significance. Thornton waited for what was about to +happen as he might have the verdict were he on trial for his life. He +was frightened at he knew not what. Would his child look like Meredith? +Would she have those eyes that could find his soul and burn it even +while they smiled? Would she look like him; find in him some thing that +would help him to forget? He looked up. Doris had planned dramatically. +She left the babies alone on the top step and came down to Thornton.</p> + +<p>"Aren't they wonderful?" she asked in so calm and ordinary a tone that +it was startling.</p> + +<p>They were wonderful—even a hard, indifferent man could see that. Slim, +vigorous little creatures they were with sturdy brown legs showing above +socks and broad-toed sandals. Their short white frocks fell in widening +line from the shoulders, giving the effect of lightness, winginess. Both +children had lovely hair, curly, bobbed to a comfortable length, and +their wide, curious eyes fastened instantly upon Thornton—eyes of +purple-blue and eyes of hazel-gold; strange eyes, frankly confronting +him but disclosing nothing; eyes of utterly strange children; not a +familiar feature or expression to guide him.</p> + +<p>"I have called them Joan and Nancy," Doris was saying. "You expressed no +preference, you know."</p> + +<p>"Which is—is—mine?" Thornton whispered the question that somehow made +him flush with shame.</p> + +<p>"I do not know!" It was whisper meeting whisper.</p> + +<p>"You—what?" Thornton turned blazing eyes upon the woman by his side. +Her answer did not seem to shock him so much as it revealed what he had +suspected—Doris was playing with him, making him absurd by that +infernal power of hers that he had all but forgotten. He recalled, too, +with keen resentment her ability to transform a tragic incident into one +of humour—or the reverse.</p> + +<p>"I do not know. I never have known," Doris was saying.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> "You see, I was +afraid of heredity if I had to deal with it. Without knowing it I could +be just to both children; give them the only possible opportunity to +overcome handicaps. I thought they might reveal themselves—but so far +they have not. They are adorable."</p> + +<p>"This is damnable! Someone shall be made to speak—to suffer—or by +God!——"</p> + +<p>The words were hardly above a whisper, but the tone frightened the +children.</p> + +<p>"Auntie Dorrie!" they pleaded, and stretched out entreating arms.</p> + +<p>"Come, darlings. The play is over and you did it beautifully."</p> + +<p>They ran to her, clambered into her lap, and turned doubting eyes upon +Thornton.</p> + +<p>"You—expect me to—to—take both?" he asked, still in that low, thick +tone.</p> + +<p>"Certainly not. One is mine. I shall demand my rights, be quite sure of +that."</p> + +<p>"This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!" Thornton was at +bay; "the most immoral."</p> + +<p>"I have often thought that it might be," Doris returned, her lips +against Nancy's fair hair, "but the more you consider it the more you +are convinced that it is not. It is simply—unusual." The tone defied +understanding. "You must consider what I have done, George, step by +step. I did not act rashly. And when we come to actual contact with all +the truth confronting us, you and I will have to be very frank. May I +send the children away? It is time for their nap." Already Doris's +finger was pressing the electric button cunningly set in the coping of +the fountain.</p> + +<p>"Yes, do. There is much to say," Thornton muttered and, not having heard +the bell, was startled at seeing the nurse appear at once. He looked up, +and Mary looked at him. The girl felt the atmosphere. Thornton made a +distinct impression upon her.</p> + +<p>Left alone with Doris, Thornton drew his chair close to hers and waited +for her to begin.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well," he said, "what have you to say? It would seem as if you might +have a great deal, Doris."</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to say."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you did this to humiliate me—defeat me?" Thornton's lips +twitched.</p> + +<p>"On the contrary, after the first I gave you very little thought, +George. I was concerned in making sure the future of Meredith's child."</p> + +<p>"Did you forget that she was also mine?"</p> + +<p>"I tried to. After a bit, I did—after the identities of the babies +became blurred. If you stop to think and are just, you will understand +that I took a desperate chance to accomplish the most good to Meredith's +child. That is all that seemed to count. Suppose you could claim your +child now, would its future be as secure as it would be with me? Have +you really the child's interest at heart—you, who left its mother +to——"</p> + +<p>"The mother—left me! Don't overlook facts, Doris." Thornton's face +flamed angrily.</p> + +<p>"Yes. In self-defence she left you!" Doris held him with eyes heavy with +misery. "I knew everything necessary to know, George, that enabled me to +take this step."</p> + +<p>"But not enough to make you pause and consider!" A bitterness rang in +the words.</p> + +<p>"There are some occasions when one cannot, dare not, consider," said +Doris.</p> + +<p>Thornton got up and paced the room. Suddenly he turned like a man at +bay.</p> + +<p>"But the inheritance?" he flung out.</p> + +<p>"I told you, George, it was the inheritance that forced me to it."</p> + +<p>"I mean—" here Thornton's eyes fell—"I mean the money," he stammered.</p> + +<p>"I see!" Doris's voice trembled; then she hastened on: "The money you +sent, George, has never been touched. I have waited for this hour."</p> + +<p>"And your revenge!" muttered Thornton.</p> + +<p>"I had not considered it in that light." A deep contempt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> throbbed in +the words. "When I remember I am not bitter, but I am filled, anew, with +a desire to save Meredith's child!"</p> + +<p>"At the risk of passing her off as the child of—whom?"</p> + +<p>And then Doris smiled—a long, strange smile that burnt its way into +Thornton's consciousness.</p> + +<p>"It was that doubt that saved, gave hope," she said, and quickly added, +"I will tell you all there is to know, and then I request that you spare +me another interview until you have come to a decision regarding—your +child."</p> + +<p>There was pitifully little to tell. A deserted mountain child!</p> + +<p>"Who deserted it?" Thornton broke in.</p> + +<p>"I did not ask. Sister Angela promised to find a home for it where no +one would know of its sad birth—there are people willing to risk that +much for a little child. I am!"</p> + +<p>"And this—this Sister Angela——" Thornton asked.</p> + +<p>"She died the year after."</p> + +<p>"And the others?"</p> + +<p>"I doubt if they ever knew much, but if they did they forgot—they are +like that; besides, I have not heard of them in years."</p> + +<p>More and more Thornton realized the hopelessness of personal +investigation, and he was not prepared to take outside counsel, +certainly not yet.</p> + +<p>"The Sisters did fairly well for the outcast in this instance," he +sneered, "but we may all have to pay some day. Murder will out, you +know!"</p> + +<p>"Of course," Doris agreed, wearily; "we all understand that."</p> + +<p>"Do you think the children will?" Thornton's eyes were gloomy and grave. +"How about the hour when they—know?"</p> + +<p>Doris felt the pain in her heart that this possibility always awakened. +She raised her glance to the one full of hate and said quietly:</p> + +<p>"Who can tell?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a dull pause. Then:</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess I have all I want for the present. I'm not out of the +game, Doris, just count on me being in it at every deal of the cards. +Good-bye—for now."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, George. I will not forget."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship. One is Truth; the other is Tenderness.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>After Thornton's departure Doris metaphorically, drew a long breath. She +felt that he would make no further move at present—how could he? As one +faces a possible surgical operation with the hope that Nature may +intervene to make it unnecessary, she turned to her blessed duties with +renewed vigour.</p> + +<p>Of course, there were hours, there always would be hours, when, alone, +or when the children played near her, Doris wondered and speculated but +always reached the triumphant conclusion that her love, equal and +sincere, for both little girls, had been made possible by her +unprejudiced relations with them. And that must count for much.</p> + +<p>Every time she was diverted from her chosen path she courageously took +stock, as it were, of her gains and possible losses.</p> + +<p>For instance, when Mrs. Tweksbury had appeared to discern resemblance +between Nancy and Meredith, she wondered if, as often is the case, the +impartial observer could discover what familiarity had screened?</p> + +<p>But try as she did, at that time, she could not find the slightest +physical trace of likeness, and she brought old photographs to her aid. +While, on the other hand, the mental and temperamental characteristics +of both little girls were such as were common to healthy childhood.</p> + +<p>Again it was possible for Doris to face any fact that might present +itself—she knew that, by her past course, she had not only secured +justice for the children but faith in herself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her greatest concern now was the menace of Thornton.</p> + +<p>"Think of Nancy," she mused, "sweet, sensitive, and fine, under such +influence! And Joan so high-strung and reckless! It would be a hopeless +condition!"</p> + +<p>Looked upon from this viewpoint Doris grew depressed. While her +conscience remained clear as to any real wrong she had done in acting as +she had, there were anxious hours spent in imagining that time when, as +Thornton said, the girls themselves must know.</p> + +<p>When must they know?</p> + +<p>Doris had not considered that before to any extent.</p> + +<p>Thornton might demand at once that they know the truth. He had a right +to that.</p> + +<p>Here was a new danger, but as the silence continued the immediate fear +of this lessened. And the children were mere babies. They could not +possibly understand if they were told, now.</p> + +<p>Until such time, then, as they must be told, Doris renewed her efforts +in building well the small, healthy minds and bodies.</p> + +<p>"When they marry"—this brought a smile—"when they marry! Of course, +then, they must know." With that conclusion reached, anxiety was once +more lulled to rest.</p> + +<p>Gradually the old peaceful days merged into new peaceful days. Doris +entered, little by little, into her social duties so long neglected; the +children romped and lived joyously in the old house—"just +children"—until suddenly a small but significant thing occurred when +they were nine years of age that startled Doris into a line of thought +that brought about a radical change in all their lives.</p> + +<p>She was sitting in the library one stormy day, reading. The tall back of +the chair hid her from view, the fire and the book were soothing, and +the excuse—that the storm gave her the right to do what she wanted to +do, rather than what she, otherwise, might feel she should do—added to +her enjoyment.</p> + +<p>From above she heard the voices of the children and Mary's quiet +intervention now and again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then Joan laughed, and the sound struck Doris as if she had never heard +it before. What a peculiar laugh it was—for a child! Silver clear, +musical, but with a note of defiance, recklessness, and yes, almost +abandon.</p> + +<p>Joan was teasing Nancy about her dolls—Joan detested dolls, she +declared that it was their stupid stare that made her dislike them. She +only wanted live things: dogs and cats, not even birds—she was sorry +for birds. Nancy's dolls were to her "children," and she was pleading +now for an especial favourite and Joan was praying—rather +mockingly—that God would let it get smashed because of "the proud +nose."</p> + +<p>"But God makes children's noses!" Nancy was urging.</p> + +<p>"Well! He don't make dolls," Joan insisted, and proceeded with her +petition until Nancy's wails brought Mary upon the scene.</p> + +<p>Doris listened. She could not hear what Mary said, but presently peace +reigned above-stairs and the pelting storm and the book resumed their +power.</p> + +<p>It might have been a half hour later when she heard soft, stealthy +footsteps in the hall. She sat quite still, believing that one of the +children was hiding and that the other would be on the trail +immediately. The small intruder passed through the library and went into +the sunken room.</p> + +<p>Doris, herself unseen, looked from behind her shelter and saw that it +was Joan, and before she could call to her she was held silent by what +the child proceeded to do.</p> + +<p>Deftly, quickly she disrobed and stood in her pretty, childish nakedness +in the warm room.</p> + +<p>For a moment she poised and listened, then she stepped over the rim of +the fountain, took the exact attitude of one of the figures, and with +rapt, upturned face became rigid.</p> + +<p>It was wonderfully lovely, but decidedly startling. Still Doris waited.</p> + +<p>The water dripped over the small body; Joan's lips were moving in some +weird incantation, and then with the light all gone from her pretty face +she came out of the basin, pulled her clothing on as best she could, and +flung herself tragically in a deep chair.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> + +<p>For a moment Doris thought the child was crying, but she was not. Her +limp little body relaxed and the eyes were sad.</p> + +<p>Doris rose and went to the steps.</p> + +<p>"Why are you here alone, Joan?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Quite simple the reply came:</p> + +<p>"I was—trying to make it come true, Auntie Dorrie," this with a +suspicious break in the voice.</p> + +<p>"What, darling?" Doris came down and took the child in her arms.</p> + +<p>"Mary says if you believe anything hard enough you can make it come +true. <i>She</i> always can! I wanted to play with the fountain girls—I know +it would be beautiful—but you have to be <i>like them</i>. You have to shut +the whole world out—and then you know what they know."</p> + +<p>"Why, little girl, do you think the fountain children are happier than +you and Nancy?"</p> + +<p>With that groping that all mothers feel when they first confront the +<i>individual</i> in the child they believed they knew Doris asked her +question.</p> + +<p>"I've used Nancy and me all up!" was Joan's astonishing reply.</p> + +<p>"All up?" the two meaningless words were the most that Doris could +grasp.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Aunt Dorrie. Dolls and Mary's silly stories and Nancy's funny +games all over and over and over until they make me—sick!"</p> + +<p>Joan actually looked sick, so intense was she.</p> + +<p>"Nan is happy always, Aunt Dorrie—she's made like that—but I use +things up and then I want something else. Mary said that, honest true, +things would come if you believed hard enough. Maybe I cannot believe +hard enough—or maybe Mary didn't speak truth. She doesn't always, Aunt +Dorrie."</p> + +<p>Doris gasped and drew the child closer. It was like being dragged, by +the little hand, to an unsuspected danger that she, not the child, +understood.</p> + +<p>Gradually the inner side of the years was turned out by Doris's careful +questions and Joan's quiet simplicity. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> revealed so much now that +she found that her view of life had a dramatic interest. It appeared, +quite innocently, that Nancy could assume any position in order to win +her way.</p> + +<p>"She always speaks truth, Auntie Dorrie," Joan loyally defended, "but +she can make truth out of such queer things; it just <i>is</i> truth to +Nancy, for she doesn't want to hurt people's feelings. Mary likes Nancy +best, for I cannot make truth when I want to. Aunt Dorrie—truth +is—a—<i>a thing</i>, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, darling. But we—we see it differently, that is all."</p> + +<p>This was comforting to Joan, and she smiled. Then Mary again took the +centre of the stage—Mary's interpretations, all coloured with the +mystery of her desolate childhood; her old superstitions and power to +control by the magic of her imagination. There were certain tales, it +seemed, that were held as bribes. Nancy would always succumb to the +lures; Joan, only to a few.</p> + +<p>"What are they, dear? I love fairy stories, you know."</p> + +<p>Doris was keeping her voice cool and calm.</p> + +<p>"Why, Mary says there is a Rock on a big mountain that is—bewitched! +And everything near it is, too. She says things grow on it and you look +at them and they are alive, and you can—can, well, use them! Mary saw a +road once and just went up on it—it was a bewitched road, and she +got—lost!" Joan's eyes widened. "Mary says she'll have to find her way +back somehow, and if Nancy and I are naughty, she'll go and find it at +once! Nancy is afraid, but I told Mary I'd follow her!</p> + +<p>"And then Mary said that once she just longed and longed for a doll—she +had never had one—and she saw The Ship on The Rock and she went up to +it—that was before she got lost on the road—and she asked the captain +of The Ship for a doll, and he said he would send one to her. And she +went home and that very night—that <i>very</i> night, Aunt Dorrie, she +looked in a room where she heard a funny noise and she saw a live doll! +And while she was looking she saw a tall big lady bring in another. You +see, when The Rock gets alive, everything is alive and Mary had forgot +that—and so the dolls were—were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> babies. Nancy believes that, but +I—tried it on Nancy's dolls—and it isn't true!"</p> + +<p>The rain outside beat wildly against the windows; the wind lashed the +vines and roared down the chimney.</p> + +<p>"Are—you asleep, Aunt Dorrie?" The silence awed Joan.</p> + +<p>"No, dear heart. I am just thinking."</p> + +<p>And so Doris was—thinking that she was walking in the dark. Her own +small flashlight had seemed enough to guide her, and here she discovered +that it had only shown her one path, the one she had chosen, and all the +other paths—Mary's, Nancy's, and Joan's—had been disregarded.</p> + +<p>Suddenly it seemed as dangerous to have too much faith as too little.</p> + +<p>"I want you, Joan, dear, to go up and play, now, with Nancy. See if you +cannot take all the old games and make a new one. That would be such a +pleasant thing to do."</p> + +<p>"Must I, Auntie Dorrie? I'd rather stay here close to you. It's a new +game. I like it here."</p> + +<p>It was hard to send the small, clinging thing away, but Doris was firm.</p> + +<p>Once alone, she closed her eyes and let her hands fall, palms upward, on +her lap. She felt tired and perplexed. There had come a parting of the +ways. Apparently the ninth year was a dangerous year. What must she do? +Was Mary more ignorant than she seemed or—more knowing? What had Mary +known at Ridge House?</p> + +<p>The dull, quiet girl, as Doris recalled her, seemed merely a part of the +machinery of the Sisters' Home; she had never taken her into +account—but had she been what she seemed? What was she now?</p> + +<p>It was appalling—in the doubt as to what was, or was not—to think that +so much had been taken for granted.</p> + +<p>The children had seemed babies. The mere physical care had been the main +consideration, and while that was going on Joan had grown weary of the +old games and Nancy had learned to gain her ends by indirect methods.</p> + +<p>Clearly, Doris must have help at this juncture.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I see," she thought on, heavily, "why fathers <i>and</i> mothers are none +too many where children are concerned."</p> + +<p>It was then that she thought of David Martin in a strangely new way—a +way that brought a faint colour to her cheeks.</p> + +<p>All the afternoon she thought of him while she, having set Mary to other +tasks, devoted herself to Nancy and Joan. She read to them, scampered +through the house with them, did anything and everything they suggested, +until she had subdued the nervous strain and could laugh a bit at her +bugbears of the morning. Joan, flushed and towzled, Nancy, sweetly +radiant, effaced the menacing images her anxiety had created—but she +still needed help. And David Martin was the one, the only one among her +friends who seemed adequate to her need.</p> + +<p>"I've tried to be a mother," she thought, "but I have taken the father +out of their lives—I must supply it."</p> + +<p>When the children were in bed and the house quiet, Doris went to the +sunken room and, taking up the telephone receiver, called her number. +She was calm and at peace. She was prepared to lay the whole matter of +the past few years before David Martin, and she was conscious, already, +of relief.</p> + +<p>"I am going to let myself—go!" she thought, her ear waiting for a +reply.</p> + +<p>It was Martin who answered.</p> + +<p>"David, are you quite free for an hour?"</p> + +<p>"For the entire evening, Doris. Are the children sick?"</p> + +<p>How like Martin that was! What most concerned and interested Doris was +first in his thought.</p> + +<p>Doris's face twitched.</p> + +<p>"It's my friend," she said, slowly, "that I want. Not my physician."</p> + +<p>"I'll be there in a half hour."</p> + +<p>The soft drip of the rain outside was soothing. So happy did Doris feel +that she wondered if her fears would not strike Martin as absurd, and +after all, why should she lay her burden of confession upon him in order +to ease her perplexity? Along this line she argued with herself while +she ordered a tray to be sent up as soon as Doctor Martin arrived.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + +<p>She gave particular instructions as to the preparation of the dainties +Martin enjoyed but which no one but Doris ever set before him.</p> + +<p>"I chose the shield of silence," she mused. "Why should I ask another to +help me with it now?"</p> + +<p>Still, in the end, her honest soul knew that it was not help for herself +she was seeking, but guidance for the children whose best interests she +must serve.</p> + +<p>And then, as one looks back over the path he has travelled while he +pauses before going on, Doris Fletcher saw how the love of David Martin +had been transformed for her sake into friendship that it might brighten +her way. She had never been able to give him what he desired, but so +precious was she to him—and full well she knew it—that he had become +her friend.</p> + +<p>Out of such stuff one of two things is evolved—a resentful man, or the +most sacred thing, that can enter a woman's life, a true friend.</p> + +<p>Martin had made a success of his profession; his unfulfilled hopes had +seemed to broaden his sympathies instead of damming them.</p> + +<p>As the clock struck nine Martin appeared at the doorway—a tall, massive +figure, the shoulders inclined to droop as though prepared for burdens; +the eyes, under shaggy brows, were as tender as a woman's, but the mouth +and chin were like iron.</p> + +<p>"David, it was good of you to come." Doris met him on the steps and led +him to his favourite chair, drawn close to the blazing fire.</p> + +<p>"To take any chance leisure of yours is selfish—but I had to!"</p> + +<p>Martin took the outstretched hands and still held them as he sat down. +After all the silent years the old thrill filled his being.</p> + +<p>"This is a great treat," he said in his big, kind voice. "I was just +back in the office. I steered two small craft into port this +afternoon—I need a vacation."</p> + +<p>Doris recalled how this phase of Martin's profession always<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> exhausted +him, and she smiled gently into his eyes. Just then the tray she had +ordered was sent up. He looked at it and his tired face relaxed; the +deep eyes betrayed the boyish delight in the thought that had prompted +the act.</p> + +<p>"You must need me pretty bad to pay so high!" he said, watching Doris +pour the thick cream into his cup of chocolate.</p> + +<p>"I do, David, but really I'm not buying; I'm indulging myself. May I +chatter while you eat? There are three kinds of sandwiches on the plate. +Take them in turn, they are warranted to blend." Then quite suddenly:</p> + +<p>"David, it's about the children. They are over nine. What happens, +physiologically, when children—girls—are—are nearly ten?"</p> + +<p>"Deviltry, often. At nine they are too old to spank, too young to reason +with—it's the dangerous age, at least the outer circle of the dangerous +age." Martin tested the second sandwich.</p> + +<p>"And the prescription? What do you prescribe for the dangerous age?" +Doris felt that it was best to edge toward the vital centre by +circuitous routes.</p> + +<p>"Barrels and bungholes or what stands for barrels and bungholes—a good +school where a mixture of discipline with home ideals prevail. I know of +several where giddy little flappers are marvellously licked into shape +without danger of breaking. I've felt for some time that your kids +needed—well, not love and care, surely, but a practical understanding."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you tell me, David?"</p> + +<p>"People never appreciate what they do not pay for. Now that you have +offered up this tribute to the animal of me, I know you are ready for +the other."</p> + +<p>"The other, David?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, the best of me. That always belongs to you."</p> + +<p>This was daring, and it sent Doris to cover while she caught her breath. +David calmly ate on. After the sandwiches there was a bit of fruit cake +made from the recipe handed down from the days of Grandfather Fletcher.</p> + +<p>"David, do you think mothers, I mean real mothers, have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> divine +intuitions about their children? Intuitions that, well, say, adopted +mothers never have?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't. The majority of mothers are vamps. They think they have a +strangle hold on their offspring; a right to mould or bully them out of +shape. The best school I know is run by a woman who says it takes her a +year to shake off the average mother; after that the child becomes an +individual and you can get a line on it."</p> + +<p>"That's startling, David. It's hard, too, on mothers."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I don't know. I often think if mothers could be friends to their +children, <i>real friends</i>, I mean, and not claim what no human being has +a right to claim from another, they'd reap a finer reward. I'd hate to +love a person from duty. The fifth commandment is the only one with a +promise. It needs it! What is the stuffing in this third sandwich, +Doris? It comes mighty near perfection."</p> + +<p>"I never give away the tricks of my trade, David! And let me tell you, +you are mighty like a sandwich yourself—light and shade in layers; but +I reckon you are right about the friend part in mothers. Then, too, I +think an adopted mother has this to her credit—she doesn't dare +presume."</p> + +<p>"No, often she bullies. She thinks she paid for the right. After all, +the best any of us can do for a child is to set it free; point out the +channels and keep the lights burning!"</p> + +<p>"David, you are wonderful. You should have had children." The tears were +in Doris's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I don't know—I'd have to have too many other things tacked on. All +children are mine now, in a sense."</p> + +<p>David pushed the tray away and leaned luxuriously back in his chair.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said, with his peculiar smile that few rarely saw, "let's have +it! The skirmish is over."</p> + +<p>Then Doris told him—feeling her way as she poured her confession into +the ears of one who trusted her so fully and who asked so little. She +saw his startled glance when she, beginning with Meredith's death, +struck the high note of the real matter. Martin was not resenting her +past reticence, but he was taken off his guard, and that rarely happened +to him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> + +<p>Once, having controlled his emotions, he was placid enough. He noted the +outstretched hands in Doris's lap and estimated her weariness and her +need of him. After all, those were the big things of the moment. In +Martin's thought any act of Doris's could easily be explained and +righted. He did not interrupt her, he even saw the humour of her account +of the scene with Thornton, years before, when she presented both +children to his horrified eyes. Martin shook with laughter, and that +trivial act did more to strengthen Doris than anything he could have +done. It relieved the tension.</p> + +<p>"How did you manage to create the impression, among us all, that these +children are twins?" Martin, seeing that Doris had finished with the +vital matter, turned to details. "I cannot recall that you ever said +so—and there seems to be no reason why they should be twins."</p> + +<p>"That's it, David, there never was a reason, really, and I did not +intend, at first, to give the impression—I simply said nothing. Things +like this grow in silence until they are too big to handle. It was the +telling of plain half-truths that did the mischief—and letting the +conclusions of others pass. Of course I did not hesitate with George +Thornton, he mattered; the others did not seem to count—no one but you, +David. I have felt I wronged your faith, somehow."</p> + +<p>Martin, at this, began to defend Doris.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't agree to that. It was entirely your own affair. You wrote +to me while you were away about Meredith. I realized how cut up you +were, and God knows you had reason to be. Until you needed me, I don't +see but what you had a right to act as you saw fit about the children."</p> + +<p>"David, I always need you. It is because I need you so much that I have +decency to keep my hands off!"</p> + +<p>Martin's brows drew close, his mouth looked stern, but he was again +controlling the old, undying longing to possess the only woman he had +ever loved, and shield her from herself!</p> + +<p>Then he gave his prescription:</p> + +<p>"Doris, get rid of Mary. Find a proper place for her and forget whatever +doubts you may have. Remember only her years of service; she gave the +best she had. Then send the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> children to Miss Phillips'. Of course, you +must write to Thornton. Tell him as much or as little as you choose. +He's rightfully in the game. We're all three playing with a dummy." How +Doris blessed Martin for that "we three!" He had come into the game and, +once in, Martin could be depended upon.</p> + +<p>"You've run amuck among accepted codes," he was saying with that curious +chuckle of his, "and yet, by heaven! you seem to have established a +divinely inspired one for the kids."</p> + +<p>"You think that, David? You are not trying to comfort me?"</p> + +<p>Martin got up. He seemed suddenly in a hurry to be off. He had given +what he could to meet Doris's need—given it briefly, concisely, as was +his way.</p> + +<p>Doris brought his coat and held it for him—her face lifted to his with +that yearning in her eyes that always unnerved him. It was the look of +one who must offer an empty cup to another who thirsted. Then she spoke, +after all the silent years:</p> + +<p>"David, I have always loved you, but I am beginning to understand at +last about love. I had not the 'call' in my soul. Merry had it, the +mountain mother had it—but it never came to me. Without it, I dared not +offer to pay the cost of marriage. That would have been unjust to you. I +did realize that, but the deeper truth has only come recently. I wonder +if you can understand, dear, if I say now, even <i>now</i>, that I would be +glad for you to marry and be happy—as you should be?"</p> + +<p>"Doris, I counted that all up years ago. It did not weigh against you!" +Martin's voice was husky.</p> + +<p>"Then, David, be my friend and the friend of my little children. For +their sakes, I implore your help along the way."</p> + +<p>Martin bent and touched his lips to Doris's head which was bowed before +him.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," he said with infinite tenderness; "you are permitting me to +share all that you have, my dear. Good-night."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>To do our best is one part, but to wash our hands smilingly of the consequences is the next part, of any sensible virtue.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>In much that frame of mind, Doris arose the day following Martin's call.</p> + +<p>By some subtle force the débris of the past seemed to have been disposed +of; the misunderstanding on her part and David's.</p> + +<p>"It is the 'call' that makes everything possible or tragically +wretched," she said, "and one cannot be blamed for being born deficient. +Thank God I fitted in, though, when others were called away."</p> + +<p>With David's understanding and coöperation the present could be +confronted and the "hand washing of consequences" undertaken.</p> + +<p>"I have done my best," Doris felt sure of this, "<i>my</i> best, and now I +must do a bit of trusting. It has been my one daring adventure. It must +not fail."</p> + +<p>After many attempts she wrote and dispatched a letter to George +Thornton, simply stating that she was about to send the children to +school.</p> + +<p>While waiting for his reply she turned her attention to Mary, for in any +case, she decided, the children must be placed in another's care. What +Mary felt when Doris explained things to her no one was ever likely to +know. The girl's face became blanker; the lines stiffened.</p> + +<p>"It was," Doris confided later to Martin, "as if I were wiping the past +out as I spoke."</p> + +<p>The fact was that Doris was rekindling the past—the past that lay back +of the years of plain duty.</p> + +<p>"I have not overlooked, Mary," Doris strove to get under<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> the crust of +reserve and find something with which to deal emotionally, "the years of +devotion to us all. You have made no social ties for yourself; have not +taken any pleasures outside—what would you like to do now, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"Go home."</p> + +<p>"Go—home? Why—where is home, Mary?"</p> + +<p>The pathos struck Doris—the pathos of those who, having served others, +find themselves stranded at last.</p> + +<p>"Down to Silver Gap." As she spoke, Mary was hearing already the sound +of the river on the rocks and seeing the spring flowers in the crevices +of the hills.</p> + +<p>"You mean, go back to Ridge House? You could not stay there alone, Mary, +with old Jed."</p> + +<p>Mary stared blankly—she was further back than Ridge House.</p> + +<p>"I've been saving," she went slowly on, "all the years. I reckon I have +most enough to buy the cabin where us-all was born." The tone and words +took on the mountain touch. Doris was fascinated.</p> + +<p>"You mean your father's old cabin?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes. It lies 'cross the river from Ridge House, and when I think of +it," a suggestion of radiance broke on Mary's face, "I get a rising in +my side. I'm aiming to get it back——"</p> + +<p>The girl stopped short—something in her threatened to break loose.</p> + +<p>The pause gave Doris a moment to consider. She was baffled by Mary, but +she saw clearly that the girl had but one desire.</p> + +<p>"Mary," she said, presently, "I have always intended, when the children +no longer needed you, to give you some proof of my appreciation of all +that you have done for us. You seem to have shown me a way. You shall +have the old cabin, if it can be obtained, and it shall be made +comfortable for you. It is not so far but what you can have a little +oversight of Ridge House, too, and that will mean a great deal to me. I +am thinking of opening the house sometime."</p> + +<p>Doris got no further for, to her astonishment, Mary rose<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> and came +stiffly toward her. When she was near enough she reached out her hands +and said:</p> + +<p>"God hearing me, 'I'll pay you back some day. I will; I will!"</p> + +<p>Doris was embarrassed.</p> + +<p>"You have paid everything you owe me, Mary," she returned, quietly. "It +is my turn now. I will see about the cabin at once."</p> + +<p>Finally a letter came from Thornton. A dictated letter.</p> + +<p>He was about to leave for South Africa and would be gone perhaps several +years.</p> + +<p>He left everything in Doris's capable hands!</p> + +<p>Again Doris took breath for the next stretch of the long way.</p> + +<p>And Joan and Nancy went to Dondale and Miss Phillips.</p> + +<p>It was a hard break for them all and was taken characteristically. Joan, +tear-stained and quivering, set her face to the change and excitement +with unmistakable delight. Nancy was frightened into silent but smiling +acquiescence. She expected, she told Joan, that it would kill her, but +she would not make Aunt Dorrie feel any worse than she did by showing +what she felt! At this Joan tossed her head and sent two large tears +rolling down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"None of us will die, Nan. We all <i>feel</i> deathly, but this is—life."</p> + +<p>At ten Joan had a distinct comprehension of the difference between +living and life. To a certain extent you controlled the former; the +latter "got you."</p> + +<p>"I—I don't want life," wailed Nancy, "I want Aunt Dorrie."</p> + +<p>"But life—wants you!"</p> + +<p>Somewhere Joan had heard that, or read it—the old library was no hidden +place to her—and she brought it forth now with emphasis.</p> + +<p>Nancy made no reply. In that mood Joan would show no mercy. It was when +she was suffering the most that Joan could harden and frighten Nancy. +She was lashing herself to duty when she sent the whip cracking.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> + +<p>Martin accompanied Doris to Dondale. He was "Uncle David" to the +children and part of their happy lives.</p> + +<p>"Take—take good care of Aunt Dorrie," Nancy pleaded with him at +parting, her poor little face distorted by the effort she was making.</p> + +<p>"You bet!" Martin bent and kissed the child. He approved of Nancy. +Martin could never patiently endure complications, and Nancy was simple +and direct. Joan was another matter. At the last she was in high +spirits.</p> + +<p>"It's going to be great," she whispered to Doris. "All the girls and the +new games and the comings home for holidays and—and everything."</p> + +<p>It was after they were alone that Nancy called down extra suffering upon +herself.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie will think you did not care, Joan, and Uncle David scowled. +You make people think queer things about you."</p> + +<p>Joan turned and fixed Nancy with flaming eyes.</p> + +<p>"I want Aunt Dorrie to think everything is all right—you didn't! You +did not cheat her. I did—for her sake."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," Nancy sometimes struck a high note, unsuspectingly, "perhaps +Aunt Dorrie would rather <i>have</i> you care."</p> + +<p>Joan regarded her intently and then replied:</p> + +<p>"Well, then, you're all right, Nan!"</p> + +<p>The tone, more than the words, stung Nancy. It hurt her to have any one +misunderstand, but it often occurred to her that it hurt more to be +understood!</p> + +<p>In the train en route to New York Doris sat very quiet, thinking of the +two little faces she was leaving—forever! It amounted to that—as every +woman knows.</p> + +<p>Nothing but their faces held as the miles were dashed past—faces that +portrayed the spiritual essence of the old, dear years—faces that would +turn, from now on, to others, and take on new expressions, bear the mark +of another's impress.</p> + +<p>"Well, thank heaven," Doris presently broke out, "I haven't been a vamp +mother, David."</p> + +<p>Martin came from behind his newspaper.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And because of that, Doris," he said, "you will have those girls coming +back to you. They will want to come." He was thinking of Nancy.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I have a sure feeling about that." Then: "How splendid it was of +Joan to act as she did! She'd rather we thought her hard than to let us +see her pain."</p> + +<p>Martin stared. "You mean Nancy?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"No. Nan, bless her, cannot +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'diguise'">disguise</ins> +herself, but Joan can! Joan will +suffer through her strength."</p> + +<p>The period, always a dangerous one, the year following school life, +became Doris's great concern while the school time progressed in orderly +fashion under Miss Phillips's guidance.</p> + +<p>"I am keeping my hands off," Doris often confided to Martin. "It is only +fair play while the children are at Dondale. You were right—Miss +Phillips is a wonderful woman—I have learned to trust her absolutely. +She has appreciated what I tried to do for the girls; is building on it; +she will return them to me—not different, but—extended! It's the time +after, David, that I am planning. That time which is the link between +restraint and the finding of one's self."</p> + +<p>"I declare," Martin would reply to this, "I wonder that you ever get +results, Doris; you harvest while others are sowing."</p> + +<p>But deep in us all is the current carrying on and on, and it was +hurrying Doris during the years while the girls were at Dondale.</p> + +<p>There were the happy vacations, the new interests, the marvel of +watching the miracle of evolution from the child to the woman. At times +this was breathlessly exciting.</p> + +<p>Doris filled her private time with useful and enjoyable hours. She got +into closer touch with old friends, saw and heard the best in music and +drama, permitted herself the luxury of David Martin's friendship, and +shared his confidences about his sister's son in the Far West—a +fatherless boy who promised much but often failed in fulfilment.</p> + +<p>"Odd, isn't it, Davey," Doris sometimes said, "that you and I, having, +somehow, lost what is the commonplace road<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> for most men and women, have +been called upon to assume many of the joys and sorrows of that broad +highway?"</p> + +<p>"We none of us go scot free," Martin returned. "I'm grateful for every +decent, common job thrown at me."</p> + +<p>And so the years passed and Doris had outlined a vague but comprehensive +line of action for the immediate months following the girls' graduation +from Dondale.</p> + +<p>"I am going to take them abroad," she announced to Martin; "take them +over the route that Merry and I took—our last journey together. And, +David, in that little Italian town they shall know—about Meredith and +Thornton!"</p> + +<p>David started, but made no remark.</p> + +<p>"And when we return," Doris went on, "I am going to bring the girls +out—I hate the term, I'd rather say let them out—just as Merry and I +were, in this dear, old house. Mrs. Tweksbury and I have planned rather +a brilliant campaign."</p> + +<p>And then came that bleak March day—Joan and Nancy were to graduate in +June—when the hurrying undercurrent in Doris Fletcher's life brought +her to a sharp turn in the stream.</p> + +<p>She was sitting in the pleasant old room before a freshly made fire; the +fountain trickled and splashed, the birds sang, defying the outdoor +gloom and chill, and a letter from Miss Phillips lay upon her lap—a +letter that had made her smile then frown. She took it up and read it +again.</p> + +<p>"I am deeply interested in your nieces," so Miss Phillips wrote; +"naturally a woman dealing, as I have for years, with youth in the +making, is both blunted and sharpened. Young girls fall into types—are +comfortably classified and regulated for the most part. Occasionally, +however, the rule has its exceptions."</p> + +<p>Then Miss Phillips expatiated for a page or so, in her big, forceful +handwriting, on Nancy's beauty, sweetness, and charm.</p> + +<p>"A fine, feminine creature, my dear Miss Fletcher. A girl I am proud to +refer to as one of mine; a girl to carry on the traditions of such a +family as yours—a lovely, young American woman!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> + +<p>This was what brought the smile, but as Doris turned over the sheet the +smile departed; a grave expression took its place.</p> + +<p>"You and I are progressive women," so the new theme began; "we know the +game of life. We know that where we once played straight whist we now +play bridge, but we are fully aware that the fundamentals are the same.</p> + +<p>"And now I must explain myself. For a young girl with the prospects that +Joan has her mental equipment is a handicap rather than an asset. She +does everything too well—except the drudgery of the class room, she has +managed to endure that, and with credit, but everything else she +accomplishes with distinction. She lacks utterly any suggestion of +amateurishness!</p> + +<p>"I hope you will understand. This would be splendid if she, like Sylvia +Reed, for instance, had to look to her wits to solve her life problems; +but it will distract her along the path of obvious demands.</p> + +<p>"She, I repeat, does everything too well. She dances with inspiration; +nothing less. She sings with spirit and originality; she acts almost +unbelievably well and she wins, without effort, the admiration and +affection of all with whom she comes in contact. I speak thus openly and +intimately to you, Miss Fletcher, because, frankly, Joan puzzles me—she +always has."</p> + +<p>The letter dropped again on Doris's lap. Yes, Doris Fletcher did +understand. She saw Joan, not as she was, a tall young creature +radiantly facing life, but as a tired little child in this very room +stepping' defeated from the fountain, because she could not make her +desires come true! She was listening to the old plaint: "I have used the +old games—I want something new!"</p> + +<p>Yes, Doris understood, and sitting alone, she vowed that Joan should not +be defrauded of her own, by misdirected love, prejudice, or luxury.</p> + +<p>"She shall have her chance!"</p> + +<p>Then it was that something happened. Things—stopped!</p> + +<p>For a moment Doris was conscious of making an effort to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> set them going +again. She glanced at the clock—that had stopped! The fountain no +longer played; nor did the birds sing!</p> + +<p>A black silence presently engulfed the whole world. At last Doris opened +her eyes—or had they been open during the eternity when nothing had +occurred? She glanced at the clock, a trivial thing against the carving +of the wall, but upon whose face Truth sat faithfully. Two hours had +passed since she had noticed the clock before!</p> + +<p>"But—I have been thinking a long time, planning for the children; +reading the letter——" Doris sought to establish a normal state of +affairs—she saw the letter lying at her feet, but did not bend to pick +it up.</p> + +<p>"Only a faint. But I have never fainted before!" she thought on.</p> + +<p>She was not frightened, not even excited. She felt as if she had simply +come upon something that she had always known was on the road ahead +awaiting her. She had come upon it sooner than she had expected to, that +was all. She did not want to pass into the silence again if she could +help it, so she lay back in the chair quietly, guardedly, and waited.</p> + +<p>Then she heard steps. Outside the family only one person came +unannounced to the sunken room and gladly, thankfully, Doris turned her +eyes and met David Martin's as he paused at the doorway above.</p> + +<p>Martin had himself in control before Doris noticed the fear in his eyes. +He came slowly to her, sat down beside her and, while simply taking her +hand in greeting, let his trained touch fall upon her pulse. It told him +the dread secret, but it did not shatter his calm—he even smiled into +the pale face and said lightly:</p> + +<p>"Well, what have you been trying to do?"</p> + +<p>Doris told him, without emotion, what had occurred. She did not remove +her hand from his—his touch comforted her; held her to the things she +knew and loved and trusted.</p> + +<p>"And now, David," she said at last, "I think we have both known that +some day this would occur. We are too good<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> friends to be anything but +frank—I am not afraid, and it is essential that I should know the +truth. The family ogre has caught me—but it has not conquered me yet!"</p> + +<p>"Well, Doris—it is the first call!" The man's words hurt like a knife +turned upon himself.</p> + +<p>"I feared so—and I am forty-nine."</p> + +<p>"A mere child, my dear, if we deal honestly with the fact. Your father +was fifty-five and might have lived to be seventy if he had stopped in +time. Your grandfather——"</p> + +<p>"Never mind, David, let's keep to me. How much longer—have I?"</p> + +<p>"No man on earth could tell you that, my dear, but I hope—always +granting that you will be wise—that you may count on, say, twenty +years."</p> + +<p>They both smiled. After all, what did it matter?</p> + +<p>"And—what do you suggest I should do—as a beginning of the—twenty +years?"</p> + +<p>"Close this house, Doris, and start another kind of existence—somewhere +else."</p> + +<p>"Why, David—I must bring the girls out, you know. They must not be +told—of this."</p> + +<p>"They need be told only what you choose to have them know, but as to the +bringing-out farce—that's rot! Those girls will get out by one door or +another, never fear. <i>You</i> are to be kept in—that's the important thing +at present."</p> + +<p>"Dear old David!" Doris's eyes dimmed as she looked at the kind face +bending over the hands lying limp, now, on her lap. She noticed that +there was white on the temple where the dark hair had turned; the heavy +shoulders were bent permanently. She longed to do something more for +David during the next—twenty years!</p> + +<p>"You must not give way, Doris. A change is good for us all." Martin +noted the tears in the eyes holding his own, but he did not understand +their source.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid the girls will be so disappointed," was what Doris said.</p> + +<p>"Pampered creatures! It will do them good. But Nancy will love it and +Joan can kick the traces if she wants<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> to—that will do her good." +Martin leaned back and crossed his legs in the old boyish way.</p> + +<p>"What will Nancy love, David?"</p> + +<p>"Why, the out-of-door country life. She's that kind. Flowers and animals +and quiet."</p> + +<p>"Country life?" Doris sat up. "But, David, I could not stand country +life, myself. I love to look at the country, listen to it, play with +it—but I am a citizen to the core. It is simply impossible. One has to +be born with the country in his blood to be part of it."</p> + +<p>It was like pleading with the stern expression on Martin's face.</p> + +<p>He was not apparently listening, and when he spoke he carried on his own +thought:</p> + +<p>"Queer how things dovetail. We drop a stitch and then go back and pick +it up—now there is that place of yours, down South, Ridge House!"</p> + +<p>Doris's face twitched and then, because she was in that state closely +bordering upon the unknown, that state open to impressions and +suggestions from sources outside the explainable, Silver Gap seemed to +open alluringly to her imagination. It <i>was</i> like a dropped stitch to be +taken up and woven into the pattern!</p> + +<p>She suddenly felt that she had always known she must go back. It was +like the heart trouble—a thing on her road! Doris smiled and David +patted her hands.</p> + +<p>"That's the way it strikes me," he said, quite as if he were gaining +his inspiration whence hers came. "After you told me about the—the +children, you know, Doris, years ago, I went down there and gave the +place a look-over. The South always affects me like a—well, a lotus +flower—sleeping but filled with wonderful dreams. It gets me! Why, +after seeing Ridge House I even went so far as to buy a piece of land +known as Blowing Rock Clearing. I've planned, if that scamp of a nephew +of mine ever develops into a sawbones, to leave him in charge here and +go down South myself and put up a shack on my clearing." Martin was +watching Doris now from under his brows; he was talking against<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> the +silence that might engulf her again; seeking to hold her to a future +that he had been vaguely considering in the past. He thankfully saw her +interest growing.</p> + +<p>"You did that, David—how like you!"</p> + +<p>The tears still came easily to Doris's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, I have a thrifty streak, and I hated to see a property like +Ridge House lie fallow. It's great. The buying of Blowing Rock was pure +Yankee sense of a bargain. But you see how it all works out. You'll have +the time of your life developing your holdings and, at odd moments, I +can start my shack. Look upon the change as an adventure—nothing +permanent. In a year or so you may be able to spend most of the time on +pavements—though why in God's name you want to is hard to imagine."</p> + +<p>Doris was smiling.</p> + +<p>"But the girls!" she faltered.</p> + +<p>"Forget them. Give them a chance to think of you. Take them abroad—that +will be good for you all, but in the autumn, Doris, go South! You must +escape next winter."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>One is assured that there is a Power that fights with us against the confusion and evil of the world.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>The warm June sunlight lay over the broad lawns and meadows of Dondale; +it touched with luring power the buds to blossom and, by its tricks of +magic, girlhood to womanhood.</p> + +<p>Only a month ago Joan and Nancy Thornton and those who, with them, were +about to leave Miss Phillips's school, had seemed little girls, but now +they were changed. There was a gravity when they looked back at the +safe, happy years that not even the glory of the future could dispel.</p> + +<p>They were eager to go forward but were half afraid.</p> + +<p>Joan and Nancy had left the others and walked across the lawn and were +sitting on a vine-covered wall under a noble magnolia tree. Nancy was +still sweetly fair and she had not outgrown the childish outline of +cheek and chin, the pretty droop of the left eyelid, and the quick habit +of smiling. She was tall and slim and graceful and bore herself with a +touching dignity that was as unconscious as it was distinguished.</p> + +<p>Nature had not arrived yet with Joan. She was still in the making, and +the best that could be said for her was that she was undergoing the +ordeal with bewitching charm.</p> + +<p>The dusky hair was filled with life and light; the eyes were +yellow-brown and dark-lashed; the skin was creamy and smooth and the +features irregular—eyes and mouth a bit prominent in the thin face. +Joan was thin, not slim. You were conscious of her bones—but they were +pretty bones, and every muscle of her lithe young body was as flexible +and strong as a boy's. She could change from awkwardness to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> grace by a +turn of thought. Joan was subject to outside control, while Nancy seemed +possessed by innate inheritance. Both girls were in white, and while +Nancy's appearance was immaculate, Joan's was suggestive of +indifference.</p> + +<p>"It is wonderful—this going abroad," Joan was saying while her long, +supple fingers wove the stems of daisies into an intricate pattern. "And +to go to that little Italian town where mother was married! Nan, I'm +going to know all about mother and father this summer."</p> + +<p>Nancy's head was lifted slightly, and her cool blue eyes fixed +themselves upon Joan. There was no doubt about the colour of Nancy's +eyes—they were blue.</p> + +<p>"I do hope, Joan," she said, "that you are not going to spoil everything +by making Aunt Dorrie uncomfortable. If she has not told us things, it +is because she thinks best not to."</p> + +<p>"But it's getting on my nerves, Nan. It's ominous. Maybe there is +a—a—tragedy in our young lives"—Joan dramatically set her words into +comedy—"a dark past. How I would adore that!"</p> + +<p>"I would loathe it!" Nancy murmured, "and there couldn't be. I know +there is only a deep sadness. I wouldn't hurt Aunt Dorrie by—by +unearthing it."</p> + +<p>"Nan," here Joan pointed her finger, "do you know a blessed thing about +your father? I don't!"</p> + +<p>Nancy flushed, but made no reply.</p> + +<p>"There's where the secret lies—I feel it in my blood!" Joan shuddered +and Nancy laughed. "It didn't seem to matter until <i>now</i>, but, Nan, +we're women at last!"</p> + +<p>"Of course," Nancy spoke, "I have thought of that. The best families +have such things in them—but they don't talk about them. Now that we +are women we must act like women—such women as Aunt Dorrie."</p> + +<p>"Nan, you're a snob. A pitiful, beautiful little snob!" Joan wafted a +kiss. "Your prettiness saves you. If you had a turned-up nose you'd be +an abomination."</p> + +<p>"You have no right to call me a snob, Joan!" Nancy's fair face flushed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Did I call you a snob, Nan, dear?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you did. It's not being a snob to be true to oneself." Nancy put +up her defences.</p> + +<p>"I should say not," Joan agreed, but she laughed.</p> + +<p>"Just think of all that Aunt Dorrie represents!" Nancy went on. "She's +all that her father and her grandfather——"</p> + +<p>"And her grandmothers," Joan broke in, "made her! Just think of it! And +you and I must carry on the tradition—at least <i>you</i> must—I'm afraid +I'll have to be a quitter. It makes me too hot."</p> + +<p>"You'll never be a quitter, you splendid Joan!" Nancy turned her face to +Joan—— the old love had grown with the years, "You <i>are</i> splendid, +Joan—everyone adores you."</p> + +<p>But Joan did not seem to hear. Suddenly she said:</p> + +<p>"Now do you know, Nan, I hate to go across the ocean this summer. It +seems such a waste of time. I am eager to begin."</p> + +<p>"Begin what, Joan?"</p> + +<p>"Begin to live."</p> + +<p>"You funny Joan, what have you been doing since you were born?"</p> + +<p>"Waking up, Nan, and stretching and learning to stand alone. I'm ready +now to—to walk. I dare say I'll wobble, but—I don't care—I want to +begin."</p> + +<p>A sense of danger filled Nancy—she often felt afraid of Joan, or <i>for</i> +Joan, she was not sure which it was.</p> + +<p>"I think you'll do nothing that will trouble and disappoint Aunt +Dorrie," she said, using the weapon of the weak.</p> + +<p>"I think Aunt Dorrie would want me to—to live my life," Joan returned.</p> + +<p>"Oh! of course, she'd let you—go. That's Aunt Dorrie's idea of justice. +But we have no right to impose on it. People may be willing to suffer, +but that's no excuse for making them suffer." Nancy did battle with the +fear that was in her—her fear that Joan might escape her, and now, as +in the old days, Nancy felt that play lost its keen zest when Joan +withdrew.</p> + +<p>Joan made no reply. She looked very young with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> sunlight flooding +over her. Her eyes wide apart, her short upper lip and firm, little +round chin were almost childlike when in repose, and her heavy hair rose +and fell in charming curves as the breeze stirred it.</p> + +<p>"Joan, what do you want to do, really?" Nancy dropped from her perch +beside Joan and came close, leaning against the swinging feet as if to +stay their restlessness.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I don't know—but something real; something like a beginning, not +just a carrying on. I want to dig out of me what is in me +and—and—offer it for sale!" Joan leaned back perilously and laughed at +her own folly and Nancy's shocked face.</p> + +<p>"Of course, I may not have anything anybody wants," she went on, "but +I'll never be able to settle down and be comfy until I <i>know</i>. Having a +rich somebody behind you is—is—the limit!" she flung out, defiantly.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean, Joan." Nancy was aghast. The fear within +her was taking shape; it was like a shrouded figure looming up ready to +cast off its disguise.</p> + +<p>"Of course you don't, you blessed little snow-child!"—the laugh struck +rudely on Nancy's discomfort—"why should you; why should any one in +this—this factory where we've all been cut in the same shape? We're all +going to be let out of here to—to be married! They've never taken me +in."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Joan!" Nancy looked about nervously. Of course every girl had this +ideal in her brain, but she was not supposed to express it—except +vicariously in the charm-lure.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, this marrying," Joan went calmly on. "I want to myself, +some day, it's splendid and all that—but something in me wants to fly +about alone first."</p> + +<p>"You're silly, Joan."</p> + +<p>"I suppose I am, snow-child. I suppose I'll get frightfully snubbed some +day and come back glad enough to trot along with the rest—but oh! it +must be sublime to have the chance a boy has. He can have +everything—even the try if he <i>is</i> rich—and then he knows what he's +worth. Why, Nancy, I am going to say something awful now—so hold close. +I want to know what my dancing is worth, and my singing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> and my making +believe. I feel so powerful sometimes and then again—I am weak as—as a +shadow!"</p> + +<p>"Oh! Joan do be careful—you'll fall over the wall."</p> + +<p>Nancy flung her arms about Joan, who had tilted backward as she +portrayed her state of weakness.</p> + +<p>"You frighten me, Joan, and besides you have no right to disappoint Aunt +Dorrie, and if she should hear you talk she'd be shocked!"</p> + +<p>"I wonder," mused Joan, "she is so understanding. I wonder. But come, +Nan, dear, I must go practise the thing I'm to sing at Commencement, and +I have a perfectly new idea for a dance on Class Day."</p> + +<p>David Martin and Doris were never to forget the impression Joan made on +the two occasions when she stood forth alone, during the Commencement +week, like a startling and unique figure, with the background of lovely +young girlhood. No one resented her conspicuousness. All gloried in it. +They clapped and cheered her on—she was their Joan, the idol of the +years which she had made vital and electric by her personality.</p> + +<p>She danced on Class Day a wonderful dance that she had originated +herself.</p> + +<p>Nancy played her accompaniment, keeping her fascinated gaze upon Joan +while her fingers touched the keys in accord with every movement.</p> + +<p>Lightly, bewilderingly, the gauzy, green-robed figure was wafted here, +there, everywhere, under the broad elms, apparently on Nancy's tune. She +was a leaf, a petal of a flower, a creature born of light and air.</p> + +<p>People forgot they were performing a stilted duty at a school +function—they were frankly delighted and appreciative. Joan rose to the +homage and, at such moments, she was beautiful with a beauty that did +not depend upon feature or colouring.</p> + +<p>But it was when she sang on Commencement Day that she achieved her +triumph.</p> + +<p>Martin was watching Doris closely. She had had no return of her March +illness; she never spoke of it, nor did he, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> for that very reason +Martin kept a more rigid guard upon any excitement. There was that in +Doris's face which, to his trained eye, was significant. It was as if +she had been touched by a passing frost. She had not withered, but she +was changed. The time of blight might be soon or distant, but the frost +had fallen on the woman's life.</p> + +<p>It was when Joan had finished her song that Martin took Doris from the +hall.</p> + +<p>It happened this way:</p> + +<p>The flower-banked platform was empty until the accompanist—it was a +young professor, this time, not Nancy—came on.</p> + +<p>The audience waited politely; the rows of girlish faces were turned +expectantly, and then Joan entered!</p> + +<p>Without a trace of self-consciousness she looked at her friends—they +were all her friends—with that sweet confidence and understanding of +the true artist. The dainty loose gown covered any angle that might have +proved unlovely, and Joan was at one of her rarely beautiful moments.</p> + +<p>She stood at ease while the first notes were played—she appeared +suddenly detached, and then she sang.</p> + +<p>It was an old English ballad, quaint and rollicking:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 10%"> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"I'll sail upon the Dog-star,</span><br /> +I'll sail upon the Dog-star,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then pursue the morning</span><br /> +And then pursue, and then pursue the morning.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,</span><br /> +I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I'll make her leave her horning.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"I'll climb the frosty mountain,</span><br /> +I'll climb the frosty mountain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there I'll coin the weather.</span><br /> +<br /> +"I'll tear the rainbow from the sky<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And tie both ends together."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>The ringing girlish voice rose high and true and clear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Bravo!" cried a man's voice and then:</p> + +<p>"And she'll do it, too!"</p> + +<p>It was at this point that Martin took Doris from the room.</p> + +<p>In the quiet of the deserted piazza Doris looked up at Martin through +tears.</p> + +<p>"Joan is feeling her oats." Martin walked to and fro; he had been more +moved by the song than he cared to confess.</p> + +<p>"The darling!" Doris whispered. Then: "Can't you see what Miss Phillips +meant, Davey? The child is talented—she shall never be held back. +Wealth can be as cruel and crippling as poverty. Be prepared, David, I +mean to let Joan—free."</p> + +<p>Martin came close and sat down.</p> + +<p>"Go easy, Doris," he cautioned, then asked: "And how about Nancy?"</p> + +<p>"David, I'm going to tell Nancy, after we come home from Europe—not +all, of course, but enough to make her understand—about me! I cannot +quite explain, but I am sure I am right in my decision. Nancy, indeed +all of us, will, sooner or later, have to let Joan go! I saw that +clearly as she sang. I must fill Nancy's life and she must make up to me +what I am about to lose. David, is this what mothers feel?"</p> + +<p>"Some of them, Doris. The best of them. I'm glad to see you game."</p> + +<p>"Oh! yes. I'm glad, too—for Joan's sake. I will be giving Nancy her +best and surest happiness—with me, but not Joan. And so, David, Joan +must not have the slightest inkling—she must go, when her time comes, +unhampered. You, Nancy, and I must contribute that to her future."</p> + +<p>Martin saw that Doris was still trembling, she was excited, too, in her +controlled way. He was anxious.</p> + +<p>"You're seeing things in broad daylight, Doris. Why, my dear, both the +girls will be snapped up before any of us catch our breaths. That is +what Miss Phillips' is for. Training for fine American wives and +mothers. A good job, too."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> + +<p>Doris smiled and shook her head. Then she said suddenly:</p> + +<p>"David, the old spectre stalks! It seems as if I ought to know, as if +the knowledge were right here, to-day."</p> + +<p>"Come, come, now Doris! If you do not quiet down I'm going to pack you +off to the hotel. Why, see here, the kids have not revealed themselves. +You're lashing yourself about nothing. Can you not reason it out this +way——"</p> + +<p>Martin sat close to the couch upon which Doris half reclined; he was +almost praying that Joan would have a dozen encores—by request, +apparently, she was again chasing the rainbow on her Dog-star.</p> + +<p>"The inheritance, I mean. For I see it is that that is clutching you. My +work brings me close to primitive things—I believe in inheritance down +to the roots—but by heaven, we inherit from the ages, not from our next +of kin alone. Each son and daughter of us comes into port with load +enough to crush us, and if we kept it all we'd go under. We shuffle off +a lot. It is the ability to shuffle, the opportunity to shuffle that +counts. Why, look here, Doris——"</p> + +<p>And Doris was looking, holding with all her strength to the man's words.</p> + +<p>"That little mountain woman had more daring and courage, according to +what you told me, than poor Merry ever had. She cut a wider circle, got +more out of life, I bet, went out of it more satisfied. Her child, with +your help, could develop into something mighty worth while for she +wouldn't have so much to overcome at the start. On the other hand, +Meredith's child would have to blaze her own trail, as far as any +guidance from her mother is concerned. Can't you see, that's where +inheritance plays the devil with hasty conclusions?"</p> + +<p>Doris drew a long breath and sat up. She was seeking to hold to what she +could not see.</p> + +<p>"David," she whispered, "is it the knowing, or the not knowing? Could I +have helped more wisely had I not shirked the truth? In there, a moment +ago, it was as if Meredith were demanding. Oh! youth is awful in its +possibilities of success or failure."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> + +<p>Martin was seriously alarmed. He had never seen Doris so shaken, but he +talked on, seeking by a show of calmness to disarm her fears.</p> + +<p>"It's the ability to shuffle off inheritance that counts, Doris. You +have given these girls the strength and opportunity—to shuffle. Now, my +dear, be sensible. It is up to the girls and they're all right. Hold +firm to your own belief, Doris. It's about to be proved."</p> + +<p>"Hear them." Doris dropped back. "They are still applauding Joan."</p> + +<p>The next few months Doris always looked back upon as a connecting +stretch of road between what she had but faintly feared and what became +assured.</p> + +<p>From the day Joan graduated she became the dominant influence in what +followed, and Nancy, being non-resistant, was engulfed in the general +rush of affairs; was absorbed and smilingly played her part as once she +had played Joan's accompaniment.</p> + +<p>Joan was not more selfish than the young generally are; she had hours of +noble self-renunciation and generosity. Her ego was well developed, but +it never drove her cruelly.</p> + +<p>Doris justified what happened, when she took time to consider, by her +determination to be fair to both girls and then, unconsciously focussing +on Joan because Joan was always in evidence. The girl's vitality and +joyousness were unfailing. Everything was of interest, and she seemed to +gather the flowers of life not so much for her own enjoyment as for the +glory of shedding them on others. That is what disarmed people—this +lavishness of the girl. She gave spice to life, and that has its value. +If Nancy ever knew the natural desire to shine in her own light, not +Joan's, she smilingly hid it—not even Doris suspected it.</p> + +<p>After Nancy was made to understand her aunt's state of health—and it +was, in the end, Martin who informed her—she rose superbly to what +offered, poor child, an opportunity peculiarly her own. To her was given +the sacred duty of watching the one she loved best in the world; of +warding off anything that threatened her peace and comfort.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> Here were +power and authority and, though no one suspected, she would rule in her +narrow, detached kingdom. Nothing should defeat her. They should all +look to her!</p> + +<p>Almost fiercely Nancy undertook her silent task. She smiled, she learned +new subtleties; she soon became the pretty barrier between Doris and any +troubling thing.</p> + +<p>With her half-afraid glance fixed upon the dazzling Joan, it was small +wonder that Doris fell into the trap set for her by Martin and Nancy.</p> + +<p>She took the girls abroad—or was it Joan that led the way? She +considered, after reaching the little Italian town from which she had +seen Meredith depart, how best to speak of Thornton. She got so far as +the telling of Meredith's wedding in the unchanged chapel on the hill +when Joan startled her by asking quite as a matter of course:</p> + +<p>"Is our father still alive?"</p> + +<p>Nancy turned pale and shrank before the question, but she saw that the +cool tone had controlled the situation. Doris looked relieved instead of +shocked.</p> + +<p>"We've often talked of it, Nan and I," Joan proceeded; "it did not seem +very vital one way or the other until now."</p> + +<p>"As far as I know," Doris was surprised at her own calmness, "he is +still alive."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad of that," Joan remarked, and there was a glint in her eyes. +"I'd hate to have him dead—just now."</p> + +<p>Quite without reason Doris laughed. After all, what she had conjured up +as a ghost was turning into a human possibility. It was never to +frighten her in the future. Joan had felled the spectre by her first +stroke.</p> + +<p>Then Nancy spoke:</p> + +<p>"I never want to hear his name again," she said, firmly, relentlessly.</p> + +<p>Doris looked at her in amazement. Later she confided to Joan her +surprise.</p> + +<p>"I did not know the child had such sternness."</p> + +<p>Joan shrugged her shoulders and smiled.</p> + +<p>"Nan is like a rock underneath, Aunt Dorrie," she said. "I suppose it +is—what shall I say?—blood! It is concentrated<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> in Nan. She's like +you. Disgrace, or what seemed like disgrace, would kill her—it would +make me fight!"</p> + +<p>And after that conversation all inclination to confide further in the +girls as to their relationship or lack of it deserted Doris.</p> + +<p>She saw a new cause for caution and went back to the stand she had taken +when the children were babies—but with far less courage.</p> + +<p>"When they marry, of course, it must be told."</p> + +<p>Doris returned to New York in September, and after a fortnight in which +she closed the old house and made arrangements for the servants, she was +so exhausted that she gladly turned her face southward.</p> + +<p>Nancy, already, was her mainstay. The girl had apparently got under the +burden, and held it secure on her firm, young shoulders. She developed +initiative and the healing touch. No one disputed her where Doris was +concerned, and Martin grimly accepted her as the most necessary thing in +the hope that lay in Ridge House.</p> + +<p>Their appearance there was marked by two incidents that Doris alone +heeded.</p> + +<p>First was the effect Nancy had upon Jed.</p> + +<p>The man stared at the girl as if he saw a ghost. Like the very old, his +real sensations lay in the past. Nancy stirred him strangely. The +emotion was like a warm ray of sunlight striking in a dark place. Doris +watched him with interest and concern; but Jed had no words with which +to enlighten her. He only smiled wider, more often, and took to +following Nancy like a wavering, distorted shadow.</p> + +<p>The second incident was Mary.</p> + +<p>From her cabin across the river she had manipulated the arrangements at +Ridge House so perfectly that the machinery was oiled and running when +the family arrived.</p> + +<p>Mary was more reserved, more self-contained than she had ever been, but +again, as Martin said to Doris, she must be judged by what she did, not +by what she suggested, and she had accomplished marvels not only at the +old place, but in her cabin across The Gap. In her once-deserted home +Mary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> had contrived to resurrect all the ideals that had perished with +her forebears. The rooms shone and glittered; the garden throve; and +Mary spun and wove and designed and made money. She was respected, +feared, and secretly believed to be "low-down mean," but calmly she went +her way.</p> + +<p>What she knew lay buried in her stern reserve, and she saw a great deal.</p> + +<p>She saw at once what had occurred since she left her years of service. +Mary no longer served—she ruled.</p> + +<p>She saw that Joan, as she had given promise of doing, was controlling +the forces of her small world. Doing it as once she had done it in the +nursery, with a radiant witchery that had gained its ends with all but +Mary herself!</p> + +<p>While Mary's eyelids drew together, she focussed through the narrow +slits upon Joan and with a hot, deep resolve she took up cudgels for +Nancy.</p> + +<p>And she bided her time.</p> + +<p>Back and forth from her cabin to the big house she walked daily, and to +Mary's cabin Nancy, presently, went—for comfort and inspiration, though +she did not realize it.</p> + +<p>Often, unknown to others, the two would sit near the fire, making a +vivid picture. Mary in her plaid cotton gown, bent over her folded arms, +swaying to and fro, making few comments but conscious of being +understood. Nancy, fair and lovely, speaking more openly to the plain, +silent woman near her than she had ever spoken to any earthly being and +feeling, under her sweet unconsciousness, the underlying confidence.</p> + +<p>"Of course," she once whispered to Mary, "I would love all the things +that Joan loves and wants, but my duty to Aunt Dorrie is bigger than +they, Mary. I am sure if Joan saw things as I do, she would act as I am +acting. But we are keeping Joan from knowing."</p> + +<p>"Why?" The sharp word startled Nancy—was Mary disapproving?</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie and Uncle David think best, Mary."</p> + +<p>Mary touched upon the hidden hardness in Nancy's softness and +retreated.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> + +<p>And during that red-and-gold autumn, their first in The Gap, Doris was +soothed strangely to a state of perfect relaxation—a state not pleasing +to Joan, and rather puzzling to David Martin, who postponed a proposed +trip to the West until he felt sure of Doris's health. It seemed that, +having dropped the old life, Doris was not merely willing to step into a +new one—she was drifting in. Without resistance she floated. She would +lie for a whole afternoon on the porch watching the play of colour on +The Rock. She smiled, recalling, rather vaguely to be sure, the +superstitions concerning The Rock.</p> + +<p>It was all delightfully restful and beautiful and not a care in the +world!</p> + +<p>Mary and Nancy saw to every detail. Joan was frankly interested in every +phase of the experience. "It might be," mused Doris from her pillows, +"that having left everything to that Power that does control, I am to +have my heart's deep desire—keep both Joan and Nancy!"</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>I count life just a stuff to try the Soul's strength on. Learn, nor count the pang; dare, never grudge the throe.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>No one but Mary, apparently, saw what was to happen. It was the old +nursery problem re-acted.</p> + +<p>Joan had tired of her game, had used all the material at hand, and was +burning to be on the adventurous trail.</p> + +<p>The old restlessness and defiance were singing in the girl's blood; +mockery rang in her voice and that wonderful laugh of hers. She was +about to smash into the safe joyousness of things as they were! She +threatened Nancy's toys. And Mary, alone, took heed. Joan herself was +unconscious. She always was of her changing mood; she simply realized +that she was lost; somehow, astray.</p> + +<p>And Nancy, looking mutely in Mary's eyes, seemed to say:</p> + +<p>"It will all be so lonely; so terrible with Joan gone!"</p> + +<p>That was it. The old fear of, or for, Joan had materialized—it was Life +with Joan left out!</p> + +<p>"And why should one have so much and the other so little?" asked Mary of +that deep knowledge in her busy brain. "Why shouldn't they share +alike—and twins at that!"</p> + +<p>Then Mary stopped short in her thinking. Her own words took her back, +back to a dark night—she was peering, aided by a dim light from within, +at a baby lying in the arms of——</p> + +<p>Mary drew her breath sharp; her thin, flat bosom heaved and her fingers +clutched her gown.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> + +<p>David Martin had so far classified his perplexity concerning Doris as to +name it "Southern fever."</p> + +<p>"Hookworm?" Joan broke in gleefully.</p> + +<p>Martin frowned but did not reply.</p> + +<p>"Doris," he turned to the couch, "I must go out West." She understood. +Martin never spoke openly about his family affairs. Until he was surer +of that nephew of his he kept him in the background.</p> + +<p>"Yes, David." Doris smiled up at him.</p> + +<p>"I want you to promise me that you will take more exercise!" Martin +said.</p> + +<p>"Why, certainly, David, but I thought you wanted me to—to rest."</p> + +<p>"I do—but you are rested. I do not want you to enjoy resting. It's +dangerous."</p> + +<p>"Oh! bully for you, Uncle David," Joan broke in, delightedly, "Aunt +Dorrie is just plain flopping and Nan and Mary are abetting her."</p> + +<p>For some reason Martin turned to Joan, not Nancy who was standing +patiently by.</p> + +<p>"Joan, get your aunt on horseback—lead up to it, of course—and go +slow."</p> + +<p>"But—Uncle David——" Nancy drew near. Her kingdom was threatened.</p> + +<p>"My dear," Martin always melted to Nancy, "after Joan gets her on +horseback, <i>you</i> ride with her."</p> + +<p>And so Doris got off her couch, rather dazedly, as one thinking his legs +have been shot off finds them still attached to him.</p> + +<p>She had been actually letting go! She, of all people, and just when +there was so much to do—so long as she had strength to do it!</p> + +<p>It was December when Martin started for the West and Joan's restlessness +gained power.</p> + +<p>Christmas rather eased the situation, for with it Father Noble appeared.</p> + +<p>He startled Doris as Uncle Jed had, by his persistence.</p> + +<p>"They cannot be as old as they look," she concluded, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> gladly entered +into all the plans for carrying sunshine and joy into the deep places of +the hills.</p> + +<p>"Dear me, dear me!" explained Father Noble, whose memory of her was so +blurred that Doris did not venture to refer to it in detail; "I thought +when the Sisters went away this beautiful old house would fall into +disuse. It is a great happiness to feel its welcome once more."</p> + +<p>Then the old man raised his hat from his silvered head and, standing so +in the doorway, besought a blessing "on them who waited but to do His +will."</p> + +<p>Joan and Nancy rode with him back into the clearings; they revelled in +it all and carried out every suggestion offered. They learned, through +Father Noble's interpretation, to ignore the stolid indifference of the +people; they played for, not with, the shy children, and distributed +marvellous toys that were limply held in small hands that were yet to +learn the blessed sense of ownership.</p> + +<p>"When you are gone," Father Noble explained and chuckled delightedly, +"they will watch the trails for your coming back. They never forget; +they are worth the saving—but one must have faith and patience."</p> + +<p>Then January settled down in The Gap. The short days were full of clouds +and shadows; the river ran sullenly, and with greater need for sympathy +Joan made ready to demolish Nancy's toys. She came into the living room +one morning in her riding togs. She was splashed with mud and her face +was dull except for the wide, burning eyes.</p> + +<p>Nancy was weaving at the window—Mary had taught her, and she gave the +impression, sitting there, of having looms in her blood.</p> + +<p>Around the fire lay four hound puppies—they had taken the place of +dolls in Nancy's affections. As Joan entered the dogs raised their +absurd heads and with their flappy ears and padded paws patted the floor +in welcome.</p> + +<p>"Where is Aunt Dorrie?" asked Joan, poising herself on the arm of a deep +chair.</p> + +<p>"In the chapel," Nancy replied, bent over the snarl she had made of woof +and warp.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I wish Aunt Dorrie would have that room sealed!" Joan spoke +ill-naturedly; "I know it's haunted. If we don't look out the ghosts +will ooze over the whole house. Ooh!"</p> + +<p>Nancy did not answer but set the treadle to its duty. The clacking noise +emphasized Joan's nervousness.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie doesn't know what to do here—that's why she takes to the +chapel. That's why everyone takes to chapels."</p> + +<p>Nancy broke her thread and Joan laughed.</p> + +<p>"I wonder why Aunt Dorrie came here like a dear, silly old pioneer?" The +laugh still persisted in the mocking words.</p> + +<p>"It's—it's quite the thing," Nancy said, fatuously, "to have country +places. I think it's wonderful."</p> + +<p>"You may not be able to help being a snob, Nan, but don't be a prig." +Joan's words struck hurtingly. Then suddenly her mood changed.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, snow-child," she whispered, going close to Nancy. "I'm a +beast. Isn't it queer to be conscious, now and then, of the beast in +you?"</p> + +<p>"Please don't, Joan, dear. Please don't talk and act so." Nancy's eyes +were blinded by tears.</p> + +<p>"Very well, then, I will be good." Joan flung herself in a chair and +presently asked curiously:</p> + +<p>"Nan, what are you going to do when you've done all the things down here +millions of times?"</p> + +<p>"There will always be new duties," Nancy ventured.</p> + +<p>"Duties! Oh! Nan, surely you're too young to play with duties—you'll +hurt yourself." The mockery again entered in.</p> + +<p>Just then Jed stumbled into the room with an armful of wood. His bleared +eyes clung to Nancy's face and he nearly fell over a rug.</p> + +<p>When he went out Joan seemed to follow him. She spoke musingly as if +voicing her thoughts:</p> + +<p>"It's terrible for anything as old as that to be running around," she +said. "It isn't decent. He ought to be tucked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> up in his nice little +grave. He looks as if he'd been forgotten."</p> + +<p>"Joan, you are wicked—you make me afraid!" Nancy came from the loom and +crouched by Joan.</p> + +<p>"Snow-child, again forgive me!" Joan bent and drew Nancy's fair head to +her knee. "But oh! I am so—so utterly lost."</p> + +<p>"Joan, what is it? What is the matter?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, Nan." Joan was looking into the fire—seeking; seeking. +"Things that quiet you and Aunt Dorrie just drive me on to the rocks. I +feel as if I'd be wrecked if I didn't steer well out into the open. And +when I get as far as that, I know that I couldn't find my way out even +if—if everything let go of me. I suppose I would sink. This isn't my +place, Nan, but I don't know where my place is! I feel sure I have a +place, everyone has—but where is mine?"</p> + +<p>There was desperation in the words, the desperation of helpless youth. +No perspective, no light or shade, but terrible vision.</p> + +<p>"Joan, darling, why can you not wait until you see the way?" Nancy was +prepared now for battle.</p> + +<p>"That's it, Nan. I can't. All I can do is to push off the rocks—then +I'll have to sink or swim. This is killing me!"</p> + +<p>Joan flung her head back as if she were choking.</p> + +<p>And just then Mary came into the room.</p> + +<p>A gray shawl, home-spun—it was made from the wool of Mary's own +sheep—was clutched over her thin body; a huge quilted hood—Mary +herself had quilted it—half hid her dark, expressionless face.</p> + +<p>"I met the postman," she announced, "as I came along. He give me this!"</p> + +<p>Mary held a letter out to Joan and passed from the room.</p> + +<p>The moment, while Joan glanced at the letter, had power to grip Nancy's +imagination and fill it with a vision.</p> + +<p>As sure as she ever saw anything, she saw Joan going away! Going away as +she had never gone before. Going to a Far Country.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Whom is the letter from?" she faltered, and Joan tore open the envelope +while her eyes drank in the words.</p> + +<p>"It is from Sylvia Reed, Nan. Her dream has come true. She has her +studio—she wants me!"</p> + +<p>"Joan, you will not go—you must not!" All that Nancy dared to put in +her plea she put in it then.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" asked Joan impressed. "Why not, Nan?"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie——" Nancy's words ended in a sob.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie shall decide."</p> + +<p>And with that Joan, her face radiant, her breath coming quick, walked +from the room and on, on to the little chapel upstairs.</p> + +<p>Doris was sitting by the window. The day was going to be clear at its +close, and a rift in the sullen clouds showed the gold behind; the light +lay in a straight line across the chapel floor.</p> + +<p>Doris was not in a depressed mood. She often sat for an hour in the +quiet place. She took her tenderest treasures of thought there. She had +been thinking that afternoon of David Martin. How wise he was! What a +friend! How he understood her! How unworthy she was of the richness that +flooded her life!</p> + +<p>It was then that Joan came in. She did not go close to Doris—the +physical touch was not the first impulse with either of them.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie, I have a letter from Sylvia Reed."</p> + +<p>Instantly Doris was stirred as Nancy had been. Mentally she braced. She +recalled vividly Sylvia Reed, Joan's particular friend at Miss +Phillips's. The girl had +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'genuis'">genius</ins> +where Joan had talent. She had inherited +enough to take her comfortably through school, had a small income +besides, but she would have to work and win her way to the success she +promised. Sylvia's ambition was only equalled by her belief in herself +and her eagerness to prove it to others. She was a few years older than +Joan, and a girl of remarkable character and sweetness.</p> + +<p>"She wants me, Aunt Dorrie. She wants me to come to her. She has a +studio in New York; not down in that part<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> of the city which Uncle David +doesn't like, the place where he says folks show off with the window +shades up. Sylvia is in the safe uptown where the <i>real</i> thing is!"</p> + +<p>The eagerness in Joan's hurrying voice made Doris smile. The girl was +trying to clear all obstacles away before coming to the point. That was +her way.</p> + +<p>"Why, Aunt Dorrie, Sylvia has two orders for book covers, already, +besides twelve hundred a year!"</p> + +<p>The letter had been packed with ammunition and Joan was using it +recklessly.</p> + +<p>"Just listen, Aunt Dorrie."</p> + +<p>And Joan spread the letter on her knee; her hands were trembling as she +patted it open.</p> + +<p>"This is what Sylvia says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The Studio is perfect—north side full of windows; south side full +of fireplace; your room and mine on the east; stars and sunlight on +tap from the windows. We are on top of the city and nothing hinders +our view. We walk up and none come but those worthy of us—come, +Joan, you always said that you would.</p> + +<p>Your future will be blasted unless you break away from your rich +relatives. Nothing is such a curse as that which prevents you +proving yourself; you remember about the poem which dealt with +proving your soul?—how you spouted it. I know that you are gifted, +child, but the world doesn't. If we fail, you at least can, after +you pay proper respects to my remains, go back to that adorable +aunt of yours and flop in the lap of luxury—but make the attempt +to reach glory first.</p> + +<p>I suppose Nan will raise a ladylike dust—but come! Come +empty-handed—it's the only honest way. Come prepared to eat your +bread by the sweat of your brow—or go hungry.</p> + +<p>I bet your aunt will see the squareness of this offer if you put it +right. Come!</p></div> + +<p>The light broadened outside—the little chapel was flooded with the +golden glow.</p> + +<p>Even while her heart sank and grew heavy, Doris was moved with an almost +terrible understanding of the girl across the room. She wanted to push +her on her way instead<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> of holding her back, and at the same time she +was striving to clutch her as she went her way.</p> + +<p>Yes, that was it. Joan was already started; nothing could hold her +back—but still the battle waged, while Doris smiled tremblingly.</p> + +<p>"I know, Aunt Dorrie, I know. It hurts—but—but—oh! listen, dear. This +seems my chance; perhaps it isn't—but I can never know until I try. +Dearie—I will do just what you say. I will, and I will think you right. +I want so much to try and find out what is in me that I—I cannot see +clear."</p> + +<p>For a moment Doris could not see the girl across the room. The sunlight +fell full on her, and hid her, rather than revealed her.</p> + +<p>"I'll try to be worthy of your faith in me, darling. Go on." Doris spoke +quietly.</p> + +<p>They did not come together physically, these two. They felt no need of +the affectionate human contact; it was more one soul reaching out to +another with courage and honesty.</p> + +<p>Doris listened, following closely. People and places became visualized +as Joan spoke. Sylvia Reed with her strong, purposeful face and eyes of +a young prophet; the new nest of genius where the brave creature, +believing in herself, waited for another in whom she trusted and for +whom she held a deep-founded affection. Doris felt her way in +silence—relinquishing, loving, fearing, but never blinded. She knew the +moment's pain of disappointment caused by the realization that with all +her love and riches she had not, for the time being, anything to offer +this untried soul that could lure it from its vision.</p> + +<p>Presently she heard herself speaking as if a third person were in the +room:</p> + +<p>"If this means anything it means that it must be met in the spirit with +which Sylvia is meeting it. She has risked all; is willing to pay the +price—are you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Aunt Dorrie."</p> + +<p>"You know, darling, that it would be easier for me to lavish everything +on you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Aunt Dorrie."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You understand that if I leave you free to meet this chance in its only +true way—the hard, struggling way—it is not because I desire to sicken +you of it and so regain you for Nancy and me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! yes, Aunt Dorrie, I do understand that."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure you do, child, or you would not be here. And so I set you +free, little Joan, I wish you luck and success, but if you find the +chance is not your chance, my darling, will you come as frankly to me as +you have come to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you are—well—there is no word for you, but +I feel as if you were my mother and I'd just—found you! You'll never +seem quite the same, Aunt Dorrie—though that always seemed good enough. +Why"—And here Joan slipped to her feet and danced lightly in the sunny +room tossing her hair and swaying gracefully—"why, I'm free to fail +even if I must—fail or succeed—and you understand and love me and +don't begrudge me my freedom—you are setting me free and not even +disapproving."</p> + +<p>The dance in that sanctuary did not seem incongruous; Doris watched the +motion as she might a figment loose in the sunlight. It was as much a +prayer of thanks as any ever uttered in the peaceful place.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Hopes and disappointments, and much need of philosophy.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>A week later Joan started for New York, a closely packed suitcase in her +hand, a closely packed trunk in the baggage car ahead, and some hurting +memories to bear her company on the way.</p> + +<p>Memories of Nancy's tears.</p> + +<p>How Nancy could cry—once the barriers were down!</p> + +<p>And worse than Nancy's tears were Doris's smiles.</p> + +<p>Joan understood the psychology of smiles—as she remembered, her proud +head was lowered and she was surprised to find that <i>she</i> was shedding +tears.</p> + +<p>"But it's all part of the price of freedom!" At last Joan dried her +eyes. "And I'm willing to pay."</p> + +<p>So Joan travelled alone up to town, and it was a wet, slippery night +when she raised the knocker on Sylvia Reed's green-painted door and let +it fall.</p> + +<p>The door opened at once and disclosed the battle-ground of young genius. +The old room was dim, for Sylvia had been toasting bacon and bread by +the open fire and she needed no more light than the coals gave. Sylvia +wore a smock and her hair was down her back. She looked about twelve +until she fixed her eyes upon you, then she looked old; too old for a +girl of twenty-four.</p> + +<p>"Joan! Joan!" was all she said as she drew Joan in. Then, after a +struggle, "Do you mind if I—sob?"</p> + +<p>"No, I'm going to do it myself." And Joan proceeded to do so and +remembered Nancy.</p> + +<p>"I'm so—happy!" she gulped. "I was never so happy in my life. I feel as +if I'd got hatched, broken through the shell!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You have," cried Sylvia, unevenly. "We're going to—to conquer +everything! Come in your room, Joan, shed as much as you like. I +expected you this morning. I have only bacon and eggs—shall we go out +to eat?"</p> + +<p>"Go out? Heavens, no! And I adore bacon and eggs. Sylvia, I have edged +into glory!"</p> + +<p>"You have, Joan—edged in, that's about it."</p> + +<p>After the meal before the fire they cleared things away, and then they +talked far into the night. Sylvia had already laid emphasis upon her +small order.</p> + +<p>"And really, Joan, that's great," she explained; "many a girl has to +wait longer. Some day I'm going to be hung in the best exhibitions in +town, but as a starter a magazine is nothing to be sneered at. I'm +modelling, too—I have a duck of an idea for a frieze—only I'm not +telling anybody about that—it's too ambitious. What are you going to +do, Joan?" This sudden question made Joan stare.</p> + +<p>"I—I don't know," she replied, frankly, but with no shade of +despondency. "I'll take a look around to-morrow and, then pack my little +wares in my basket and peddle them, as you have done. If anybody wants a +dancer—here I am! Anybody want funny little songs sung?—here's your +girl! I seem to have only samples. I can be adaptable. That's my big +asset." They both laughed, but Sylvia soon grew serious. Her short +service in reality had already sobered her. It was one thing for the +gifted young girl of a fashionable school to watch the impression she +made by her wits upon people who were paying high for just such +exhibitions, and quite another to convince buyers of goods that they +were what you believed them to be.</p> + +<p>"The public is a tightwad," was what she muttered presently, "unless +you're willing to compromise or—prove it to them."</p> + +<p>"I—I don't know what you mean," Joan replied. She was groping after the +thing that had made Sylvia's eyes grow old.</p> + +<p>"Well, all you need to know, Joan, my lamb, is to prove it to +them—never compromise!" Sylvia was herself again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> Too well she knew +the value of starting out with one's shield bright and shining even if +one had to come home <i>on</i> it, all rusted with one's life blood.</p> + +<p>Things were not yet very tragic for Sylvia, and her shield was in good +condition, but she had an imagination and a keen sense of +self-protection.</p> + +<p>"We're going to be the happiest pair in town," she whispered to Joan +later that night as she bent over the tired girl; "and was there ever +such a spot to live in? See, I'm going to raise your shade high, for the +night is splendid and—the stars! Go to sleep with the stars watching +you, old girl, and you're all right."</p> + +<p>Joan slept heavily, dreamlessly, and awoke to—more bacon and eggs with +hot rolls and coffee added.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to float about a bit to-day," she said, and her feet were +fairly dancing. "I've only known New York before holding to Aunt +Dorrie's hand or my nurse's. Today I'm going to go back alone and +then—catch up with myself."</p> + +<p>Suddenly she began to sing her old graduation song:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 10%"> +"I'll sail upon the Dog-star<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'll sail upon the Dog-star;</span><br /> +I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I'll make her leave her horning.</span><br /> +<br /> +"I'll climb the frosty mountain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there I'll coin the weather.</span><br /> +I'll tear the rainbow from the sky<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And tie both ends together."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Sylvia leaned back, clapping and laughing. This was as it should be. +Fun, youth, gaiety. She went to her easel in the north room, humming +Joan's old ballad, and never did better work in her life than she did +that day.</p> + +<p>Joan sallied forth equally happy and her past, thank heaven, had been +brief enough and rosy enough to make the tying of the ends nothing but a +joyous task. She rode downtown<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> on top of a bus. The crisp air stung and +rallied her. She longed to sing from the swaying vehicle—she felt as if +she were on top of the world and that it was keeping time to the tune +she wanted to sing. She looked so lovely that the conductor grinned +delightedly as he remarked:</p> + +<p>"Snappy weather, miss!" and Joan nodded in friendly fashion and agreed. +She walked to the old home, standing with drawn blinds by the little, +close-locked park. It looked stately and reserved as one of the family +might have done. It smilingly held its tongue.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to see the sunken room and the fountain," Joan thought. "I +cannot imagine it with the fountain and the birds still. They will never +be still for me!"</p> + +<p>She was a bit surprised to feel how far she had travelled from the Joan +who was part of Nancy and the sunken room. It was quite shocking to find +that she was not missing Nancy. She wondered if she were heartless and +selfish? But after all, how could one be missed from a life in which she +had never, could never, have part? And full well Joan realized that in +this big venture of hers the old, except as a stepping-stone, was +separated forever.</p> + +<p>"If I become famous"—and Joan, tripping along, felt as if fame were as +possible for her as the luncheon she was now feeling the need of—"if I +become famous then they will understand, but even then my life and +theirs will be different."</p> + +<p>This point of view made Joan feel important, tragic, but desolate.</p> + +<p>"I'm hungry," she thought, seriously, and made her way to a restaurant, +where once she had gone with Doris while on a wonderful shopping +expedition. The place was little changed; it had passed into other +hands, but the menu proudly proclaimed the same enticing dishes.</p> + +<p>Joan ordered what once had seemed the food of the gods, but to her now +it was as chaff.</p> + +<p>Across the table, made dim by her misty eyes, she seemed to see Doris +smiling fondly, faithfully, at her. Doris's power over people was +largely due to that faith she had in them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And I will be all you want me to be, Aunt Dorrie!" Joan promised that +while she choked down the food. "I feel as if I were in the bear's +house," she mused, whimsically. "I'm half afraid that I'll be pounced +upon."</p> + +<p>And so she paid her bill and went back, via the bus, to Sylvia. She ran +up the long flights of stairs and burst in upon Sylvia with the +announcement that "nothing would count if you didn't have someone to +come home and tell it to." And then she forgot her glooms while they +prepared an evening meal more conservative than bacon and eggs.</p> + +<p>"Yes, my beloved," Sylvia returned as she plunged a wicked-looking +little knife into the heart of a grapefruit: "And that accounts for half +the marriages in life." Sylvia was refraining, just then, from telling +of her own engagement. She wanted and needed Joan for the present—her +secret would keep.</p> + +<p>"You funny old Syl," Joan flung back over her shoulder as she drew the +curtain over the closet that screened the housekeeping skeletons from +the wonderful studio. "We won't have to resort to marriage, anyway. +We've solved the eternal question!"</p> + +<p>"Exactly! And now give those chops a twist. Thank the Lord, we both love +them crisp."</p> + +<p>The experiment in a few days had Joan by the throat. So utterly had she +thrown herself into it, so almost unbelievably had Doris Fletcher +permitted her to do so, that it took on all the attributes of reality +and demanded nothing less than obedience to its laws, or surrender to +defeat.</p> + +<p>Doris had given Joan, when she came North, a check for five hundred +dollars. Upon reaching Sylvia she had, after paying her expenses, that, +and fifty dollars in cash left.</p> + +<p>It had seemed boundless wealth for the first few days and continued to +seem so until the necessity for bringing the check into action faced the +girl.</p> + +<p>"I must find something to do!" she vowed as she made her way to the bank +where she had deposited the check. "No more fooling around."</p> + +<p>Sylvia made no suggestions; never appeared to be anything<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> but satisfied +with things as they were. The companionship, the feeling of <i>home</i> that +Joan had introduced into her life, were deep joys to the girl who, like +many women who know not the art of making a home, are soul-sick for the +blessings of one.</p> + +<p>"I'd work till my last tube ran dry," she thought to herself, standing +at the wide north window, "if I could keep her singing and dancing about +and—getting meals!"</p> + +<p>Joan did not interfere with Sylvia's profession—she gave it new +meaning—but Sylvia realized that Joan was interfering with her own. +Still, Sylvia was never one to usurp the rights of a Higher Power, and +at twenty-four she was intensely, shamefacedly religious and absolutely +lacking in desire to shape the ends of others.</p> + +<p>"The thing that's meant for her will slap her in the face soon," Sylvia +comforted herself. "And she's such a wonder!"</p> + +<p>But if Sylvia refrained from nudging Joan on her course, even to the +extent of opening her eyes to sign-posts, others were not so obliging. +Into Sylvia's studio youth, in its various forms of expression, floated +naturally. Sylvia attracted women more than men, but her girl friends +brought their male comrades with them and everybody was welcome to +anything that Sylvia had. Fortunately most of the young people were +honestly striving to earn their living; they were sweetly, proudly +unafraid, but when they relaxed and played they made Joan's eyes widen, +until she discovered that they often dressed their ideas, as they did +themselves, rather startlingly while adhering, privately, to a +respectability that they refused to make public.</p> + +<p>They were, on the whole, a joyous lot belonging to that new class which +causes older and more conservative folk to hold their breath as people +do who watch children walking near a precipice and dare not call out for +fear of worse danger.</p> + +<p>The women attracted and interested Joan immensely. The men amazed her.</p> + +<p>"You see," she confided to Sylvia, "the men seem like a new sex—neither +men nor women."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sylvia stood off regarding her work—she smiled happily and replied:</p> + +<p>"They are, dear lamb. The girls will all, eventually, put on; fill +up"—Sylvia added a dab of clay to a doubtful curve—"but men, when they +chip off from the approved design, look like nothing on earth but +daubs!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Joan added, "that's what I mean." Then, with a thoughtful +puckering of the brows, "the girls will be women, somehow, but what will +become of these—this new sex, Syl?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia was tense as she eyed her work. She answered vaguely:</p> + +<p>"Some of them will crawl up, and <i>do</i> things and justify themselves, the +others will——"</p> + +<p>"Will what, Syl?"—for Sylvia was moving like a panther upon her +prey—her prey being the small figure on the pedestal.</p> + +<p>"Do this—or have it done for them!" and at this the offending clay was +dashed to atoms.</p> + +<p>"Failure!" breathed Sylvia—"mess!"</p> + +<p>Then with characteristic quickness she began a new design. Joan watched +her and caught a sudden insight. She realized what it was that marked +Sylvia for success. Presently she asked musingly:</p> + +<p>"Does any one ever marry these—these men, Syl?"</p> + +<p>"Heavens, no! They only play with them; don't get confused on that line, +lamb."</p> + +<p>"Don't worry about me, Syl. I don't even want to play with them. Syl, I +do not think I shall ever marry. I'm like Aunt Dorrie, but if I ever +should marry it would be something to help one grip life, not something +to—to—well, haul along!"</p> + +<p>Sylvia turned and eyed Joan.</p> + +<p>"My pet lamb," she remarked, "you are all right! Make sure that no one +side-tracks you—give them half, but no more. And, Joan, run along now, +child, and get dinner."</p> + +<p>A few days later Sylvia broke into Joan's revery by the smouldering +fire. It was a gray, cold day and Joan's spirits were at low tide.</p> + +<p>She had not been successful in any venture as yet, and so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> vivid was her +imagination, so sincere her determination to play fair, that starvation +and early death seemed the most likely objects on her mental horizon. +She had eliminated Doris and Nancy as life-preservers—they figured only +as blessed memories in a past that was not yet regretted but which was +fast fading into a black present.</p> + +<p>"Joan, my darling, suppose you come to the rescue. My model has gone +back on me—let me see you dance! My model had sand bags on her feet +yesterday, anyhow, and my beautiful figure looks as if it had the +beginnings of paralysis."</p> + +<p>Joan sprang up. Instantly she was aglow and trembling with delight.</p> + +<p>"Here, take this balloon," ordered Sylvia, "it is still gassy enough to +float—it's a bubble, you know."</p> + +<p>Through the room Joan floated after the elusive ball. Sylvia watched her +with a light breaking over her own face.</p> + +<p>"Great, great!" she cried from her corner, "go it, Joan, you're the real +thing!"</p> + +<p>Joan was not listening. What her eyes saw were the figures in the +fountain of the sunken room. She was one of them again—the story was +coming true! It was no longer a golden balloon she was touching, +fondling, reaching for, tossing—it was sparkling water, and birds +seemed singing in the big north studio.</p> + +<p>At last it was over. On Sylvia's canvas the figure appeared to have +undergone a marvellous change by a few rapid and bewitched strokes. The +sand-bag impression had been removed—the figure was alive!</p> + +<p>"Syl, dear, you are wonderful!"</p> + +<p>Joan came and stood close. "What have you done to it?"</p> + +<p>"Put you in it. Or," here Sylvia tossed her +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'pallette'">palette</ins> +aside and caught +Joan by the shoulders, "you've put yourself in me. I've a line on your +opportunity, Joan, it came to me like a flash of inspiration. I hope you +are game."</p> + +<p>"I'm game, all right," Joan returned, quietly. She was thinking of her +next visit to the bank.</p> + +<p>"Dress your prettiest, my lamb. Look success from head to foot and then +go to the address I'll give you. I have a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> friend, Elspeth Gordon, who +is opening a tea room. She may not think you necessary to her scheme of +things, she's Scotch and terribly thrifty, with a dash of nearness, but +you tell her that <i>I</i> say you'll be the making of her."</p> + +<p>Joan laughed and darted away to array herself in her best.</p> + +<p>"What am I supposed to do there?" she asked. Her brightness and gaiety +had returned.</p> + +<p>"Oh! any one of your accomplishments. Of course it was merely a matter +of making things jibe. Elspeth only telephoned about the tea room this +morning."</p> + +<p>"You mean I am to wait on tables or cook?" asked Joan, somewhat daunted.</p> + +<p>"Lord, child, no! Here, wait. On second thought, I'll go with you. I +might have known you couldn't put it over. Watch me!"</p> + +<p>Sylvia was worth watching as she pulled her tam o' shanter over her +head, her face all aglow.</p> + +<p>"I've undervalued your 'samples,' as you call them, my lamb," she +chatted on. "Of course you must take lessons and be a legitimate +something some day—a singer, I fancy, but in the meantime we must +utilize what we have."</p> + +<p>On the way through the frosty streets Sylvia grew more mystifying.</p> + +<p>"It's putting the <i>punch</i> in these days that counts, Joan. You are to +be—the punch. Eats are all right in their way, but folks do not live by +bread alone; they flourish—or tea rooms do—on punch."</p> + +<p>Joan, running along beside Sylvia, accepted the rambling talk without +question. Her acquaintance with tea rooms was limited, but she had +caught Sylvia's mood.</p> + +<p>"Just imagine," Sylvia was a bit breathless; "a cold, dreary afternoon +outside—a warm, bright tea room with enchanting tables drawn close to +an open fire, and someone—you, my lamb—singing a ballad, when there is +a lull—in the offings! Why, Elspeth is as good as <i>made</i> if she has the +wit to grab you—and Elspeth is no fool."</p> + +<p>Joan began to see the opening ahead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh!" she drawled—the word lasted a half block and ended in a mocking +laugh.</p> + +<p>"Could I dance in costume?" she asked, tossing her head, "or tell +fortunes as I used to at school? Do you remember, Syl, how I went to the +kitchen door, once, and took the maids all in, and then Miss Tibbetts +came down to see what was going on, and I read her palm—and——" but +here Joan stopped short physically. "What's the matter, Syl?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course!" Sylvia was regarding Joan impartially. "They might +object to having you break in on their silly tea-talk, the police might +raid the place if you danced—but palm reading! Oh! my dear, you've +struck it in the dark. Hurry!"</p> + +<p>And hurry they did, arriving at the Bonny Brier Bush a few minutes later +in rather a breathless but radiant state.</p> + +<p>The proprietress, Elspeth Gordon, was a tall, slender woman, no longer +young, but carrying herself with a dignity that amounted almost to +majesty. She was gowned in crisp lavender linen with immaculate white +collars and cuffs and was standing in the middle of her Big Experiment, +as she termed it, when Joan and Sylvia burst in.</p> + +<p>"All ready but the opening of the door—legitimately," she said, smiling +on Sylvia and bowing cordially to Joan. "Doesn't it look inviting?" She +gave a broad glance to the sweet, orderly room: the small tables, glass +covered; the rose-chintz covers and draperies; the clear fire on the +broad, old-fashioned hearth, and the blossoming rose bushes on the +window sills.</p> + +<p>"It certainly does," Sylvia replied with enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>"I've put everything I own into this venture," Elspeth went on; "if I +fail, I'm done for."</p> + +<p>For all her years of discretion and her plain common sense, Elspeth +Gordon's mouth and tone betrayed the artistic temperament. Upon that +Sylvia was banking.</p> + +<p>"I have a splendid cook—a Scotch woman. I'm going to specialize on +scones, and oat cakes, and such things, but oh! it is the opening of the +door and the awful days of waiting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> until the public finds out!"</p> + +<p>"Exactly!" Sylvia nodded and Joan stared. "You'll have to lure the +public, Elspeth, there's no doubt about that. Tea rooms are no novelty +these days. You'll have to tease it with a bait, and the rest is easy.</p> + +<p>"Now, my dear, here's your bait!" With this, Sylvia turned so sharply +upon Joan that Elspeth started nervously and regarded her guest as she +might have a tempting worm: something possibly necessary, but which she +hesitated to touch.</p> + +<p>"She can read—palms!"</p> + +<p>"Oh! Syl——" Joan panted, but Sylvia scowled her to silence.</p> + +<p>"She can read palms," she repeated, holding Elspeth by her firm tone; "a +little more reading up, a bit of experience, and she'll work wonders. +She doesn't know it, but she's psychic—of course this is going to be +fun; not real. Just a lure. We'll have Joan in a long white robe—a girl +I know can design it. We'll have a filmy veil over the lower part of her +face—mystery, you know. Look at her eyes, Elspeth, aren't they great? +Give that 'into-the-future' stare, Joan!"</p> + +<p>Joan rose to the fun of it all. She grasped the possibilities, but +Elspeth faltered.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to be—ridiculous," she said, slowly. "I'm quite serious, +and my food is going to be above question."</p> + +<p>"Of course! And if you think Joan will make you ridiculous, you've got +another guess coming, Elspeth. Now, when do you open?"</p> + +<p>"I have planned to open day after to-morrow." Elspeth spoke +hesitatingly, keeping her cool, businesslike glance on Joan.</p> + +<p>"All right," Sylvia was tapping her fingers restlessly; "that's +Thursday. I'll get a girl I know to work on the costume to-night; we'll +buy books on palmistry on our way home. We'll give you just four days to +lure your public with scones, and then if you don't call Joan up, she'll +start a tea room herself across the way."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>This made them all laugh, but there was an earnestness in their eyes.</p> + +<p>And on Sunday night Elspeth spoke over the telephone.</p> + +<p>"Could you come to-morrow at two, Miss Thornton?"</p> + +<p>Joan, sitting close to the telephone, winked at Sylvia. They had all +been sitting up nights working, reading, and praying for that question.</p> + +<p>"I think so," was the reply in quite an unmoved and businesslike tone.</p> + +<p>"And remember, Joan," Sylvia cautioned later, "this is but a means to +fit you for a profession!"</p> + +<p>"I'll remember," Joan twinkled, "in the meantime, I am going to enjoy +myself."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Let us live happily, free from care among the busy.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>There was one of Sylvia's friends who, from the first, caught and held +Joan's imagination. That was Patricia Leigh.</p> + +<p>Patricia rarely got further than the imagination—after that she was +idealized or suspected according to the person dealing with her.</p> + +<p>Joan idealized Patricia—"Pat," she was always called.</p> + +<p>The girl was fair and delicately frail, but never ill. She wrote verse, +when moved to do so, and did it excellently, and she never thought of it +as poetry.</p> + +<p>When she was not moved to verse—and she had a good market for it—she +designed the most astonishing garments for her friends. She could, at +any time, have secured a fine position in this line and was frequently +turning away offers. When the designing palled upon Pat she fell back +upon her personal charm and enjoyed herself!</p> + +<p>Patricia had, outwardly, a blood-curdling philosophy which she frankly +avowed she believed in, absolutely, though Sylvia warned Joan that it +was "bunk!"</p> + +<p>What really was the case was this: Patricia was an adept at playing with +fire. Lightly she tossed the flame from hand to hand; gaily she laughed, +but at the critical moment Patricia ran!</p> + +<p>She revelled in portraying the fire danger, but she covered her retreats +by masterful silence.</p> + +<p>"My code is this," she would proclaim: "In passing, snatch! You can +discard at leisure."</p> + +<p>There was no doubt but that Patricia did more than her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> share of +snatching. When she played, she played wildly, but she was a coward when +pay time came.</p> + +<p>But who was there to show Patricia in her true light? Her good +qualities, and they were many, pleaded for her. She was too little and +sweet to be held to brutal exactions, and she was such a gay, blithesome +creature, at her maddest, that when she ran one felt more like +commending her speed than hurling epithets of scorn at her.</p> + +<p>"If she wasn't a thousand times better than she makes herself out to +be," Sylvia confided to Joan, "I'd never let her into my studio; but Pat +is golden at heart, and she ought to be spanked for acting as she does."</p> + +<p>"Hasn't she any family?" asked Joan. "No one whom she may—hurt?"</p> + +<p>"That's it, my lamb, she hasn't. Mother died when she was four years +old; father, an actor, but devoted to her, and insisted upon trotting +her around with him. She was confided to the care of cheap +boarding-house women; she ran away from school once and travelled miles +alone to get to her father, and when he died—Pat was eighteen then—she +began her career, as she calls it. Snatch and skip!"</p> + +<p>"Poor, dear, little Pat!" said Joan, and her eyes filled.</p> + +<p>"There, now!" Sylvia exclaimed, "she's caught your imagination."</p> + +<p>That was true, and by the magic Joan began to see life as Patricia said +<i>she</i> saw it: a place of detached opportunities and no obligations.</p> + +<p>"I believe," Patricia would say, looking her divinest, "that in +developing ourselves we most serve others. We relieve others of our +responsibilities; we express ourselves and have no gnawing ambitions to +sour us. Self-sacrifice is folly—it makes others mean and selfish, +others who may not hold a candle to us for usefulness. Now"—and here +Patricia, smoking her cigarette, would look impishly at Sylvia, quite +forgetting Joan—"take, for instance, Teddy Burke!"</p> + +<p>"Pat!" Sylvia was in arms, "I will not hear of your actions with Mr. +Burke. They're disgraceful. You should be ashamed of them."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> + +<p>"On the other hand," Patricia always looked like a young saint, rather a +wild one, to be sure, when she spoke of Burke, "I'm proud of my defiance +of stupid limitations and fogyish ideals. Here is a man, a corker, Joan, +with a wife who, acting upon tribal instinct, never dreams that she may +be set aside. She travels the world over, foot loose, but with her +little paw dug deep in her husband's purse. Here are two ducks of +kiddies living with governesses and nurses over on a Jersey estate and +pining for the higher female touch. Here am I with a batch of verses +going quite innocently into Mr. Burke's office—he's an editor, you +know—and he buys my stuff and howls for more. I grow white and thin +providing more, and in weak moments show my beautiful inner soul to him. +He, being a gentleman and an understanding one, asks me out to Jersey, +and those children just cram into the hungry corners of my life. They +play with me; they—they"—here a subtle touch of truth struck through +Patricia's ironic tones—"they <i>teach</i> me to play. Haven't I a right to +snatch—what was snatched from me?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia cried out: "Rot!" But Joan made no reply.</p> + +<p>Often would Sylvia, deeply serious, urge Patricia to turn her talents to +designing.</p> + +<p>"Verses only take you near danger, Pat, dear," she would say; "and look +at the things you can make for people! Why, dear, you bring out all +their good points."</p> + +<p>"You would have me stick my precious little soul full of needles and +pins? Oh! you black-hearted creature. Not on your life, Syl! Designing +is my job—it gets enough for me to fly on—but I mean to fly! And as I +fly, I pause to sip and feed, but fly I must."</p> + +<p>For Joan, Patricia felt a strange attraction. The child that was so +persistent in Joan appealed to Patricia while it irritated her.</p> + +<p>"She'll get hurt if she doesn't grow up!" the girl thought, and began at +once rather crude forcing measures.</p> + +<p>"A professional woman," she imparted to Joan, "is a different breed from +the household pet—you must learn to scrimmage for yourself and take +what helps your profession.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> You cannot stop and nurse the <i>you</i> of you. +One's Art is the thing. Now love helps—love the whole world, Joan, it +keeps you young. Play with it, but don't make the mistake of letting it +take you in. The thing that threatens Sylvia is her—Plain John!"</p> + +<p>Joan and Patricia laughed now. Sylvia's love affair was tenderly +old-fashioned. Her man was on the Pacific Coast, making ready for her; +she was going to keep right on with her work—her John had planned her +studio before he had the house!</p> + +<p>"'Love and fly!' is my motto," Patricia rambled on; "fly while the +flying is good. Get your wings clipped, and where are you? Sylvia will +have children and they will mess up her studio and her career—and look +at her promise!" It was Patricia that had forced Sylvia's engagement +into the open.</p> + +<p>In some vague way Patricia felt that she was educating Joan, not +weakening her foundations; but gradually Joan succumbed to the +philosophy of snatch-and-fly, and the Brier Bush gave ample opportunity +for her to practise it.</p> + +<p>From the first she was a success. In her loose, flowing robe of +white—Patricia had wrought that with inspiration—she was a witching +figure. The filmy veil over the lower part of her face did but emphasize +the beauty and size of her golden eyes. The lovely bronze hair was +coiled gracefully around the little head, and after a week or so the +gravity with which she read palms gave the play a real touch of +interest.</p> + +<p>People dropped in, sipped tea, and paid well to play with the pretty +disguised young creature who was "guessing so cleverly." They departed +and sent, or brought, others. The Brier Bush became popular and +successful; Elspeth Gordon secured for it a most respectable standing.</p> + +<p>"Why, Miss Gordon is the granddaughter of a bishop!" it was whispered, +"and take my word for it that little priestess there with her is either +a professional, finding the game lucrative, or a society girl out on a +lark behind a screen."</p> + +<p>Most people believed the latter conjecture was true and then the Brier +Bush became fashionable.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joan reaped what seemed to her a harvest, for Elspeth was as just as she +was canny.</p> + +<p>"After a year," Joan promised Sylvia, "I will begin to study music +seriously. Why, I have decided to specialize, Syl—English and Scotch +ballads"; and then off she rippled on her "Dog-star"—the song was a +favourite in the studio; so was the Bubble Dance.</p> + +<hr class="minor" /> + +<p>And about this time Joan's letters to Ridge House made the hearts there +lighter.</p> + +<p>"A job!" Nancy repeated, reading the announcement of Joan's success.</p> + +<p>"I thought only workingmen had jobs. And in a restaurant, too! Aunt +Dorrie, I don't think you ought to let Joan do such things."</p> + +<p>"Joan is earning her living," Doris said, calmly, though her heart beat +quicker. "These fad things are often successes, financially, and I can +trust Joan perfectly."</p> + +<p>Christmas was a disappointment.</p> + +<p>"I cannot leave this year, Aunt Dorrie," Joan wrote; "this is our busy +time. Next year I will be free and studying music."</p> + +<p>Doctor Martin was to have been back from the West, but was detained, so +Nancy and Doris again helped Father Noble with his hill people, and Mary +came over to Ridge House and decorated the rooms to surprise them when +they came back from the longest trip of all.</p> + +<p>Doris had discarded, largely, her couch. With her inward anxiety about +Joan to be controlled, she was more at ease in action and it was good +for her.</p> + +<p>Nancy's devotion was taken for granted, as was her happiness. What more +could Nancy want?</p> + +<p>It was Mary who resented this.</p> + +<p>"'Tain't fair!" she muttered as she went about her self-imposed tasks, +"'tain't fair." And scowlingly Mary still bided her time.</p> + +<p>Early in the new year David Martin returned from the West bearing about +him the impression of battle crowned by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> victory. He was jovial and +boyishly delighted with Doris's improvement.</p> + +<p>"I haven't long to stay," he confided to her, "but I had to see how +things were going here before I settled down in New York. Nancy looks +fine! She's happy, too." This to Nancy, who was fondling the pups by the +fire.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, how about Joan?"</p> + +<p>Doris, her hands folded in her lap, did not reply.</p> + +<p>At this Martin took to striding up and down the long, sunny room. The +thought of Nancy rested him; Joan always irritated him.</p> + +<p>"When is she coming back?" he asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>"She's got——" Nancy hesitated at the word; "she's got a job. She won't +come home until she's lost that."</p> + +<p>Martin turned on Doris a perplexed and awakened face.</p> + +<p>"What's this?" His voice had the ring of the primitive male.</p> + +<p>"Well, you know Joan is with Sylvia Reed, David. You remember that girl +who painted so beautifully at Dondale? Sylvia has a studio, now, and is +regularly launched. She's doing extremely good work. Nan, show Doctor +Martin that magazine cover that Sylvia did."</p> + +<p>David took the magazine indifferently from the obedient Nancy and +dropped it at once.</p> + +<p>"Who's looking after them?" he inquired, leaping, in his deadly rigid +way, over much debatable ground.</p> + +<p>"They're looking after themselves, David." Doris metaphorically got into +position for a severe bout.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean," Martin came close and glowered over Doris, "you cannot +possibly mean that Joan is going in for that loose, smudgy stunt that +some girls are doing down in that part of town known as Every Man's +Land?"</p> + +<p>Nancy ran to the window and bent over her loom. She was always +frightened when David Martin looked as if he were going to perform an +operation.</p> + +<p>"Certainly not," Doris replied; "the girls have a place uptown in a +perfectly respectable quarter. Joan shares the expense. This is very +real and fine, David. And you are not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> going to blame me for permitting +Joan to do this—it was the only thing to be done. The girl has a right +to her life and the use of her talents; this was an opening that we +could not ignore. Sylvia Reed is older than Joan."</p> + +<p>"How much?" David's voice was like steel.</p> + +<p>"Four years." In spite of her anxiety, Doris had to laugh.</p> + +<p>"Is this a joke, Doris?" Martin was confused.</p> + +<p>"Why, no, David, it isn't."</p> + +<p>"Were you mad, Doris? Why, don't you know that many girls are simply +crooked while they call themselves emancipated? I am amazed at you. How +did you dare! Have you thought what an injustice you've done the girl? +Keeping her in cotton wool, feeding her on specialized food, and then +letting her loose among—among garbage pails?"</p> + +<p>Nancy fled from the room. The operation was on!</p> + +<p>Doris got up and linked her arm in David's—they paced the floor slowly, +getting control of themselves as they went. Presently Doris spoke:</p> + +<p>"You see, dear, I have always held certain beliefs—I have always been +willing to test them—and pay."</p> + +<p>"But dare you let Joan pay?" Martin was calm now.</p> + +<p>"Not for mine, but for her own—yes. Aren't you going to let this boy of +yours try his own flight, David?"</p> + +<p>"That's different."</p> + +<p>"It won't be always, David, dear—someone must make the break—our dear +young things in the big cities are breasting the waves, David. I glory +in them, and even while I tremble, I urge them on. You should have seen +Joan when she came to me with her great desire burning and throbbing. +Why, it would have been murder to kill in her what I saw in her eyes +then. It was her <i>Right</i> demanding to be free."</p> + +<p>"It's the maddest thing I ever heard of!" Martin broke in. "I wonder if +you have counted the cost, Doris?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, David, through many long days and wakeful nights. I have shuddered +and felt that it was different for Joan; that <i>she</i> should have been +kept in—in bondage. It would have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> been bondage for her. But, David, +the only thing I dared <i>not</i> do was to keep freedom from the child."</p> + +<p>"And suppose"—Martin's face grew grimmer—"suppose she goes under?"</p> + +<p>"She will come to me—she promised. I am prepared to go as far as I can +with my girls on their way; not mine. That was part of my bargain with +God when I took them."</p> + +<p>"You're a very strange and risky woman, Doris."</p> + +<p>"And you are going to be fair, David, dear. Now tell me about your boy."</p> + +<p>Instantly Martin was taken off guard. He smiled broadly and patted +Doris's hand, which lay upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"Bud's coming out on top!" he said—Clive Cameron was always Bud to +Martin. "I've kept closemouthed about the boy," he went on, forgetting +Joan; "he's meant a lot to me, but I've always recognized the +possibility of failure with him and felt the least I could do, if things +came to the worst, was to leave an exit for him to slip out of, +unnoticed. He's always kept us guessing—my sister and I. He never knew +his father. From a silent, observing child he ran into a stormy, vivid +youth that often threatened disaster if not positive annihilation—but +he's of the breed that dashes to the edge, grinds his teeth, plants his +feet, and looks over!—then, breathing hard, draws back. After a while I +got to banking on that balking trick of his. Once I got used to the fact +that the boy meant to know life—not abuse it—I knew a few easy years +while he plodded or, at times, plunged, through college.</p> + +<p>"He couldn't settle, though, on a job, and that upset us at last. He ran +the gamut of professions in his mind—but none of them appealed to him. +When he was nineteen he suddenly took an interest in his father—we'd +never told him much about him. Cameron wasn't a bad chap—he simply +hadn't character enough to <i>be</i> bad—he was a floater! When Bud got that +into his system, it sobered him more than if he'd been told his father +was a scamp. A year later the boy came to me and said: 'Uncle David, if +you don't think I'd queer your profession—I'm going to make a try at +it.'"</p> + +<p>Martin's face beamed and then he went on:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That was a big day for me, Doris, but even when the chap went into it, +I kept quiet. I feared he might balk. But he hasn't! He's big +stuff—that boy of mine. He confided everything to me this time. Certain +phases of the work almost drove him off—dissecting and, well, the +grimmer aspects! Often, he told me, he had to put up a stiff fight with +himself before he could enter a dissecting room—but that does one of +two things, Doris: makes a doctor human or a brute. It has humanized +Bud. He'll be through now, in a year or so, and I'm going to throw him +neck and crop into my practice. I'll stand by for awhile, but I have +great faith in my boy!"</p> + +<p>Doris looked up at the grave, happy face above her own.</p> + +<p>For a moment a sensation she had never experienced before touched +her—it was like jealousy!</p> + +<p>"How he would have adored a son of his own," she thought, "and what a +father he would have been!"</p> + +<p>She faltered before speaking, then she said quietly:</p> + +<p>"If—if I have deprived you of much, David, at least I have not killed +the soul of you."</p> + +<p>"I'm learning as I go along, my dear," Martin replied.</p> + +<p>"We're not all developed in the same way."</p> + +<p>"And, David," Doris trembled as she spoke, "as you feel for your boy, so +I feel for my Joan. You must trust me."</p> + +<p>"That is different," Martin stiffened.</p> + +<p>"It is the same."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>In all directions gulfs and yawning abysses.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>That was what David Martin felt was encompassing Joan. He wanted to take +a hand in her affairs, but before he left Ridge House Doris made him +promise that unless she changed her mind, he would not even call upon +Joan.</p> + +<p>"If she knows that you have your eye on her, David, much of what I hope +for will be threatened. You have quite a dreadful eye, dear man, and +Joan is sensitive. She may look you up—I will write to her about you. +If she doesn't, she does not want you to—well, Davey, meddle! And she +has a perfect right to her freedom. She is self-supporting now!"</p> + +<p>Doris could but show her pride in Joan's cleverness.</p> + +<p>"Very well, Doris. I wash my hands of the matter, but I think it sheer +madness!"</p> + +<p>With that Martin returned to town and waited, hopefully, for a summons +from Joan. It did not come!</p> + +<p>He did go so far, one evening, as to walk on the block where the studio +was, but he got no satisfaction from that except the proof of its +respectability.</p> + +<p>"I cannot look back just now!" Joan had thought when considering Martin, +"and Uncle David would tell me things about Aunt Dorrie and Nancy that +would rumple all my calm, and I dare not risk it."</p> + +<p>In this she was wise—for there were times when, the novelty and freedom +of self-support worn off, the temptation to return to the waiting +flesh-pots was very great. At such moments of weakness Patricia rallied +her.</p> + +<p>"Don't be one of the women who are ready to sell their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> birthrights for +a meal ticket," Patricia urged, looking her daintiest and saintliest.</p> + +<p>"But what <i>is</i> one's birthright?" Joan asked.</p> + +<p>"The self-expression of—yourself," Patricia smiled serenely.</p> + +<p>This always reinstated Joan in her old resolve.</p> + +<p>"To come to town and cut capers at the Brier Bush," she confided to +Sylvia, once Patricia was off the scene, "is poor proof of anything. +Syl, I'm going to get to work seriously soon with my music."</p> + +<p>"We'll get a piano," practical Sylvia suggested; "there is no need to +grow rusty while you're making money."</p> + +<p>And so they secured the piano, and the studio had another charm.</p> + +<p>The Brier Bush, in the meantime, was waxing great in popularity and +financial success. Elspeth Gordon from her position of assurance gave it +a unique touch. No one could take liberties with her tea room. Presently +delicious luncheons were added to the scheme, and, while Joan's part was +regarded with amused complacency, the excellent food and service +commanded respect.</p> + +<p>At first women came largely to the pretty, attractive rooms; then, +occasionally, men, rather timidly, presented themselves, but finding +themselves taken for granted and the food above reproach, they appeared +in numbers and enjoyed it.</p> + +<p>And then one rather gloomy, early spring day Mrs. Tweksbury came upon +the scene.</p> + +<p>Joan knew her at once, although the old face was more wrinkled and +delicate.</p> + +<p>Of course Mrs. Tweksbury had not the slightest inkling concerning Joan's +movements, and she looked upon the veiled young creature moving about +the tea room with a cool, calm stare of amused disapproval.</p> + +<p>"Quite a faddish thing you're making of your venture," she said to +Elspeth Gordon, for of course with a bishop for a grandfather Miss +Gordon was taken for granted. Elspeth smiled her most dignified smile +and replied graciously:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Just a bit of amusement, Mrs. Tweksbury. It helps digestion and, +incidentally, helps business."</p> + +<p>"But the—the young woman, Miss Gordon—is she a professional?"</p> + +<p>"Have you tested her, Mrs. Tweksbury?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! no, my dear Miss Gordon." Mrs. Tweksbury had beautiful old hands +and she turned the palms up while she considered them.</p> + +<p>"Suppose you judge for yourself, Mrs. Tweksbury." Elspeth was charmingly +easy in her manner.</p> + +<p>"Who is she?" bluntly asked the old lady.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" And here Elspeth recoiled. "My palmist and my best recipes are +sacred to me, Mrs. Tweksbury. But may I call my little seer to you?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury consented, and when Joan looked at the pink, soft palm a +spirit of mischief possessed her.</p> + +<p>Skirting as near as she dared to the facts in her possession, she +gently, but startlingly, took the owner of the hand at a disadvantage.</p> + +<p>At first Mrs. Tweksbury was confirmed in her idea that the girl before +her was a society girl—her general knowledge could be explained by +that, but suddenly Joan became more daring—she vividly recalled much +that she had heard Doris say in defence of the old woman whom Nancy and +she feared and often ridiculed.</p> + +<p>It took but a twist to change a private incident into a blurred but +amazing suggestion.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury was frankly and angrily impressed.</p> + +<p>When passing from the room Miss Gordon spoke to her:</p> + +<p>"Do you believe in my Veiled Lady?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Certainly not, Miss Gordon, but I'm—afraid of her! You had better +guard her somewhat—or she'll be taken seriously."</p> + +<p>"We'll never see <i>her</i> again!" prophesied Joan, chuckling over her +victory with the old lady; "I've evened up for Nan and me!" she thought, +and then the incident passed from her mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p> + +<p>But not so easily did the matter go from the confused thoughts of Mrs. +Tweksbury.</p> + +<p>"I dare say," she finally concluded, "that if one could tear the veil +from the face of that impudent little minx one would discover the +smartest of the objectionable Smart Set. The girl should be curbed—how +dare she!"—here Emily Tweksbury flushed a rich mahogany red as she +recalled some of the cleverly concealed details of, what seemed to her, +the most private affairs.</p> + +<p>"Outrageous!" she snorted, and vowed that she deserved all that she had +received for supporting the new-fangled nonsense that was spreading like +a new social evil in the heart of all she held sacred.</p> + +<p>Patricia Leigh had not been so interested in years as she was in Joan's +affairs at the Brier Bush. They smacked of high adventure and thrilled +the girl.</p> + +<p>To Sylvia they were rather grovelling means to a legitimate end. She +scowled at Joan's vivid description of her experiences and warned her to +trust not too fully to her veil.</p> + +<p>"But it's a splendid lark!" Patricia burst in, defensively; "it's Art +spelled in capitals. Joan, take my advice and get points about the +swells and scare them stiff!"</p> + +<p>"Pat, you should be ashamed!" Sylvia scowled darkly.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" purred Patricia. Then: "I see the finish of Plain John's romance, +my sinister Syl, if you don't limber up your spine. Genius, love, and +unbending +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'virture'">virtue</ins> +never pull together."</p> + +<p>And then—it was when March was dreariest and drippiest—Kenneth Raymond +strode—that was the only word to describe his long-legged advance—into +the Brier Bush for luncheon with Mrs. Tweksbury.</p> + +<p>He had listened to variations of Mrs. Tweksbury's first visit to the tea +room with varying degrees of impatience.</p> + +<p>He hated tea rooms; he had little interest in young women, and +particularly disapproved of the type bordering on license; but he had +consented to go in order to lay the old lady's growing nervousness +concerning the details of her first visit.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My dear," Mrs. Tweksbury had said to Raymond, "the more I think of it +the more I am puzzled."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," Raymond replied; "the more you think of it the more puzzles +you introduce. Undoubtedly the young woman is a girl playing outside her +legitimate preserves. She's taking an unfair advantage. They always do. +Presuming on sex and social position. Unless the girl is an outlaw, +she'll confine her antics to the safe outer edge."</p> + +<p>In this mood Raymond strode into the Brier Bush with Mrs. Tweksbury at +his heels. They took a table near the fireplace and, rather arrogantly, +Raymond looked about.</p> + +<p>"No one was going to take him in!" was what his stern young eyes and +dominant chin proclaimed.</p> + +<p>He was of that type of man that gives the impression of being handsome +without any of the damaging features so often included. He was handsome +because he was strong, well set up, and completely unconscious of +himself.</p> + +<p>He was always willing to pay the right price for what he wanted, but he +meant to get good value! He was lavish with what was his own, as Mrs. +Tweksbury almost tearfully asserted, but about that he never spoke and +always frowned down any reference to it.</p> + +<p>He expected the usual thing at the Brier Bush, and was just enough to +show some appreciation when he did not find it.</p> + +<p>The rooms were unique and charming. Elspeth Gordon was impressive as she +walked about among her guests. She might permit them to be amused; help, +indeed, to give them a cheery hour in the busy day, but not for a moment +would she admit what could be questionable in her scheme.</p> + +<p>That being proved, Raymond critically attacked the bill of fare. Its +promise was like the atmosphere of the place, honest and wholesome.</p> + +<p>No man is proof against such dishes as were presently set before him. +Raymond was so engrossed by their merit and so surprised by it that he +forgot the main thing that had brought him to the Brier Bush until he +felt Mrs. Tweksbury's foot firmly and insistently pressing his. He +looked up.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joan was passing their table and very slightly she inclined her head +toward it.</p> + +<p>Her eyes were what startled Raymond. If eyes in themselves have no +expression, then the soul, looking through, has full play.</p> + +<p>All Joan's youth and ignorance and unconscious wisdom shone forth. Mrs. +Tweksbury amused her, but the man at the table disturbed her. She +misinterpreted the calm glance he fixed upon her. It was a disapproving +glance, to be sure, and Joan shrank from that, but she felt that he was +cruelly misjudging her and was so sure of himself that he dared to do +it—without even knowing!</p> + +<p>This she resented with a flash of her wonderful eyes.</p> + +<p>What Raymond really meant was—doubt. Not of her, but himself.</p> + +<p>"Saucy witch!" whispered Mrs. Tweksbury; "Ken, test her, for my sake!" +Again the foot under the table steered Raymond's thoughts.</p> + +<p>He found himself smiling up at Joan and, rising, offered her the third +chair at his table.</p> + +<p>She sat down quite indifferently, but graciously, and spread out her +pretty hands. Joan's hands were lovely—Raymond was susceptible to +hands. To him they indicated fineness or the reverse. Art could do much +for hands, but Nature could do more.</p> + +<p>Quite as graciously and simply as Joan had done Raymond spread his own +hands forth with the remark: "At your mercy, Sibyl."</p> + +<p>Now Joan, through much study of books and with a certain intuition that +stood her in good stead, had cleverly conquered her tricks. For what +they were worth, she offered them charmingly, seriously, and with +impressiveness.</p> + +<p>Then, too, from much guessing, with astonishing results, she had grown +to half believe in what she was doing. Patricia aided her in this. +Patricia had a superstitious streak and took to fads as she took to her +verse—on her flying trips.</p> + +<p>"You are a business man," Joan began, fixing her splendid<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> eyes on the +frankly upturned hands—she was comparing them with the hands of the +Third Sex, those studio-haunting men whose hands, like their linen and +morals, were too often off-colour.</p> + +<p>"An honest business man!" Joan thought that, but did not voice it.</p> + +<p>"You will succeed—if——" This she spoke aloud and then looked up. She +was ready now to punish her prey for that look of doubt in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"If—what?" Raymond was conscious of the "feel" of the hand which held +his—Joan's other hand was lying open beside his on the table.</p> + +<p>"If——" and now Joan traced delicately a line in his palm—a faint, +wavering line running hither and thither among the more strongly marked +ones; "if you strengthen this line," she said. "You are too sure of—of +your inherited traits. This line indicates individuality; it will rule +in the end, but you are making personality your god now. That is unwise. +As a well-trained servant it is wonderful, but as a master it will run +you off your best course."</p> + +<p>How Patricia would have gloried could she have heard her words mouthed +by Joan!</p> + +<p>Raymond stared. He felt Mrs. Tweksbury's foot on his and, mentally, +clung to it as a familiar and safe landmark.</p> + +<p>"Just what difference lies between individuality and personality?" he +asked so seriously that Joan's mouth twitched under her life-saving +veil. She brought Patricia's philosophy into more active action.</p> + +<p>"The difference is the meaning of life. One comes into this +consciousness with his individuality—or soul, or whatever one cares to +call it—intact. It accepts or repudiates what the personality—that is +intellect—learns through the five senses. If it is <i>truth</i>, then it +becomes part of the individuality—if it is untruth, it is discarded. +Individuality is never in doubt—it <i>knows</i>. It is not bound by foolish +laws evolved from the five-sensed personality; it will, in the end, have +its way. You will have to listen more to your individuality; be +controlled less by your personality. The latter is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> too fully +developed"—at this broad slash Raymond coloured in spite of +himself—"the former has been pitifully ignored."</p> + +<p>The pause that followed was made normal only by the pressure on +Raymond's foot.</p> + +<p>Presently he said, boldly:</p> + +<p>"You have the same line in your own hand, Sibyl!"</p> + +<p>Joan started and looked down. She had not considered a home thrust +possible. Instinctively her long, slim fingers clutched the secret of +her palm.</p> + +<p>"I am not reading my own lines," she said, quietly; "I am learning from +them, however!"</p> + +<p>Then she rose with dignity and passed to another table where a broad, +flat, commonplace hand lay ready.</p> + +<p>"Well?" Mrs. Tweksbury pounced into the arena like a released gladiator. +"What do you make of it, Ken?"</p> + +<p>Raymond laughed. He saw that Mrs. Tweksbury was more impressed than she +cared to acknowledge.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what she told you, Aunt Emily," he said, taking up the +check beside his plate, "but it was rather cleverly concealed rot, as +far as I am concerned. Drivel; faddy drivel, but the girl's a lady, or +whatever that word stands for. I half believe the child takes herself +seriously—she has wonderful eyes. She should wear blinders—it isn't +fair to leave them outside the veil. Comical little beggar!"</p> + +<p>"But, Ken," Emily Tweksbury followed her companion from the room, "you +are like that—you really are! You just take life by the throat and you +are sure of yourself in a way that frightens me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, come, Aunt Emily, that girl has caught you by her nonsense. See +here, let us do a bit of sleuthing! I bet the sibyl often is at dinners +where we go—and I'm not so sure but what I would know those hands of +hers anywhere—they were not ordinary hands. Two can play at her little +game."</p> + +<p>This seemed to offer some inducement to Mrs. Tweksbury and she +brightened.</p> + +<p>"Her walk, too, Ken. Did you notice that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—I did, by Jove! Longer strides than most girls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> take and a swing +from the hips like a graceful dance motion. Yes, that walk should be a +dead give-away."</p> + +<p>"And her eyes, Ken, she <i>has</i> eyes!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," rather musingly, "she has eyes!"</p> + +<p>"Ken, we mustn't give further countenance to this silly, faddy place."</p> + +<p>This with conviction.</p> + +<p>"Why should we, Aunt Emily? I only went at your request, you know."</p> + +<p>"Of course. The girl got on my nerves." Mrs. Tweksbury could smile now.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm going to get on hers!" Raymond set his jaw.</p> + +<p>Two days later Kenneth Raymond went to the Brier Bush again for +luncheon. This time Mrs. Tweksbury did not accompany him.</p> + +<p>He took a table at the far end of the room near the windows—he wanted +light. He ordered his luncheon, read his paper, and to all intents and +purposes gave the impression of a business man who, having discovered a +place of good food, repaired to it with confidence. Of course Elspeth +Gordon did not remember him—why should she? But Joan did—and why +should she? She was reading the palms of a hilarious group near the +table at which Raymond sat reading the stock reports; she was in a gale +of high spirits but, when she was aware of Raymond's glance, she paused +and caught her breath.</p> + +<p>"Anything bad in my hand?" asked the girl whose palm Joan was scanning.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! Something splendid. You are never to make mistakes, because +your caution is stronger than your desire," Joan murmured.</p> + +<p>"I think <i>that</i> is stupid," the girl returned; "no fun in that kind of +thing."</p> + +<p>Joan prolonged each reading at the safe, jolly table; she planned, when +she was done, to ignore the man near her and go in the opposite +direction, but while she planned she was aware that she would do no such +thing. The bird and the snake know this force, so do the moon and the +tides.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> + +<p>And at last Joan got up and turned toward Raymond. As she passed his +table—he was busy with his soup then—her head was high and her eyes +fixed upon Miss Gordon at the other end of the room. She was estimating +her chances of reaching Elspeth with the limited self-control at her +command. Then she heard words and paused without turning her head.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would stop a moment. I have a question to ask you."</p> + +<p>Joan had a sudden fear that if she did not stop the question would be +shouted.</p> + +<p>"Very well," she said, quietly, and sat down opposite Raymond.</p> + +<p>She clasped her pretty hands before her and—waited.</p> + +<p>It is not easy to laugh away the moments in life that we cannot account +for—they often seem the only moments of tremendous import; they are the +channels which, once entered, give access to wide experiences. Joan felt +her breath coming hard; she was frightened. Raymond pushed his plate +aside and, leaning forward a bit over his clasped hands, said casually:</p> + +<p>"Just how much of this rot do you believe?"</p> + +<p>"None of it."</p> + +<p>"Why do you do it?"</p> + +<p>"I am earning my bread and butter and—dessert."</p> + +<p>"Especially—the dessert?"</p> + +<p>"No. Especially bread and butter. It is only a bit of fun, you +know—this reading of the palms. Miss Gordon thinks it—it aids +digestion," Joan was speaking hardly above a whisper.</p> + +<p>"She does, eh?" Raymond had an insane desire to snatch the shielding +veil from the face across the table. He wondered what would happen if he +did?</p> + +<p>"I wish," he said instead, "I wish you'd cut it out, you know."</p> + +<p>"What—my bread and butter?"</p> + +<p>"No—this tomfoolery. I don't believe you have to earn your living. I'd +lay a wager that you are doing it as a stunt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> to vary the monotony of a +dull existence, but there are other and better ways of doing that, you +know."</p> + +<p>Raymond was deadly earnest and did not stop to consider the absurdity of +his words and tones.</p> + +<p>"What ways?" asked Joan, and Raymond detected the suggestion of a smile +behind the vapoury veil.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I need to tell you that," he said.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not—but after consideration I've chosen this way. I like it." +Joan was getting control of herself, and in proportion to her gain +Raymond lost.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you think me an impudent ass," he ventured.</p> + +<p>"I'm—thinking of something else," Joan answered.</p> + +<p>"What, for instance?"</p> + +<p>"That line—in your hand."</p> + +<p>"I thought you said this was only fun; that you did not believe in it?" +Raymond frowned as he saw his next course advancing toward him.</p> + +<p>"There are exceptions," and Joan helped him arrange his dishes.</p> + +<p>"Some day, if you are interested, come and I'll tell you more about that +line in your hand." She rose with quiet grace and moved away.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I say—" Raymond followed her with his eyes—"why not to-day?"</p> + +<p>"There are others," Joan tossed back and was gone.</p> + +<p>That night she went to Patricia Leigh's. Patricia had had a busy and +prosperous day. She had written some verses that she felt were +good—they had a tang that always gave Patricia the belief in their +quality; she had sold two other small things. She was, therefore, at her +flightiest, and greeted Joan with delight.</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad Syl is not tagging on, Joan," she said. "Syl is the best +they make, but she does somehow get under the skin and make people feel +themselves 'seconds'."</p> + +<p>Joan sank into a chair.</p> + +<p>"Syl is writing reams to her John," she explained. "I doubt if she +noticed my leaving. She probably thinks I'm still singing."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p> + +<p>And then Joan told Patricia about the man who, for some unknown reason, +had made himself permanent in her interest.</p> + +<p>"I wish I knew about him," she murmured; "I cannot recall any one in the +least like him in Mrs. Tweksbury's life. I don't want to ask Aunt +Doris—besides, he may just be a chance acquaintance of Mrs. +Tweksbury's. I hardly think that, though—for she looks volumes at him +and he sort of appropriates her."</p> + +<p>Patricia was frankly interested—she was flying, and at such moments her +bird's-eye view was a wide and sympathetic one.</p> + +<p>Joan, too, in this mood was bewitching.</p> + +<p>"All Joan needs," thought Patricia, "is to discover her sex appeal; get +it on a leash and take it out walking. She's like a marionette +now—hopping about, doing stunts, but not conscious of her performance."</p> + +<p>"Lamb!" Patricia lighted a fresh cigarette, "a week from to-night you +breeze in here and what I do not know about your young man, by that +time, will not count for or against him."</p> + +<p>"But, Pat, do be careful!" Joan was frightened by what she had set in +motion.</p> + +<p>"Careful, lamb? Why, if carefulness wasn't my keynote, I'd be—well! I +wouldn't be here."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Joyous we launch out on trackless seas carolling free, singing our songs.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>A week from that night Joan again eluded Sylvia. She did it by not going +to the studio for dinner. She felt deceitful and mean, but there were +heights—or were they depths?—that Sylvia could not reach, and +intuitively Joan felt that Sylvia would disapprove of what she was now +doing.</p> + +<p>Patricia was not in when Joan reached her rooms—they were small, dim +rooms and rather cluttered.</p> + +<p>Sitting alone, waiting, Joan thought of Patricia more intimately than +she often did. She recalled what Sylvia had told of her; remembered the +warnings, and her eyes dimmed.</p> + +<p>"Poor old Pat!" she mused, "she's like a pretty bird—just lighting on +things, or"—and here Joan thought she had struck on something rather +expressive—"or like a lovely, bright cloud casting a shadow. No matter +what colour the cloud is, the shadow's dark. Dear old Pat! Well—I see +the colour."</p> + +<p>This was satisfying and brought up her feeling about Patricia, which had +been depressed.</p> + +<p>And just then Patricia tripped in, humming and rippling and stumbling +over a rug as she felt her way in the gloom—Joan had not turned on the +lights. Presently she stopped short and asked sharply:</p> + +<p>"Who is here?"</p> + +<p>Joan bubbled over and Patricia gave a relieved laugh.</p> + +<p>"Lordy!" she gasped, "you gave me a bad minute. I thought——"</p> + +<p>"What, Pat?" Joan touched the switch.</p> + +<p>"I—I thought—it might be someone else. I haven't had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> a thing to eat +since breakfast," Patricia announced, dropping on a couch and pulling +the cushions into all the crevices surrounding her thin, weary little +body.</p> + +<p>"I'll get the nicest little meal for you in a jiffy!" Joan sprang to her +feet. "Is there anything <i>to</i> fix?" she added, quickly.</p> + +<p>"There's always something"—Patricia closed her eyes—"eggs and milk +and—and canned horrors." Then, with a radiant smile:</p> + +<p>"I've been on the trail of your man, Joan, and it was some trail."</p> + +<p>"Pat, darling," Joan hung over the couch, "you take a couple of winks. +I'm going out to get—a steak."</p> + +<p>"A what?" Patricia regarded Joan gravely. "A brand-new steak for me? +Joan, you must be mad!"</p> + +<p>"Pat, lie down and dream a minute or two. A steak, fried potatoes, a +vegetable, and dessert with coffee, cheese, crackers—and—and——" Joan +was putting on her hat while she spoke and Patricia was sniffing +adorably.</p> + +<p>A half hour later Joan crept noiselessly back, her arms full of bundles. +Patricia lay fast asleep on the couch.</p> + +<p>Sleep does revealing things, and in spite of her hurry, Joan stopped and +looked at the girl lying in the full glare of the electric light.</p> + +<p>She was like a weary child. All the hard lines on the thin face were +obliterated; the soft hair fell in cunning curls about the neck and +ears; the long lashes rested delicately on the fair skin.</p> + +<p>All the world stains were covered by the sweet presence of Patricia's +youth, which had stolen forth in slumber time.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Joan discovered that she was crying. Big tears were +rolling down her cheeks, and in her heart was growing a new, vital +emotion—a selfless, nameless, urging tide of protection for something +weak and helpless.</p> + +<p>When the meal was prepared Joan kissed Patricia awake.</p> + +<p>The girl sat up and gazed dazedly at the small table drawn to the couch, +at the candles burning on it, at the covered dishes from which crept the +most bewildering smells.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The god of the famishing—bless you!" whispered Patricia and fell to +the joy of the meal with the abandon of the starved.</p> + +<p>She ate and drank and smoked. She let Joan wait upon her and dispose of +the débris. She even directed Joan to the closet where her kimono and +slippers were; she let Joan undress her and put them on.</p> + +<p>"How thin you are, Pat lovey!" Here Joan kissed a white shoulder.</p> + +<p>"A mere bag of bones, Joan lamb, but they are easy to carry around."</p> + +<p>"And such ducks of feet, Pat, I never saw such cunning feet. They do not +look big enough to be of use."</p> + +<p>"They'll carry me as far as I have to go, Joan, and take it from me, I'm +not keen for a prolonged trip. It's too much trouble to keep yourself +alive to want to spin it out."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Pat! Hasn't my dinner done you any good?" Joan smoothed the soft, +fluffy curls tenderly.</p> + +<p>"Why, you old darling," Patricia broke forth, "you've given me a glimpse +of what would make it worth while—the trip, I mean. That's the trouble. +I get the glimpse, acquire the taste, and then I wake up to—sawdust. +Oh! good God, Joan."</p> + +<p>Joan rose and turned off the lights; she left the candles burning and +sat down on a stool by Patricia.</p> + +<p>After a while Patricia reached for her cigarettes and spoke as if +several big things had not occurred. She gurgled as a mischievous child +might who had stolen jam and escaped detection.</p> + +<p>"Your man, Joan," she began puffing away, "is named Kenneth Raymond. In +tracking him I resorted first to Hannah Leland, society editor of +<i>Froth</i>. Hannah stores up items about the upper crust as a squirrel does +nuts. Her articles always have background; she's let in everywhere +because folks are afraid to shut her out. She can see more through +keyholes than others do through barn doors, and her scent +is—phenomenal!"</p> + +<p>Joan hugged her knees and looked grave.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I—I hate to snoop, Pat," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"You don't have to—I got Hannah's snoops for you. They're innocent +enough—really, they're the soundest of sound little nuts.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Tweksbury had a romance! Don't grin, Joan. She didn't always look +like a squaw in front of a tobacco shop—they say she was rather a +stunner. She married Tweksbury before she got the bit in her +mouth—afterward she clutched it good and proper and trotted the course +according to the rules.</p> + +<p>"Then came Raymond—this man's father. He somehow got it over to Mrs. +Tweksbury—the real thing, you know, and she reached and got it over to +<i>him</i>, that it was up to them to—keep it clean. Gee! Joan, her past +sounds like a tract with all the sobs left out and a lot of iron put in.</p> + +<p>"Raymond, in a year or two, married a woman who lived only long enough +to produce this man upon whose trail we're scouting. This Kenneth was a +measly little offspring and his mother's people undertook to give him a +chance to live. He picked up and he and his father became pals—Hannah +rooted out a picture of them riding horseback. Then the father was +thrown from his horse and killed right before the eyes of the boy, and +that put him back years—he barely escaped. I don't believe he would +have, from accounts, if Mrs. Tweksbury hadn't butted in at that point +and made it a matter of honour to the boy to—to—carry on!</p> + +<p>"Well, once he mounted <i>that</i> horse he rode it as he did all +others—hard and grim. He never played in all his life. He's been making +good. Society he loathes; women do not exist for him, outside of Mrs. +Tweksbury. I bet he knows <i>her</i> past and is paying back for his +dad—he's like that.</p> + +<p>"Well, when I'd got everything Hannah had in her safe I had a burning +desire to have a look at Mr. Kenneth Raymond myself. So this afternoon I +went to his office——"</p> + +<p>"Pat!" cried Joan. "Oh! Pat, how could you?"</p> + +<p>"Easiest thing in the world, my lamb. You see, the chance of viewing a +human being—with one fortune in his pocket and another coming to him +when Mrs. Tweksbury lets<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> go—actually on a job holding it down like +grim death—was a sight to gladden the heart of a tramp like me. I +sallied down to Wall Street and had some fun.</p> + +<p>"I found his building without a moment's delay and I casually asked the +elevator boy where Mr. Raymond's office was, and the little chap grew +effusive—either Mr. Raymond is lavish with tips, or the human touch, +for his goings and comings are meat to that kid.</p> + +<p>"He told me I had better hustle, for at four-thirty every day Mr. +Raymond beat it! The boy was an artist in word-painting. He described my +man as a real toff, none of your little yappers. He's going to haul in +the pile and playing honest-to-God—fair, too!"</p> + +<p>Joan burst out laughing. Patricia mimicked the ribald manner of the boy +deliciously.</p> + +<p>Patricia nodded her thanks and went on:</p> + +<p>"Well, I hung around his corridor for ten minutes, Joan; and at +four-thirty exactly his door opened and I had timed myself so perfectly +that he tumbled over me and nearly knocked me down.</p> + +<p>"He has better manners than you might expect from such a deadly prompt +person. He steadied me and looked positively concerned when he realized +what a pretty, helpless little thing I am!" Patricia gave a wicked wink +and lighted her fifth cigarette.</p> + +<p>"I told him I was looking for —— and I made up a preposterous name; and +he puckered his lofty brow and said he couldn't recall any such name in +the building, and then I told him I had about concluded that I had the +wrong address, and he offered to look the name up for me, but I sighed +and said that it was too late. My man always left his office at +three-forty-five and that I would have to come again.</p> + +<p>"We went down in the elevator together, the boy winking all the way down +at me—and—that's all, Joan, except that you've got to go careful with +Mr. Kenneth Raymond. You don't want to hurt that fairy godmother of his; +she hasn't had many things of her own in life, and I do insist that +while one is grabbing it's better to grab where there is a flock than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +pick a ewe-lamb. Besides, this Kenneth Raymond hasn't begun to +understand himself—he's been too busy understanding life. Have a heart, +Joan!"</p> + +<p>Joan looked up sedately.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it queer, Pat, but now that I know him he doesn't seem +interesting in the least. He's priggish and conceited; he's a poser, +too. It is too bad, Pat, for you to tire yourself out and get such a—a +dry stick for your pains."</p> + +<p>Patricia regarded Joan for a full minute and then she remarked:</p> + +<p>"You had better go home and get to bed, child. And look here—I give you +this advice free: a fire lighted by an idiot can do as much damage as +any other kind of a fire."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Pat. I'll remember that when I—play around dry sticks. +Good-night, you old, funny Pat, and thank you."</p> + +<p>Joan bent and kissed the top of Patricia's head.</p> + +<p>After that evening with Patricia Joan clung to Sylvia with unusual +tenacity. She also went to see a well-known teacher of music and got his +opinion of her voice.</p> + +<p>"Your voice needs nearly everything to be done for it that can be done +to a voice," the professor frankly told her, "but you <i>have</i> a voice, +beyond doubt. You have feeling, too, almost too much of it; it is +feeling uncontrolled, perhaps not understood.</p> + +<p>"If you are willing to give years to it you will be a singer."</p> + +<p>The man thought that he was killing hope in the girl before him, but to +his surprise she raised her eyes seriously to him and said:</p> + +<p>"I am a working girl, but I am saving for the chance of doing what you +suggest. I will begin next winter. I think I know that I shall never be +great, but I believe I will sing some day."</p> + +<p>The man bowed her out with deep respect.</p> + +<p>When Joan told of her interview Sylvia was delighted, and Patricia, who +had happened in for a cup of tea, looked relieved.</p> + +<p>"Of course you'll sing, Joan," she said, enthusiastically,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> "and if you +don't turn your talent to account you'll bring the wrath of God down +upon you. That Brier Bush is well enough to start you—but you're pretty +well through with it, I fancy."</p> + +<p>Patricia was arraigning herself with Sylvia for reasons best known to +herself. She had the air of a very discreet young woman.</p> + +<p>Long did Joan lie awake that night on her narrow bed. She had raised the +shade, and the stars were splendid in the blue-black sky.</p> + +<p>She was happier, sadder, than she had ever been in her life before—more +confused.</p> + +<p>She wanted Doris and Nancy and the shelter and care; she wanted her own +broad path and the thrill that her own sense of power gave her. She +wanted to cling close to Sylvia; she was afraid of Patricia but felt the +girl's influence in her deepest depths.</p> + +<p>In short, Joan was waking to the meaning of life, and it had taken very +little to awaken her, for her time had come.</p> + +<p>Three days later Kenneth Raymond ate his luncheon at the Brier Bush and +spoke no word to Joan. The following day he nodded to her, and the day +after that he said, in a low voice as she passed:</p> + +<p>"I want to have you read my palm again."</p> + +<p>"Once is enough," Joan replied.</p> + +<p>"I have forgotten what you said," Raymond broke in; "besides, I have +another reason. You've set me on a line of thought—you've got to clear +the track."</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well." And Joan sat down and took the broad hand in hers.</p> + +<p>"I've read a lot of stuff since I saw you first," Raymond began. "There +is something in this palmistry."</p> + +<p>"I just take the words and play with them," Joan replied. "I truly do +not know whether there is anything in it—or not. It is only fun here."</p> + +<p>"Look at me!"</p> + +<p>This Joan refused to do.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There is that line in my hand like yours"—Raymond was in dead +earnest—"what—does it mean?"</p> + +<p>"I told you what it means," Joan faltered.</p> + +<p>"Do you want me to read your palm?" Raymond bent farther across the +table.</p> + +<p>"Yes, if you can!" Joan was on her mettle. She instantly spread her +hands to the bent gaze and prayed that no one would take the tables near +by. It was late; the rush was over and Elspeth Gordon, for the moment, +had left the room.</p> + +<p>"You're not what you appear," Raymond began.</p> + +<p>"Who <i>is</i>?" Joan flung this out defiantly.</p> + +<p>"You're daring a good deal—to taste life. You're testing your line; +making it prove itself—<i>I</i> haven't dared!"</p> + +<p>Joan did not speak, and her small hands were as quiet as little dead +hands in the strong ones which held them.</p> + +<p>"Does it pay—the daring, the testing?" Raymond's eyes, dark and +unfaltering, tried to pierce the veil.</p> + +<p>"Yes—I think so."</p> + +<p>"You make me want to try—do you dare me?"</p> + +<p>"It does not interest me at all what you do." Joan was like ice now. +"You evidently misunderstand our play here. Let go of my hands!"</p> + +<p>"I haven't finished yet. You've got to hear me out."</p> + +<p>"Let go of my hands!"</p> + +<p>"All right—but will you stay here?"</p> + +<p>"I'll stay until I want to go."</p> + +<p>"Very well. I know I'm a good deal of a fool—but sometimes a slight +thing turns the stream. I thought it was all rot—a play that you'd made +up—this line business." Raymond spoke hurriedly. "Of course I'd heard +of it, but I never gave it a thought. Just for sport, after that first +day, I got bushels of books and I've been sitting up nights reading. +There's something in it!"</p> + +<p>Joan laughed. The man looked like an excited boy who had started a toy +engine going.</p> + +<p>"See here! They say your left hand is what you start with; your right +hand what you have made of yourself—that line<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> that you have and I have +is in my right hand—is yours in both?"</p> + +<p>Joan tried not to look—but ended in looking.</p> + +<p>"No," she replied. "I reckon it only comes in the right hand with +anybody."</p> + +<p>"No, it doesn't; the lady I was with the other day hadn't it in either +hand!"</p> + +<p>"Isn't she lucky?" Joan laughed.</p> + +<p>"No, she isn't!" Raymond spoke solemnly. "Only the people who have +it—are."</p> + +<p>"I'm going now." Joan got up; and so did Raymond.</p> + +<p>"See here," he said, bluntly. "I've never had a bit of adventure in my +life—I'm a stick. I don't know what you will think of me; I don't care +much; but you've started something in me; it's nothing I'm ashamed of, +either, and you needn't be afraid. But won't you talk to me some +time—about—well, this stunt and some other things?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not!" Joan drew back and added: "and I am not in the least +afraid."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>But after it comes our lives are changed.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>And just when winter was turning to spring in the southern hills +something happened to Nancy.</p> + +<p>The winter at Ridge House had revealed many things. It had been lonely, +and it had brought conviction about Joan's absence. The girl was not +coming back to them, that must be an accepted fact. She would, +undoubtedly, when she became adjusted, return on visits—but they must +not expect her as a fixture, for she was succeeding! This realization +had caused Doris many silent hours of thought, but never once had she +known bitterness or a sense of injustice. Joan had as much right as any +other human soul to her own development. Doris was glad that Joan had +never known what Nancy knew about the need for coming to The Gap. The +knowing would have held Joan back. With Nancy it was different. Nancy +was not held from anything she wanted.</p> + +<p>David Martin spent as much time as he could at Ridge House. He came to +the hard conclusion, at length, that Doris, in her new environment, had +reached her high-water mark. Detached from strain and care, living +quietly, and largely in the open, she had responded almost at once—to +her limit, and there she remained. How long this improved state would +hold was the main thing to be considered; nothing more comforting could +be looked for.</p> + +<p>"Then, what next?" thought David, and his jaw grew grim.</p> + +<p>And Nancy, with a winter far too quiet and uneventful even for her, had +contrived to do some thinking for herself. Not for the world would the +girl have accepted Joan's choice. The safe and sheltered life was wholly +to her taste, but she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> wanted others to fall into line. Like many +another, she was not content to hold her own views, she was unhappy +unless she was approved and imitated. She wanted the spice and thrill of +Joan in her life; Joan was part of it all—the rightful part. With this +Nancy took to self-pity in order to establish her claim.</p> + +<p>"Why should I be taken for granted and be obliged to give up all the fun +and brightness while Joan does as she pleases?"</p> + +<p>Doctor Martin, even Doris, expected Nancy to come when she was called +and go to bed when the clock struck ten, while Joan could follow her own +sweet will.</p> + +<p>At this point Nancy re-read Joan's letters—all letters from Joan were +common property. If ever there was innocent jugglery Joan's letters +were. They were vivid and interesting; they carried one along on a +stream as clear as crystal, but they arrived at nothing.</p> + +<p>The studio was left to the imagination of the reader. Doris saw it as a +safe and artistic home for earnest young girlhood; Nancy saw it as an +open sesame to fun, rather wilder than school bats, but with the same +delicious tang. Doctor Martin viewed the place as most dangerous, and +those young people gathered there as perilous offsprings of a +much-deplored departure from conservative youth.</p> + +<p>"Fancy Joan helping in a restaurant!" groaned Nancy when Joan had +particularized about her "job." "Joan, of all people!"</p> + +<p>"It will be good practice," Doris remarked in reply. "When Joan marries, +she will have had some experience."</p> + +<p>"Marry?" David Martin broke in—he was on one of his flying visits. "If +anything could unfit a girl for marriage, the thing Joan is doing is +that."</p> + +<p>"Very well," Doris said, quietly; "marriage isn't everything, David."</p> + +<p>Doris was beginning to defend Joan, and it hurt her to be obliged to do +so. She did not regret the relinquishing of the girl, but she had hoped, +in her deepest love, that the experiment might either prove a failure or +that it might carry Joan to a peak—not a dead level. It was beginning +to seem that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> the sacrifice on her part meant simply separating Joan +from her—not giving Joan to anything worth while.</p> + +<p>There were moments, rather vague, elusive ones, to be sure, when Doris +turned from Joan and contemplated Nancy.</p> + +<p>"The child is perfectly content and happy," she thought; "but ought she +to be so—at her age? Nancy should marry—she will, of course, some +day.——" Then Doris wondered whom Nancy could marry.</p> + +<p>"Next winter I may be able to go to New York," she comforted herself; +"or I'll send Nancy to Emily Tweksbury; the child shall have her life +chance."</p> + +<p>But with Doris the inevitable was happening: she was sliding gracefully +down the inclined plane which others had arranged for her. She was +making no effort, because none was required of her. The peace and +comfort of the old house in restoring comparative health had placed its +mark upon her. It was wonderful to lie on the porch and watch the beauty +of The Gap change from season to season. The sound of the river was +always in her ears, and there was a dramatic appeal in kneeling at the +altar in the tiny chapel to pray for them whom she loved so tenderly.</p> + +<p>And Nancy was so sweet and companionable! Poor little Nancy! She was +playing Doris's minor accompaniment as once she had played Joan's more +vivid one. But the youth in her was surging and rebelling—not against +love and service, but inequality.</p> + +<p>"Joan should bear half, anyway!"</p> + +<p>Just what it was that Joan should share Nancy could not have told, she +simply knew that she wanted Joan—wanted what Joan represented.</p> + +<p>With the passing of winter and the early coming of spring Nancy and +Doris reacted to the charm of The Gap. The shut-in days were past. +Almost before one could hope for it, the dogwood and laurel and azalea +burst into bloom and the windows and doors were flung back in welcome to +spring.</p> + +<p>The grounds around Ridge House needed much attention, and Doris +contrived to make Uncle Jed believe that he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> the gardener. Nancy, +surrounded by dogs, no longer pups, wandered on the Little Road and +timidly took to the trails. It was quite exciting to go a little farther +each day into the mysterious gloom that was pierced by the golden +sunlight. Gradually the girl felt the joy of the mountaineer; vaguely +the emotion took shape.</p> + +<p>What lay just around the curve ahead? What could one see from that +mysterious top? Was there a "top"? If one went on, overcoming obstacles, +what might there not be? These ambitions were quite outside the by-paths +once or twice taken with Father Noble.</p> + +<p>Doris was glad to see the light and colour in Nancy's pretty face; she +was grateful, but inclined to be anxious when Nancy wandered far.</p> + +<p>"Is it quite safe?" she questioned Jed.</p> + +<p>"Dat chile is as safe as she is with Gawd," Jed reverently replied—and +perhaps she was, for God's ways are often like the trails of the high +places—hidden until one treads them.</p> + +<p>Nancy, by May, had lost all fear of the solitude, and with seeking eyes +she wandered farther and higher day by day. She brought back wonderful +flowers and ferns to Ridge House; she grew eloquent about the "lost +cabins" as she called them, secreted from any gaze but that which, like +hers, sought them out. She took gifts to the old people and timid +children.</p> + +<p>"It's such fun, Aunt Dorrie," she explained, "to win the baby things. At +first they are so frightened. They run and hide—they never cry or +scream, and bye and bye they come to meet me; they bring me little +treasures, the darlings! One gave me a tiny chicken just hatched."</p> + +<p>But beyond the last cabin that Nancy conquered was a hard, rocky trail +that led, apparently, to the sharp crest called by Uncle Jed Thunder +Peak.</p> + +<p>"Does any one live on Thunder Peak?" asked Nancy of Jed.</p> + +<p>The old man wrinkled his brow. He had not thought of Becky Adams for +years; at best the woman had been but a landmark, and landmarks had a +habit of disappearing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, there ain't no reason for folks to live on Thunder Peak. It's a +right sorry place for living."</p> + +<p>Jed found comfort, now he came to think of it, in knowing that Becky had +departed.</p> + +<p>"Whar?" he asked himself, when Nancy, followed by two of her dogs, went +away; "whar dat old Aunt Becky disappeared to?" Then he pulled himself +together and went to deliver the message Nancy had confided to him.</p> + +<p>"Tell Aunt Doris I'm going for a long walk and not to worry if I'm not +home for luncheon."</p> + +<p>Jed repeated this message over and over aloud. He fumbled it, corrected +it, and then finally gripped it long enough to speak the words +automatically to Doris and Doctor Martin.</p> + +<p>"That old fellow," Martin said, looking keenly after him, "is going to +go all to pieces some day like the one-hoss shay. He looks about a +hundred. I wonder how old he is?"</p> + +<p>Doris smiled.</p> + +<p>"I imagine," she said, "that he is not as old as he looks. He told me +that his grandfather was married in short trousers and never lived to +get in long ones. They begin life so early and just shuffle through it."</p> + +<p>"You find that thing in the South more than anywhere else." Martin was +nodding understandingly. "It's like a dream—more like looking at life +than living it. I suppose when they die they wake up and stretch and +have a laugh at what they feared and passed through in their sleep."</p> + +<p>"We will all do that, more or less, Davey."</p> + +<p>"More or less—yes!" Then suddenly:</p> + +<p>"Doris, I think you can plan on three months in New York next winter. My +boy is coming on from the West. I'm going to take my shingle down and +hang his up."</p> + +<p>"Really, David? Take yours <i>down</i>?" Doris looked dubious.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I'll stay around with him, but I'm going to put my shack on the +map right under Blowing Rock. I've brought the plans to show you."</p> + +<p>Martin took them from his pocket and sat down beside<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> Doris, and while +they became absorbed, Nancy was climbing her way up Thunder Trail.</p> + +<p>Before she realized that she had come so far, she was in the open, the +sunlight almost blinding her. She started back and screwed her eyes to +make sure that she saw aright. Not only was she out of the woods but she +was on the edge of a trim garden plot; there was a dilapidated cabin +just beyond it, and an ancient creature standing in the doorway.</p> + +<p>At first Nancy could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. She +had never seen any one so old, and the eyes in the shrunken face were +like burning holes—caverns with fire in them!</p> + +<p>Nancy was too stunned to move or speak. Her knowledge of the hills +forbade the usual fear, but a supernatural terror seized her and she +waited for the old woman—she decided it was a woman—to make the first +advance. This the woman presently did. She turned, and with trembling +haste took up a rusty spade by the door; she shuffled toward a corner of +the opening and began to dig at a mound that was covered with loose +earth. Weakly, fearfully, the claw-like hands worked while Nancy stood +fascinated and bewildered. Finally the old woman came toward her and +there was a tragic pathos on the wrinkled face that tended to quiet the +girl's rising fear. The cracked voice was pleading:</p> + +<p>"How did yo' get out?" The words came anxiously and with difficulty, +like the words of a deaf mute that had been taught to speak +mechanically.</p> + +<p>Nancy smiled weakly and looked silently at the speaker.</p> + +<p>"Been tryin' to find hit?" the strained voice went on. "Yo' better lie +still, Zalie—yo' larned enough, chile!"</p> + +<p>And then, because the rigid girl did not speak, the old woman drew +nearer.</p> + +<p>Nancy, believing herself in the presence of a harmlessly insane +creature, rallied her courage and sought to soothe, not excite, the +woman.</p> + +<p>"I'm lost," she faltered. "I am sorry to have disturbed you; I am going +now."</p> + +<p>She half turned, keeping her eyes on her companion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Come—set a bit," pleaded the crackling voice; "come warm yo'self +before I tuck yo' up again. How cold yo' little hands are! Po' little +Zalie, jes' naturally—tryin' to find hit."</p> + +<p>There are limits of fear beyond which, for self-preservation, a kind of +calm strength lies that suggests ways of safety. Nancy did not run or +cry out, she did not withdraw her icy hands from the brown, claw-like +fingers that held them; she even smiled a faint, ghastly smile that +reassured the old woman. Her eyes softened; her voice almost crooned.</p> + +<p>"Us-all is safe—no one comes nigh—it's comfortin' ter tech yo', Zalie, +an' hit is well placed. Through all the years I done wanted to tell yo'; +I've said it by yo' grave many's the time, chile——" Becky waited a +moment. She looked cautiously about the sun-lighted place and peered +into the gloom of the forest-edge, then she looked again at Nancy, while +her thin hand pointed to the mound under the tree across the bit of +open. Nancy shuddered.</p> + +<p>"What is—that?" she gasped.</p> + +<p>"Yo' little grave, Zalie—yo' little bed. I 'tend it loving and proper; +I take a look-in onct so often—but yo' is cute, like yo' was when yo' +stole out in the moonshine to larn. You done got out yo' grave when I +wasn't watching. Come, now, let me put yo' back!"</p> + +<p>The old woman turned, and in that instant Nancy fled like a spirit. +Noiselessly, swiftly she disappeared. She heard the crackling voice +behind her:</p> + +<p>"Jes' creep back by yourself, eh, Zalie?" And then came the sound of +metal patting down the loose earth on the mound by the solemn trees.</p> + +<p>Nancy could never tell what occurred on her descent from Thunder Peak. +When she reached The Gap, she found that her dogs had strayed from her: +they had either dropped behind or run before. She was not exhausted. She +felt strong and calm. The adventure was assuming a thrilling proportion +now she was at a safe distance. But she had no intention of telling +Doris. Oddly enough, she felt the need of keeping it secret. She +shivered as she recalled the touch of the claw-fingers and the sound of +the dry, hard voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> She had a growing sense of uncleanness, now that +the shock was wearing off. It almost seemed that a poison had been left +upon her that was eating its way into depths of her being. She was +afraid that someone would know; she trembled when old Jed remarked:</p> + +<p>"Dis yere little ole pup don slink back like he seed a hant and he had +burrs stickin' to his sorry-lookin' hide—seems he was off the scent. No +'count!"</p> + +<p>Jed gave the hound a push with his foot, but he had set Nancy's nerves +tingling.</p> + +<p>"I lost the scent myself," she said, striving for calmness. And then +relying upon the old man's simplicity she asked, pointing across The +Gap:</p> + +<p>"What did you say was the name of that peak, Uncle Jed?" She wanted to +make very sure!</p> + +<p>The old man raised his bleary eyes and looked troubled. He was conscious +of something stirring in the dark of his mind.</p> + +<p>"Thunder," he replied, then he laughed, and the gold in his few +remaining teeth glistened. Cackling and shuffling along beside Nancy, he +muttered—his mind again on old Becky:</p> + +<p>"Her—as was—or her as is! Maybe she ain't a <i>was</i>—'pears like she +can't be an <i>is</i>." Then he grew calmer and faced Nancy. "Stay away from +Thunder, chile. 'Tain't safe, Thunder ain't—only fer hants."</p> + +<p>"I'll stay away, Uncle Jed," Nancy promised fervently, and tried to +laugh off the foolish, superstitious fear that the old man's words had +aroused.</p> + +<p>Jed went off muttering—he was strangely disturbed.</p> + +<p>As the first impression of her adventure wore off Nancy was surprised to +find that a new fear and restlessness oppressed her. It was like the +after effects of a blow that had stunned her.</p> + +<p>She slept badly—a terrific electric storm swept through The Gap and +there seemed, to the frightened girl in the west chamber, noises never +heard before. Creaking steps in the hall; calls in the wind and sharp +summons as the branches<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> of the trees lashed the windows and the blazing +lightning shattered the darkness with blinding flashes.</p> + +<p>Nancy crept downstairs the next morning pale and shaken. She rallied, +however, when she saw Doris.</p> + +<p>Doris was greatly affected by electric storms and was lying on a couch +by the hearth. Doctor Martin was sitting beside her, and the little +breakfast tray, laid for the three, was drawn close.</p> + +<p>They ate the meal quietly, and then Martin took up a book to read aloud +while Nancy went to her loom.</p> + +<p>She huddled over it—there was no other word to describe her crouching, +lax attitude; her face was drawn and haggard. Doris watched her; she was +not listening to Martin. Suddenly she felt a kind of shock as she +realized that she was thinking of Nancy as an old woman!</p> + +<p>As the spring holds all the promise of autumn in its delicate shading, +so youth often depicts the time on ahead when line and colour will take +on the aspect of age.</p> + +<p>It was startling. Doris almost cried aloud. Nancy old! Nancy lean and +shrivelled with her pretty back bent to—the burden of life!</p> + +<p>Then Doris laughed nervously, and Martin started. The book he was +reading from was no laughing matter.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, David—I was not listening; I was—planning. You know how +agile a mind can be after—a bad headache?" This was not convincing to +Martin and he scowled.</p> + +<p>"What were you planning?" he asked, and Nancy at her wheel turned her +head.</p> + +<p>"Nancy's winter in town. She must have loads of pretty things, and I +will open the old house—perhaps we can lure Joan also, and have the +time of our lives. How would you like that Nan, girl?"</p> + +<p>The tone was pleading, almost imploring. Doris had a sense of having +wronged the girl, somehow.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Aunt Dorrie, I should love it!" Nancy came across the room, all +suggestion of age gone. "That is—if it will not harm you, dear."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I think it would do you both good," Martin spoke earnestly; "I begin to +realize what you once said, Doris. One has to have the country in his +blood to be of the country. You must have change and"—turning to +Nancy—"give this child a chance to—to show off."</p> + +<p>He reached out and pinched Nancy's pale cheek.</p> + +<p>"Run out," he commanded, suddenly; "run out into the sunshine and forget +the storm. You're exactly like your aunt—conquer it, conquer it, child, +while conquering is part of the programme."</p> + +<p>Nancy managed a smile, leaned and kissed Doris, waved a salute to +Martin, and fled from the room.</p> + +<p>"David, somehow I've hurt that girl." Doris spoke wearily.</p> + +<p>"How?" Martin questioned.</p> + +<p>Doris looked up and shook her head.</p> + +<p>"How have I, Davey? I cannot tell."</p> + +<p>"She's not hurt—but she's in line to be sacrificed if we don't look +out. I'm the guilty one—I thought only of you."</p> + +<p>And then the two planned for the winter.</p> + +<p>Nancy took her dogs and went for a walk—a safe and near walk. The +colour crept into her pale face, but her eyes had a furtive look and +every noise in the bushes set her trembling. She had a conscious feeling +of wanting to get away—far, far away. The Gap frightened her; she +remembered old stories about it. Suddenly she looked up at The Rock and +her breath almost stopped.</p> + +<p>Fascinated, she stared; her eyes seemed to be following an invisible +finger—The Ship was on The Rock!</p> + +<p>Try as she might, Nancy could eat but little lunch. The small table was +on the porch. Doris had recovered from her headache and was particularly +gay—the planning for Nancy had done more for her than it had for Nancy +herself.</p> + +<p>"You had better go to your room and lie down," Martin suggested, eyeing +the girl.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will, Uncle David."</p> + +<p>But once in the dim quiet of the west wing chamber fresh memories +assailed her.</p> + +<p>This was the room, she recalled, into which Mary had seen—how absurd it +was!—the dolls turned to babies. Such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> foolish, childish memories to +cling and grip! How much better to be like Joan and laugh away the idle +tales! Joan had always laughed—she was laughing now somewhere, looking +her gayest and forgetting troubling things.</p> + +<p>Then Nancy cried, not bitterly or enviously, but because she was tired +of playing Joan's accompaniment!</p> + +<p>Presently she got up and bathed.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to Mary's!" she suddenly thought, and then felt as if she had +been getting ready to go all day. She felt deceitful, sly, in spite of +her constant reiteration that it had just occurred to her.</p> + +<p>She left the house unseen; she hid behind a bush when she saw the hounds +raise their heads from the sunny porch—she wanted to go alone to the +cabin across the river.</p> + +<p>It was three o'clock when she reached it, and she had hurried along the +short trail, too. Mary was not in sight, but the living-room door was +open and Nancy stood looking in with a baffling sense of unreality; the +place looked different; almost as if she had never seen it before. She +mentally took note of the furniture as though checking the pieces off.</p> + +<p>The big bed, gay with patchwork quilts—Nancy knew all the patterns: +Sunrise on the Peaks; Drunkard's Path; the Rainbow—Mary was making up +for all that her forebears had neglected to do. Early and late she spun +and wrought—she piled her bed high with the results of her labours; she +covered the floor with marvellous rugs; she filled her chest of drawers +with linen—Nancy glanced at the chest and fancied that she smelt the +lavender that was spread on the folded treasures.</p> + +<p>How the candlesticks shone; how sweet and clean it was, how safe!</p> + +<p>Nancy stepped inside and sat down. The logs were laid ready for the +lighting on the cracked but dustless hearth.</p> + +<p>And then, quite unconsciously, the girl began to croon an old song, +swaying back and forth, her arms folded and her eyes peaceful and +waiting.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mary, returning from her garden planting, stood by the door, unnoticed, +and grimly took in the scene.</p> + +<p>What it was that disturbed and angered her she could not have told, but +she could not see Nancy sitting so—and—and—looking as she looked!</p> + +<p>Mary strode across the room, causing Nancy to start nervously.</p> + +<p>"What ails yo'?" Mary asked, "you look powerful sorry."</p> + +<p>"I'm—I'm frightened, Mary."</p> + +<p>Oddly enough, it was easy to speak frankly to the stern, plain woman +across the hearth. And it was easy for Mary, after her first glance, to +be ready with anything that could comfort the girl near her.</p> + +<p>"What frightened yo'—the storm? I thought 'bout you."</p> + +<p>"Yes—the storm, but—Mary, who lives on Thunder Peak?"</p> + +<p>Some people are unnerved by surprise; Mary was always steadied.</p> + +<p>"There ain't any one," she said, quietly, and leaned over to light the +fire; the afternoon was growing chilly.</p> + +<p>"Who used to live there, Mary? There is a cabin there."</p> + +<p>Mary did not flinch, but she was feeling her way, always a little ahead +of Nancy.</p> + +<p>"There was an old woman lived there—long ago; she died."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"I'm right certain. She plumb broke down when she was ninety, and that +was years back."</p> + +<p>"Mary, there's a grave there!"</p> + +<p>"Yes; when folks die they just naturally have a grave." A cold, icy +light flickered in Mary's eyes; she reached and took up another log and +carefully placed it.</p> + +<p>"Mary, I went to Thunder Peak, I was following the trail. I came +suddenly into the open and I saw an old woman. She touched me"—here +Nancy shuddered. "She—she seemed to—to think she knew me. She called +me a queer name. I cannot remember it. I was terribly frightened. Are +you <i>quite</i>, quite sure the old woman died, Mary?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She died, she surely died. Old women ain't such precious sights among +the hills. Like as not it was someone from Huckleberry Bald, t'other +side of Thunder, as has taken over the deserted cabin and just wants to +frighten folks, like you, off. They are mighty cute, those old women on +Bald. They want their own place, and—and they sometimes shoot at any +one that comes nigh."</p> + +<p>The voice and words were cool and even. Nancy drew a long breath.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mary," she said, "you just take all the fear away. I kept feeling +that old hand on my arm as if it were dragging me; the feeling is gone +now. Jed said"—here Nancy wavered—"he said the place was haunted."</p> + +<p>"Jed was a born fool and yo' can't do much with that kind. They grows +more fool-like at the end."</p> + +<p>Nancy laughed.</p> + +<p>"I'm just a silly myself," she said rising and stretching her pretty +arms over her head as if awakening from sleep. Then:</p> + +<p>"Mary, I'm going to New York next winter. Going to have—a wonderful +time."</p> + +<p>And now Mary looked up and her eyes brightened.</p> + +<p>"At last," she muttered; "you're to have your chance!"</p> + +<p>"My—chance, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"Your chance—same as Miss Joan."</p> + +<p>And a moment later Mary was watching Nancy as she went singing down the +river road.</p> + +<p>"Gawd!" she muttered, and her yellowish skin paled. "Gawd! What has she +come back for?—what?" and Mary's eyes lifted to Thunder Peak. Later she +made ready for a long walk—she knew the trail to Thunder Peak would be +hard after the storm.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Every heart vibrates to that iron string.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>And Mary's was vibrating to the iron as she plodded up the trail.</p> + +<p>There had been much damage done by the storm. Trees were lying across +the muddy path; there were washed-out spots, making it necessary to go +out of one's way. But Mary did not notice the obstacles further than to +make a wide detour. She was thinking, thinking—patching her bits of +knowledge together with surmises provided by her vivid imagination.</p> + +<p>Beginning with the day when old Becky, looking for Sister Angela, had +stolen into the kitchen at Ridge House and demanded "her," Mary +patiently fitted her scraps into a pattern as she patched her wonderful +quilts.</p> + +<p>"Yes; no!" Then a stolid nodding of the head.</p> + +<p>The sunset, bye and bye, and then the early shadows, crept up the trail +behind the lonely woman plodding along; they seemed to swallow her, and +only her quick breathing marked her going.</p> + +<p>"I can pay—at last!" She paused and spoke the words aloud.</p> + +<p>"Pay back!"</p> + +<p>Through the years since her return to The Gap she had saved and saved to +return to Doris Fletcher the money advanced to buy the cabin.</p> + +<p>Mary had never accepted it as a gift; the cabin could never be really +hers until, by the labour of her hands, she had redeemed it.</p> + +<p>What matter that her people called her "close" and mean? She knew what +she was about, but in her slow, silent way she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> had learned, while she +laboured apart, to feel an undying gratitude to the woman who had made +everything possible for her.</p> + +<p>And now she was taking her place beside them who had been her friends. +No longer were they "foreigners." Surely Mary had come to realize that +quality was not confined to places; it was in the heart and soul, and if +anything threatened it, why, then—— Here Mary drew herself up and +raised her face to the stars.</p> + +<p>She had tears in her eyes, but her mouth drew in a hard line. She felt a +burning curiosity rising in her consciousness. What did it all mean? +What had it meant back in Ridge House long ago?</p> + +<p>But as the burning rose higher and fiercer Mary battled with it.</p> + +<p>It was their secret! They must keep it—even from her! So would she pay +though they might never know; <i>must</i> never know! She would prove herself +worthy of the trust they had placed in her; she would even the score and +hold danger, whatever the danger was, back. That should be her part to +play!</p> + +<p>When Mary reached the clearing on Thunder Peak she stood where Nancy had +stood the day before and took in the scene.</p> + +<p>Two or three times, after her return to The Gap, she had gone to The +Peak and searched among the dirt and rubbish for any trace of old Becky. +She had come to believe, at last, that the woman was dead—she had never +been seen after the death of Sister Angela.</p> + +<p>It was years now since Mary had given a thought to the deserted garden +and cabin—the clearing was at the trail's end and no one ever took it, +for it led nowhere.</p> + +<p>But now, to Mary's astonished eyes, the garden appeared almost as well +planted as her own, and from the chimney of the tumble-down cabin a lazy +curl of smoke rose. Under the dark pine clump the outlines of a narrow +mound could be plainly seen, and beside it lay a spade and a spray of +withered azaleas.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mary's throat was dry and painful. People to whom tears are possible +never know the agony, but Mary was used to it.</p> + +<p>Presently she walked across the open that lay between the edge of the +forest and the cabin and stood by the threshold.</p> + +<p>The door hung by one hinge, and through the gap Mary saw old Becky! She +had hoped against hope that what she had told Nancy might be true, but +she was prepared for the worst.</p> + +<p>It seemed incredible that this poor, wretched skeleton by the hearth +could be Becky—but Mary knew that it was. Back from her wandering the +pitiful creature had come—home!</p> + +<p>She had come as Mary herself had come—because the call of the hills +never dies, but grows with absence.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Becky!"</p> + +<p>The crone by the hearth paused in her stirring of corn-meal in a pan, +but did not turn.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Becky!" And then the old woman staggered to her feet and faced +Mary.</p> + +<p>Not yet was the fire dead in the deep sockets—from out the caverns the +last sparks of life were making the eyes terrible.</p> + +<p>"Yo'—Mary Allan!" Contempt, more than fear, rang in the tones. "What +yo' spyin' on me for, Mary Allan?"</p> + +<p>Mary went inside. She was relieved by the fact that Becky knew her—she +had feared that she would find no response. She did not intend to +question or argue; she meant to control the situation from the start.</p> + +<p>"Hit's in the grave 'long o' Zalie!" Becky was on her defence. +"Zalie"—here the befogged brain went under a cloud—"Zalie she come +a-looking—but hit's in the grave! I tell yo'-all, hit's in the grave!"</p> + +<p>The trembling creature wavered in the firelight. She was filled with +fear—but of what, who could tell?</p> + +<p>Mary's face underwent a marvellous change—it grew tender, wistful.</p> + +<p>"Set, Aunt Becky," she said, compassionately, and gently pushed the +woman into a deep rocker covered over with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> dirty quilt; "set and +don't be frightened. I ain't come to hurt yo'—I've come to help."</p> + +<p>Becky seemed to shrink.</p> + +<p>"Hit's in——" she began, but Mary silenced her.</p> + +<p>"No hit ain't in the grave! Zalie she knows it—an' I know it!"</p> + +<p>"Where is hit—then?" A cunning crept into Becky's cavernous eyes. +"Where is hit?"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Becky, no one must know! You want it—that way." Inspiration +guided Mary, or was it, perhaps, that iron strain, the strong human +strain of her kind that led her true? "Zalie, she done come back; not to +look for hit, but to keep you from hit!"</p> + +<p>The stroke told. Becky shrank farther in the chair.</p> + +<p>"Gawd!" she moaned—"it's that lonely! An' the longin' hurts powerful +sharp."</p> + +<p>Mary's face twitched. Did she not know?</p> + +<p>"But hit!"—she whispered—"don't you love hit strong enough, Aunt +Becky, to let hit alone, where hit's happy, not knowing?"</p> + +<p>There was something majestic about Mary as she kept her eyes upon the +old woman while she pleaded with her.</p> + +<p>The past came creeping up on the two women by the ashy hearth—it gave +Becky strength; it blinded Mary. In the old woman's memory a picture +flashed—the picture that once had hung on the wall of Ridge House!</p> + +<p>She folded her bony arms over her bosom and panted:</p> + +<p>"Yes—I love hit—well enough!" The last hold was loosening. Then:</p> + +<p>"It's powerful lonesome—and the cold and hunger bite cruel hard——"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Becky, listen to me!" The woman turned her eyes to the speaker, +but her thoughts were far, far away.</p> + +<p>"I'll come to you, Gawd hearing me; I'll ward off the cold and hunger. +I'll come day after day—if you'll leave hit—where it can't ever know."</p> + +<p>Suddenly Becky's face grew sharp and cunning; all that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> was tender and +human in her faded—self-preservation rose supreme.</p> + +<p>"I'll leave hit, Mary Allen," she cackled, "but if yo' tell that hit +ain't in the grave 'long o' Zalie all the devils o' hell will watch out +for yo' soul!"</p> + +<p>Mary was not listening. She rose and mechanically moved about the +disordered room. Like a sleep walker she set the rickety furniture in +place; she began to gather scraps of food together—hunting, hunting in +corners and cupboards. She made some black coffee—rank and +evil-smelling it was—and finally she set the strange meal before the +old woman.</p> + +<p>Becky eyed the repast as one might who fancied that she dreamed. +Cautiously she touched the food with her lean fingers, then she clutched +it and ate ravenously, desperately fearing that it might disappear.</p> + +<p>Mary looked on in divine pity, swaying to and fro, never speaking nor +going near.</p> + +<p>She was thinking; thinking on ahead. She would make the cabin clean and +whole; she would wash and clothe the poor creature now eating like a +hungry wolf; she would feed her. Becky should become—hers!</p> + +<p>Then Mary's mouth relaxed. She was appropriating, adjusting. Something +of her very own at last! Something that would wait for her, watch for +her, depend upon her. Something to work for and live for; something upon +whom she might pour forth the hidden riches that had all but perished in +her soul.</p> + +<p>It was midnight when Mary groped her way from the cabin. Becky was +asleep on the miserable bed in the corner; she was breathing softly and +evenly like a baby.</p> + +<p>Outside, the moonlight lay full upon the open spaces and on the little +grave under the pine clump. Mary stood, before entering the woods, and +raised her head.</p> + +<p>"I'm paying—I'm paying back what—I owe," she murmured, and all the +wretched company of her early childhood seemed to hold out imploring +hands to her. Her father, her mother, the line of miserable brothers and +sisters who never had their chance!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sister Angela came, too, her cross gleaming, her eyes kind and just. +Doris Fletcher and her blessed giving; giving of the marvellous chance +at last! And lastly, Nancy, with her beautiful face, Nancy who must not +be cheated, Nancy who—trusted her! Nancy who <i>might</i> be—but no! Mary +ran on. She would not know! She must not!</p> + +<p>And so it was that the last of the Allans redeemed the debt and silently +found peace for her proud heart.</p> + +<p>She was released! She had proven herself, though no one must ever know. +It was the not knowing that would mark her highest success.</p> + +<p>On the morrow Mary went to Ridge House quite her usual reserved self.</p> + +<p>Nancy met her with the brightest of smiles.</p> + +<p>"Doctor Martin has gone away, Mary," she explained, "and now I will be +terribly busy, but next winter—oh! next winter, Mary, Joan will be with +us in the dear old house. A letter came to-day—she is going to take +lessons from a very great teacher. Do you remember how Joan could sing, +Mary? I shall play for her again and be so happy. It's wonderful how +happy one can be, Mary, when one isn't afraid and just goes singing +ahead. I cannot sing like Joan, but I can scare away fears!"</p> + +<p>Mary regarded the girl with a hungry craving in her eyes over which the +lids were drawn to a slit. There was a fierce intentness in the gaze: +the look of the runner who has almost reached the goal but hears his +pursuers close.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>And they planted their feet on the 'Sun Road'.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>If the spring has a direct and concentrated effect upon a young man's +fancy, it must have equal effect upon a young woman's, else the man's +would perish and come to look upon the spring as the lean part of the +year. Joan had meant all she said when, in the strength and virtue of +her youth, she had drawn herself away from Kenneth Raymond and proudly +remarked:</p> + +<p>"Certainly not! And I am not afraid."</p> + +<p>Both statements were sincere and should have brought her peace and +satisfaction. They did neither.</p> + +<p>Raymond had, apparently, taken her at her word, and sought other places +in which to appease his hunger, and Joan turned to Patricia, for Sylvia +was called out of town.</p> + +<p>That dream of a frieze that had long smouldered in Sylvia's soul had +broken bounds and a rich man, erecting a summer home on the +Massachusetts coast, having seen some of Sylvia's work, had invited her +down to "talk over" the frieze idea.</p> + +<p>"And he'll let me do it!" Sylvia had confided breathlessly to Joan as +she packed her suitcase. "I can always tell when a thing is going to +come true. Now if I had shown him sketches he might not have taken +me—but when I can <i>talk</i> my pictures all along the walls of his big, +sunny room it will be another matter.</p> + +<p>"Blue background"—Sylvia was forgetting Joan as she rambled on, +punching and jamming her clothing into the case—"and a bit of a story +running through the frieze—a kind of sea-nymph search for the Holy +Grail—stretching from the door back <i>to</i> the door. Can't you see it, +Joan?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joan could not. She was seeing something else. Something daily becoming +visualized. A seeking, yearning desire issuing from her soul and trying +to find—what?</p> + +<p>"You'll have Pat here?" suddenly asked Sylvia. "I'd rather have someone +besides Pat, but the others are either away or worse than Pat. You're +good for Pat if she isn't for you. You sort of stiffen her up—she told +me so. Pat needs whalebone. When her purse gets flat her morals dwindle; +mine always get scared stiff. I'll write twice a week, Joan, my lamb, +Sunday and Wednesday. I'll be back before long."</p> + +<p>And off Sylvia went with her heavy bag and her light heart, and Joan +called Patricia up on the telephone.</p> + +<p>"All right," Patricia responded, "but if I get homesick for these rooms, +I must be free to come."</p> + +<p>"Of course," Joan agreed.</p> + +<p>Patricia was in a dangerous mood and Joan was vividly alive to +impressions.</p> + +<p>Patricia was writing verses as a bird carols—just letting them pour +out. She was selling them, too, and running out to New Jersey to talk +over with Mr. Burke the publication of a book.</p> + +<p>"I cannot see," Patricia had said to Sylvia, "why one should feel it +necessary to stick to hot, smelly offices when a library, looking out +over acres of country, is at one's disposal."</p> + +<p>"Is Mrs. Burke there?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia had a terrible way of stepping on toes when she was making her +point.</p> + +<p>"Certainly!" Patricia flung back—it happened that the lady was there +for a brief time—"though," Patricia went on, "she doesn't sit on the +arm of my chair while styles of paper are considered. You're low-minded, +Syl."</p> + +<p>Patricia looked so high-minded just then that everyone laughed at +Sylvia's expense.</p> + +<p>And Joan, because she was young as the year was, kept remembering the +eyes, and feeling the touch of Kenneth Raymond. There were no words to +explain her mood, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> she remembered the sound of his voice—and she +wanted to see him again!</p> + +<p>She believed her emotions were grounded upon the fact that she knew a +good deal about Raymond—more than he suspected. He was of Aunt Doris's +safe and clean world. He was only dipping into a pool outside of his own +legitimate preserves to touch, as he thought, a lily that should not be +there!</p> + +<p>Raymond had suggested this to Joan. He fancied, from his conservative +limitations, that the Brier Bush was rather a dubious pool!</p> + +<p>"If he only knew!" Joan thought, and was glad that he did not. How +humdrum it all would have been had he known! As it was, the wonderful +feeling she had was laid upon a very safe foundation—not even Aunt +Doris or Sylvia could object—and she would tell them all about it some +day, and it would be part of the free, happy life and a proof that no +harm can come where one understands the situation and has high motives.</p> + +<p>But Raymond did not come to the Brier Bush, and so Joan had to conclude +that he had not that unnamable emotion which was taking her appetite +away, and he was forgetting, perhaps, all about that line that ran in +the palms of both of them!</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, Raymond was trying very diligently to do just that +thing. He worked hard and paid extra attention to Mrs. Tweksbury.</p> + +<p>"My boy!" Emily Tweksbury urged, "come up to Maine with me for the +summer, you look peaked."</p> + +<p>Raymond laughed.</p> + +<p>"How about business?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Of course," Mrs. Tweksbury replied, "no one appreciates more than I do, +Ken, your moral fibre. It's a big thing for you to create a business if +for no other reason than to give employment to less fortunate young men; +but you have other responsibilities. Your position, your fortune, they +make demands. I'm not one to underestimate the leisure class; I know the +old joke about tramps being the only leisure class<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> in America; it's a +silly joke, but it ought to make us think. After a bit, if we don't look +out, the leisure class, here, will be all women. They'll dominate art +and poetry and society—and I must say I like a good <i>team</i>. I never +cared for too much of any one thing. Ken?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Aunt Emily."</p> + +<p>"I want you to marry and have—a place."</p> + +<p>"A place, Aunt Emily?" Raymond looked puzzled.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Make a stand for American aristocracy—though of course you must +call it by another name. You're a clean, splendid chap—I know all about +you. I've watched apart and prayed over you in my closet. You see your +father and I made a ghastly mess of our lives, but we kept to the +code—for your sake. We left your path clear, thank God!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Aunt Emily—I've thanked God for that, too, in what stands for +<i>my</i> closet."</p> + +<p>"What stands for your closet, Ken? I've always wanted to know what takes +the place of women's sanctuaries in the lives of men."</p> + +<p>Raymond plunged his hands into his pockets—he and Mrs. Tweksbury had +just finished breakfast, and the dining room of the old-fashioned house +opened, as it should, to the east.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I don't know that I can tell you, Aunt Emily," Raymond fidgeted. +"Fellows are beginning to think a bit more about the clean places in +women's lives. I reckon that we haven't so much an idea about +sanctuaries of ours as that we are cultivating an honest-to-God +determination to keep from making wrecks of women's shrines. I know this +sounds blithering, but, you see, a decent chap wants to ask some girl to +give him a better thing than forgiveness when the time comes. He wants +to cut out the excuse business. He doesn't want women like you to be +ashamed of him—when they come where they have to call things by their +right names."</p> + +<p>"Ken, I don't believe you're in good form. You'd much better come up to +Maine!"</p> + +<p>Emily Tweksbury looked as if she wanted to cry; her expression was so +comical that Raymond laughed aloud.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'll come in August," he said at last. "I'll take the whole month and +frivol with you."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury was, however, not through with what she had to say. She +looked at the big, handsome fellow across the room and he seemed +suddenly to become very young and helpless, very much needing guidance, +and yet she knew how he would resent any such interference in his life.</p> + +<p>"What's on your mind, Aunt Emily?"</p> + +<p>Raymond had turned the tables—he smiled down upon the old lady with the +masterful tenderness of youth.</p> + +<p>"Let's have it, dear."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury resorted to subterfuge.</p> + +<p>"Well, having you off my hands," she said, smiling as if she really +meant what she said, "I am thinking of Doris Fletcher!"</p> + +<p>"Do I know her?" Raymond tried to think.</p> + +<p>"No. She left New York just about the time you came to me. She's a +wonderful woman, always was. Has a passion for helping others live their +lives—she's never had time to live her own."</p> + +<p>"Bad business." Raymond shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I don't know, boy. The older I grow the more inclined I am to +believe that it is only by helping others live that one lives himself."</p> + +<p>This was trite and did not get anywhere, so Mrs. Tweksbury plunged a +trifle.</p> + +<p>"Doris Fletcher is going to bring her niece out next winter; wants me to +help launch her."</p> + +<p>Raymond made no response to this. He was not apt to be suspicious, but +he waited.</p> + +<p>"She has twin nieces. Her younger sister died at their birth—she made a +sad marriage, poor girl, and the father of her children seems to have +been blotted off the map. The Fletchers were always silent and proud. I +greatly fear one of the twins takes after her obliterated parent, for +Doris rarely mentions her—it is always Nancy who is on exhibition; the +other girl is doing that abominable thing—securing her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> economic +freedom, whatever that may mean. Doris has tried to make me understand, +but how girls as rich as those girls are going to be can want to go out +and support themselves I do not understand—it's thieving. Nothing less. +Taking bread from women who haven't money."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scornfully and Raymond laughed. He wasn't +interested.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury saw she was losing ground and made a third attempt.</p> + +<p>"But this Nancy seems another matter. I remember her, off and on. I was +often away when the Fletchers were home, and the girls were at school a +good many years, but this Nancy is the sort of child that one doesn't +forget. She's lovely—very fair—and exquisite. Her poor mother was +always charming, and I imagine Doris Fletcher means to see that Nancy +gets into no such snarl as poor Meredith's—Meredith was Doris's sister. +Ken——!"</p> + +<p>"Yes'm!" Raymond was looking at his watch.</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd lend a hand next winter with this Nancy Thornton."</p> + +<p>Raymond gave a guffaw and came around to Mrs. Tweksbury.</p> + +<p>"You're about as opaque," he said, "as crystal. Of course I'll lend a +hand, Aunt Emily—<i>lend</i> one, but don't count upon anything more. I—I +do not want to marry—at least not for many years. My father and mother +did not leave a keen desire in me for marriage."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Ken, can't you forget?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't yet, Aunt Emily, but I'm not a conceited ass; your Miss Nancy +would probably think me a dub; girls don't fly at my head, but I'm safe +as a watchdog and errand boy—so I'll fit in, Aunt Emily."</p> + +<p>He bent and kissed her.</p> + +<p>A week later the old house was draped and covered with ghostly linen and +every homelike touch eliminated according to the sacred rites of the old +régime; and man, that most domestic of all animals, was left to the +contemplation of a smothered ideal—the ideal of home.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury, with two servants, started by motor for Maine.</p> + +<p>"I may not be progressive in some ways," she proudly declared, "but a +motor car keeps one from much that is best avoided—crowds, noise, and +confusion. And I always insist that I am progressive where progress is +worth while."</p> + +<p>But, alone in the still house, Raymond felt as if a linen cover also +enshrouded him—he lost his appetite and took to lying at night with his +hands clasped under his head—thinking! Thinking, he called it—but he +was only drifting. He was abdicating thought. He got so that he could +see himself as if detached from himself——</p> + +<p>"And a dub of a chap, too, I look to myself," he reflected, ambiguously. +"I wonder just what stuff is in me, anyway? I've been trained to the +limit, and I have a decent idea about most things, but I wonder if I +could pull it off, if I were up against it like some other fellows who +have rowed their own boats? Having had Dad and Aunt Emily in my blood, +has given me a twist, and the money has tied the knot. I don't know +really what's in me—in the rough—and there <i>is</i> a rough in every +fellow—maybe it's sand and maybe it's plain dirt."</p> + +<p>This was all as wild and vague as anything Patricia or Joan could +evolve. It came of the season and the everlasting youth of life.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to talk over the rot with that little white thing down at the +Brier Bush," Raymond declared one night to that self of his that stood +off on inspection; "what's the harm? She's got the occult bug, and I'm +keen about it just now. No one will be the worse for me having the +talk—she's all right and that veil of hers leaves us a lot freer to +speak out than face to face would." And then Raymond switched on the +lights and read certain books that held him rigid until he heard the +milkman in the street below.</p> + +<p>In those nights Raymond learned to know that sounds have shades, as +objects have. Below, following, encompassing there were vague, haunting +echoes. Even the rattling of milk cans had them; the steps of the +watchman; the wind of early morning that stirs the darkness!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> + +<p>And then in the end Raymond did quite another thing from what he had +planned. He left the office one day at four-thirty and walked uptown. He +paced the block on which the Brier Bush was situated until he began to +feel conscious—then he walked around the block, always hurrying until +he came in sight of the tea room. He felt that all the summer +inhabitants of the city were drinking tea there that afternoon, and he +began to curse them for their folly.</p> + +<p>It was five-forty-five when Joan came down the steps.</p> + +<p>Raymond knew her at once by her walk. He had always noted that swing of +hers under her white robe. He did not believe another girl in the world +moved in just that way—it was like the laugh that belonged with it. +Indifferent, pleading, sweet, and brave—a bit daring, too. Joan was all +in white now. A trim linen suit; white stockings and shoes; a white silk +hat with a wide bow of white—Patricia kept her touch on Joan's +wardrobe.</p> + +<p>Raymond waited until the girl before him had pulled on her long gloves +and reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, then he walked rapidly and +overtook her. He feared that he was leaping; he felt crude and rough; +but he had never been simpler and more sincere in his life. The +elemental was overpowering him, that was all.</p> + +<p>"Good afternoon!" he blurted into Joan's astonished ears; "where are you +going?"</p> + +<p>Joan turned and confronted him, not in alarm, but utter rout. Naturally +there was but one course for a girl to take at such a juncture—but Joan +did not take it. Her elementals were alert, too, and she, too, had +reached the stage when sounds know shades, and above any cautious appeal +was the fear of sending this man adrift again.</p> + +<p>"I wonder"—Raymond spoke hurriedly; he wanted to drive that startled +look out of the golden eyes—"I wonder if you're the sort that knows +truth when she sees it—even if it has to cover itself with the rags of +things that aren't truth?"</p> + +<p>At this Joan laughed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am afraid the heat has affected you," was what she said, gently.</p> + +<p>"Well, anyway, you're not afraid of me!" Raymond saw that her eyes had +grown steady.</p> + +<p>"Oh! no. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not often afraid of anything."</p> + +<p>"I thought that. You wouldn't be doing that stunt at the Brier Bush if +you were the scary kind." Raymond accompanied his step to Joan's as +naturally as if she had permitted him to do so.</p> + +<p>"I don't see why you speak as you do of my business," Joan interjected. +"It's how one interprets what one does that matters. I make a very good +income of what you term my stunt. Perhaps you're accustomed to girls who +use such means—wrongfully."</p> + +<p>Joan felt quite proud of her small sting, but Raymond broke in joyously:</p> + +<p>"You're mighty clever; you've struck on just what I mean. See here, you +don't know me and I don't know you——" At this Joan turned her face +away. "And I'm jolly glad we don't. It makes it all easier. I know very +little about girls—I dance with them and things like that when I have +to, but as a class I never cottoned to them much, nor they to me. I know +the ugly names tacked to things that might be innocent and happy enough. +Now your business—it could be a cover for something rather +different——?"</p> + +<p>"But it isn't!" Joan broke in, hotly.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure of that, but hear me out. There's something about you +that—that's got me. I can't forget you. I only want to know what you +care to give—the part that escapes the disguise that you wear! I want +to talk to you. I bet we have a lot to say to each other. Don't you see +it would be like fencing behind a shield? But how can we make this out +unless we utilize chances that might, if people were not decent and +honest, be wrong? I know I'm getting all snarled up—but I'm trying to +make you +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'undestand'">understand</ins>."</p> + +<p>"You're not doing it very well." Joan was sweetly composed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Now suppose you and I were introduced—you with your veil off—that +would be all right, wouldn't it?"</p> + +<p>Raymond was collecting his scattered wits.</p> + +<p>"Presumably. Yes—it would," Joan returned.</p> + +<p>"And then we could have all the talks we wanted to, couldn't we?"</p> + +<p>"Within proper limitations," Joan nodded, comically prim under the +circumstances.</p> + +<p>"But for reasons best known to you," Raymond went on, slowly, "you want +to keep the shield up? All right. But then if we want the talks——"</p> + +<p>"I don't want them!" Joan's voice shook. Poor, lonely little thing, she +wanted exactly that!</p> + +<p>"I bet that's not true!" ventured Raymond. Then suddenly:</p> + +<p>"Why do you laugh as you do?"</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with my laugh?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. It's old and it's awfully kiddish—it's rather upsetting. +I keep remembering it as I always shall your face now that I have seen +it!"</p> + +<p>Truth can take care of itself if it has half a chance. It was beginning +to grip Joan through the mists that shrouded her—mists that life has +evolved for the protection of those who might never be able to +distinguish between the wolf in sheep's skin and sheep in wolf hide.</p> + +<p>Joan knew the ancient code of propriety, but she knew, also, the ring of +truth and she was young and lonely. She knew she ought not to be playing +with wild animals, but she was also sure in the deepest and most sincere +parts of her brain that the man beside her, strange as it might seem, +was really a very nice and well-behaved domestic animal and was making +rather a comical exhibition of himself in the skin of the beast of prey.</p> + +<p>"You haven't told me where you are going," Raymond said, presently.</p> + +<p>"Home!" The one word had the dreary, empty sound that it could not help +having when Joan considered the studio with Sylvia gone and Patricia an +uncertain element.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Are you?" Raymond asked, lamely. One had to say something or turn back. +Joan felt like crying. Then suddenly Raymond said:</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd come and have dinner with me, and I'm not going to excuse +myself or explain anything. I know I'm using all the worn-out tricks of +fellows that are anything but decent; but I know that you know—though +how you do I'm blest if <i>I</i> know—but I know that you understand. The +thing's too big for me. I've just got to risk it! I'm lonely and I bet +you are; we've got to eat—why not eat together?"</p> + +<p>The words sounded like explosives, and Joan mentally dodged, but at the +end felt that she knew all there was to know and she caught her breath +and said very slowly:</p> + +<p>"I'm going to be quite as honest as you are. I will have dinner with you +because I'm as lonely as can be; my people, like yours, are out of town, +and I <i>do</i> understand though I cannot say just how I do. One thing I +want you to promise: You will never, under any circumstances, try to +find out more about me than I freely give. Now or—ever! When I +disappear, I want really to be safe from intrusion."</p> + +<p>Raymond promised, and so they set out on the Sun Road.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>The trouble with the Sun Road is this: one is apt to be blinded by the +glare.</p> + +<p>In their solitude, the solitude of a big city, Raymond and Joan trod the +shining way with high courage.</p> + +<p>This was romance in an age when romance was supposed to be dead! Here +they were, they two, nameless—for they decided upon remaining +so—living according to their own codes; feeling more and more secure, +as time passed, that they were safe and were wisely enjoying what so +easily might have been lost had they been limited in faith.</p> + +<p>"It's the line in our hands!" Raymond declared. "It means something, all +right. Think what we must have missed had we been unjust to each other +and ourselves."</p> + +<p>Joan nodded.</p> + +<p>The sun and the dust of the pleasant highway had blinded her completely +by the end of a week.</p> + +<p>Patricia was a missing quantity most of the time. Patricia had taken to +the Sun Road, also, but with her eyes wide open. If Patricia ever turned +aside it would be because she knew the danger, not because she did not.</p> + +<p>She never explained her absences nor her private affairs to Joan. When +she did appear at Sylvia's studio she was quiet and nervous.</p> + +<p>"It's the heat," she explained. "I'm not hot, but I cannot get enough +air to breathe."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Sylvia was basking in success and cool breezes on the +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Massachusett'">Massachusetts</ins> coast. Her letters had the tang of the sea.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> + +<p>And Raymond was always on hand, now, at the dinner hour. He was like a +boy, and took great pride in his knowledge of just the right places to +eat. Quiet, but not too quiet; good food, and, occasionally, good music, +and if the night was not too hot, a dance with Joan which set his very +soul to keeping time.</p> + +<p>"Gee!" he said, after their first dance; "I wonder what you are, anyway? +Do you do everything—to perfection?"</p> + +<p>Joan twinkled.</p> + +<p>"Every man must decide that for himself," she replied with a charming +turn of her head.</p> + +<p>"Every—man?" Raymond's face fell.</p> + +<p>"Certainly. You don't think you are the only man, do you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, the only one left in town."</p> + +<p>Raymond gave a little laugh and changed the subject. He had no intention +of getting behind his companion's screen. With a wider conception of his +path, he more diligently kept to the middle.</p> + +<p>After the first fortnight he even went so far as to arrange for business +engagements, now and then, in order to keep his brain clear.</p> + +<p>Joan always met these empty spaces in her days with a keen sense of loss +which she hid completely from Raymond.</p> + +<p>His business demands were offset by her skilfully timed escapes from the +Brier Bush. She would either be too early or too late for Raymond, and +so while he paid homage to his code, Joan appeared to make the code +unnecessary.</p> + +<p>And the weather became hotter and moister and the moral and physical +fibre of the city-bound became limper.</p> + +<p>After a week of not seeing each other Joan and Raymond made up for lost +time by galloping instead of trotting along.</p> + +<p>"Stevenson and O. Henry couldn't beat this adventure of ours," Raymond +exclaimed one evening, wiping the moisture from his forehead. "And I bet +thousands of folks would think better of one another if——"</p> + +<p>"If—they had the line in their hands," Joan broke in; "but they +haven't, you know!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Exactly."</p> + +<p>Just then Raymond made a bad break. He asked Joan if she did not trust +him well enough to give him her telephone number.</p> + +<p>"Something might occur," he said, "business pops up unexpectedly. I hate +to lose a chance of seeing you—and I hate to wait on street corners."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," Joan replied, "but that would spoil everything."</p> + +<p>Raymond flushed. It was just such plunges as this that made him recoil.</p> + +<p>"I understand," he replied, coolly; "I had hoped that you could trust +me."</p> + +<p>"It is not a matter of trust. It's keeping to the bargain."</p> + +<p>There was nothing more to say. But, quite naturally, several days +elapsed before they saw each other again.</p> + +<p>Fierce, broiling days without even the debilitating moisture to ease the +suffering citizens.</p> + +<p>Joan, alone in the dark, hot studio, thought of Doris and Nancy and +wondered!</p> + +<p>"Of course, what I am doing would be horrid if I didn't know all about +<i>him</i>," and then Joan tossed about. "Some day—it will be such a lark to +tell them—and think of his surprise when he—knows! I'll see him with +all barriers down next winter," for at this time Joan had written and +accepted all Doris's plans for her. She was to study music +determinedly—she had a proud little bank account—and she would live at +the old house and revel in Nancy's social triumphs.</p> + +<p>And Raymond, in his shrouded house, had his restless hours and with +greater reason, for he was playing utterly in the dark and had to +acknowledge to his grim, off-standing self that, except for the fact +that he was in the dark, he would not dare play the very amusing game he +was playing.</p> + +<p>"If she is masquerading," Raymond beat about with his conscience, "it's +the biggest lark ever, and she and I will have many a good laugh over +it."</p> + +<p>"<i>But if she—isn't?</i>" demanded the shadowy self.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, if she isn't, she jolly well knows how to take care of herself! +Besides, I'm not going to hurt her. Why, in thunder, can't two fellow +creatures enjoy innocent things without having evil suggestions?"</p> + +<p>"<i>They can!</i>" thundered the Other Self, "<i>but this isn't innocent—at +least it is dangerous</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh! be hanged!" Raymond flung back and the Shadow sank into oblivion.</p> + +<p>Left to himself—one of his selves—Raymond resorted to sentiment.</p> + +<p>"Of course we both know—under what might be—what <i>is</i>. She's like +Kipling's girl in the Brushwood Boy."</p> + +<p>But that did not take in the Other Self in the least. It laughed.</p> + +<p>When July came the heat settled down in earnest on the panting city.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you going to take any vacation?" asked Raymond. He and Joan were +sauntering up Fifth Avenue to a certain haven in a backyard where the +fountain played and the birds sang.</p> + +<p>"No. I'm going to stay in town and let Miss Gordon have her outing. The +Brier Bush is too young to be left alone this year. Next year it will be +my turn."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you'll wilt," Raymond looked at the blooming creature beside +him. "Funny, isn't it, how things turn out? I expected to go in August +to—to that lady with whom you first saw me" (Joan looked divinely +innocent); "but only yesterday she informed me that she had resolved to +go abroad, and asked if it would make any difference to me. She's like +that. Her procedure resembles jumping off a diving plank."</p> + +<p>"Well, does it make any difference?" Joan asked.</p> + +<p>"You bet it does! It makes me free to stay in town."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you'll wilt," Joan twinkled.</p> + +<p>"We must take precautions against that." Raymond looked deadly in +earnest.</p> + +<p>The meetings of these two were now set, like clear jewels in the round +of common days. They were not too frequent and they were always managed +like chance happenings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> Always there was a sense of surprise, a thrill +of unbelievable good luck attending them; but there was, also, a growing +sense of assurance and understanding.</p> + +<p>"I wonder," Joan said once, pressing hard against the shield that +protected them, "I wonder if you and I would have played so delightfully +had we been—well—introduced! Miss Jones and Mr. Black."</p> + +<p>"No!" Raymond burst in positively. "Miss Jones would have been enveloped +in the things expected of Miss Jones, and Mr. Black would have been kept +busy—keeping off the grass!"</p> + +<p>"Aren't you ever afraid," Joan mused on, "that some day we'll suddenly +come across each other when our shields are left behind in—in the +secret tower?"</p> + +<p>"I try not to think of it," Raymond leaned toward the girl; "but if we +did we'd know each other a lot better than most girls and fellows are +ever allowed to know each other," he said.</p> + +<p>"Do you think so?" Joan looked wistfully at him. "You see this isn't +real; it's play, and I'm afraid Miss Jones and Mr. Black would be +awfully suspicious of each other—just on account of the play."</p> + +<p>"And so—we'll make sure that shields are always in commission," Raymond +reassured her. "In this small world of ours we cannot run any risks with +Miss Jones and Mr. Black. They have no part here."</p> + +<p>"No, they haven't!" Joan leaned back. That subtle weakness was touching +her; the aftermath of strained imagination. She was often homesick for +Doris and Nancy—she was getting afraid that she might not be able to +find her way back to them when the time came to go.</p> + +<p>"Poor little girl!" Raymond was saying over the table, and his words +fitted into the tune the fountain sang—it was the same tune the +fountain sang in the sunken room of long ago; all fountains, Joan had +grown to think, sang the same lovely, drippy song.</p> + +<p>"I wonder just how brave and free a little girl it is?"</p> + +<p>Joan screwed up her lips.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Limitless," she whispered, daringly.</p> + +<p>"You're played out, child!" Raymond went on; "there are blue shadows +under your eyes. I wish you'd let me do something for you."</p> + +<p>"You are doing something," the words came slowly, caressingly; "you're +making a hard time very beautiful; you're making me believe—in—in +fairies, or what stands for fairies, nowadays; you're making me trust +myself and for ever after when—when I slip back where I belong—I'm +going to remember, and be—so glad! You see, I know, now, that in the +world of grown-ups you <i>can</i> make things come true."</p> + +<p>"Where you belong?" Raymond gripped his hands close. "Just where do you +belong? <i>Are</i> you Miss Jones or are you the sweet nameless thing that I +am looking at?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'm Miss Jones!" Joan sat up promptly, "and I'm going to make sure +that Miss Jones doesn't get hurt while I play with her."</p> + +<p>And as she spoke Joan was thinking of the ugly interpretation of this +beautiful play which Patricia would give. Patricia couldn't make things +come true because she never tried hard enough.</p> + +<p>"I wonder"—and the fountain made Joan dizzy as she listened to +Raymond—"I wonder, now since I'm to stay in town, if you'd let me bring +my car in? We'd have some great old rides. We'd cool off and have +picnics by roadsides and—and get the best of this blasted heat."</p> + +<p>"I think it would be heavenly!" Joan saw, already, cool woods and felt +the refreshing air on her face.</p> + +<p>Raymond was taken aback. He had expected protest.</p> + +<p>But the car materialized and so did the picnics and the cool breezes on +young, unafraid faces.</p> + +<p>At each new venture reassurance waxed stronger—things could be made +true in the world; it was only children who failed, in spite of +tradition.</p> + +<p>Just at this time Sylvia came to town radiating success and happiness.</p> + +<p>The result was disastrous. There are times when one cannot endure the +prosperity of his friends! Had Sylvia<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> come back with her banners +trailing, Joan and Patricia would have rallied to her standard, but she +was cool, crisp, and her eyes were fixed upon a successful future.</p> + +<p>She was going to do, not only the frieze, but a dozen other things. +People whom she had met had been impressed. Things were coming her way +with a vengeance. One order was in the Far West—a glorified cabin in a +canyon.</p> + +<p>"I'm to do all the interior decorating," Sylvia bubbled; "a little out +of my line, but they feel I can do it. And"—here the girl looked +blissful—"it will be near enough for my John to come and take a +vacation."</p> + +<p>Patricia and Joan, at that moment, knew the resentment of the unattached +woman for the protected one. Sylvia appeared the child of the gods while +they were merely permitted to sit at the gates and envy her triumphs.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," Patricia burst in, "that this means the end?"</p> + +<p>"End?" Sylvia looked puzzled.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Plain John will gobble you, Art and all. But your duties here——" +Patricia with a tragic gesture pointed to Joan. "What of Miss Lamb, not +to mention me?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia looked serious.</p> + +<p>"Joan is to study music next winter," she said; "haven't you told Pat, +Joan?"</p> + +<p>Joan shook her head. She had almost forgotten it herself.</p> + +<p>"And live with her people," Sylvia went on and then, noticing Patricia's +pale little face, she burst forth:</p> + +<p>"Pat, take that offer from Chicago that you've been thinking about! It's +a big thing—designing for that firm. It will make you independent, +leave you time to scribble, and give you a change. Pat, do be sensible."</p> + +<p>Patricia drew herself up. She felt that she was being disposed of simply +to get her out of the way. She resented it and she was hurt.</p> + +<p>"I do not have to decide just now," she said, coldly; "and don't fuss +about me, Syl. Now that you and Joan are provided for I can jog along at +my own free will, and no one will have to pay but me!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Pat!" Joan broke in, "you and I will stick together. And it's all right +about Syl. What is this one life for, anyway, if it does not leave us +free? Syl, marry your John—your art won't suffer! Pat, where I go you +go next winter."</p> + +<p>But Patricia lighted a cigarette, and while the smoke issued from her +pretty little nose she sighed.</p> + +<p>What happened was this: Patricia shopped and sewed for Sylvia and made +her radiantly ready for her trip West. And Joan, feeling the break +final, although she did not admit it, forsook her own pleasures while +she helped Patricia and clung to Sylvia.</p> + +<p>"Pat has sublet her rooms," she confided to Sylvia one day, "and is +coming here until our lease is up; so you are foot-loose, my precious +Syl, and God bless you!"</p> + +<p>In August Sylvia departed and Joan and Patricia set up housekeeping +together. But at the end of the first week, and the beginning of a new +hot spell, Joan found a note on her pillow one night when she came in, +exhausted:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Had to get cool somewhere. I'm not responsible for losing my +breath. Take care of yourself.</p></div> + +<p>"This seems the last straw!" sobbed Joan, for Raymond had told her that +day at the Brier Bush that important business was taking him out of +town.</p> + +<p>"He has to catch his breath," poor Joan cried, miserably, quite as if +her own background was eliminated; "but what of my breath? And to-day is +Saturday, and——" The bleak emptiness of a hot Sunday in the stifling +studio stretched ahead wretchedly, like a parched desert.</p> + +<p>That night Joan pulled her shade down. She hated the stars. They looked +complacent and distant. She pushed memories of Doris and Nancy +resolutely from her. Her world was not their world—that was sure. If +this desperate loneliness couldn't drive her to them, nothing could. She +must make her own life! Lying on her hot bed, Joan thought and thought. +Of what did she want to make her life?</p> + +<p>"I only want a decent amount of fun," she cried, turning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> her pillow +over, "and I will not have strings tied to all my fun, either."</p> + +<p>This struck her as funny even in her misery. She sat up in bed and +counted her losses—what were they?</p> + +<p>Ridge House and that dear, sweet life—sheltered and safe. Yes; she was +sure she had lost them, for she could not go back beaten before she had +really tried her luck, and if she succeeded she could never have them in +a sense of ownership.</p> + +<p>"And I will succeed!" Even in that hard hour Joan rose up in arms.</p> + +<p>"And I have earned enough to begin real work in the autumn." She counted +her gains. "And I can live close to Aunt Dorrie's beautiful life even if +I am not of it. And I <i>am</i> sure of myself as dear Nancy never could +be—because I have proved myself in ways that girls like Nancy never +can."</p> + +<p>Toward morning Joan fell asleep. When she awoke it was nearly noon time +and half the desert of Sunday was passed.</p> + +<p>Then Joan, refreshed and comforted, planned a wholesome afternoon and +evening.</p> + +<p>"I'll go out and get a really sensible dinner; take a walk in the Park, +and come home and practise. Monday will be here before I know it."</p> + +<p>Joan carried out her programme, and it was five o'clock when she +returned, at peace with the whole world.</p> + +<p>She took off her pretty street gown and slipped into a thin, airy little +dress and comfortable sandals. The sandals made her think of her +dancing; she always wore them unless she danced shoeless.</p> + +<p>"And before I go to bed," she promised her gay little self, "I'll have a +dance to prove that nothing can down me—for long!</p> + +<p>"I wonder—" here Joan looked serious as if a thought wave had struck +her—"I wonder where Pat is?"</p> + +<p>This seemed a futile conjecture. Patricia was too elusive to be +followed, even mentally.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, Patricia was, at that hour, confronting the biggest +question of her life.</p> + +<p>Heretofore she had always left her roads of retreat open, had, in fact, +availed herself of them at critical periods; but this time she had, she +believed, so cluttered them that they were practically impassable and +she said she "didn't care."</p> + +<p>The heat and her rudderless life had been too much for her; she had, +too, been honestly stirred by beautiful things—although they were not +hers nor could ever rightfully be hers. She had slipped into the danger, +that seemed now about to engulf her, on a gradual decline.</p> + +<p>Her connection with the Burke home life was, apparently, innocent enough +at first. No one but Patricia herself sensed what really was +threatening, but the conditions were ripe for what occurred.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Burke, bent upon her own pleasure, utterly indifferent to the +rights of others, was glad enough to leave her house and family to the +charm of Patricia while she could, at the same time, as she smilingly +declared, give a bit of happiness to that poor, gifted young creature.</p> + +<p>The gifted young creature responded with all the hunger of her empty +heart—she played with the children, who adored her; there was safety +with the eyes of housekeeper and governess upon her—but when the eyes +of a tired, disillusioned, and lonely man became fixed upon her, it was +time for Patricia to flee. But she did not. Instead she gripped her +philosophy of "grab"—and really managed to justify it to a certain +extent—while she grew thinner and paler.</p> + +<p>On the Sunday when Joan stopped short and wondered where Patricia was, +Patricia was up the Hudson awaiting, on a charming hotel piazza, the +arrival of the Burke automobile.</p> + +<p>It was sunset time and beautiful beyond words. Something in the peaceful +loveliness stirred Patricia—she wished that the day were dark and grim. +It seemed incongruous to take to the down path—Patricia was not blinded +by her lure—while the whole world was flooded with gold and azure.</p> + +<p>Then Patricia's angel had a word to say.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Who would care, anyway?" the girl questioned her upstanding angel—"in +all the world, who would care? Why shouldn't I have—what I can get?"</p> + +<p>And then, quite forcibly, Patricia thought of Joan! Joan seemed calling, +calling. The thought brought a passionate yearning. Joan had the look in +her eyes that children and dogs had when they regarded Patricia—a look +that cut under the superficial disguise without seeing it, and clung to +what they knew was there! The something that they loved and trusted and +played with.</p> + +<p>In a moment Patricia felt herself growing cold and hard as if almost, +but not quite, a power outside herself had threatened the one and only +thing in life that she held sacred.</p> + +<p>"That Look!" Full well Patricia knew that the Look would no longer be +hers to command if she held to her course!</p> + +<p>Then, her strength rising with her determination, she glanced back over +her cluttered trail. She had written a letter to Joan—it would be +delivered to-morrow. A black, scorching statement that would leave not a +trace of beauty for the old friendship to rest upon. She had also +written a letter to the firm in Chicago definitely refusing to accept +its offer—but that letter was not yet mailed!</p> + +<p>The Burke automobile, like a devastating flood, might at any moment tear +down the hill to the left. With this fear growing in her a strange +perverted sense of justice rose and combated it. She had deliberately +put herself in the way of the flood; she knew all about the risks of +floods, and it seemed knavish to promise and then—leave the field.</p> + +<p>"Better an hour of raging against the absence of me," she said, +pitifully, "than years of regretting my presence. He'll hate me a little +sooner, that's all. So—good-bye!" Patricia almost ran inside; left a +hasty, badly written note, and, metaphorically, scrambled over the +disordered path of retreat; she seemed to be racing against that letter +on its way to Joan. She would write later to the man who was drawing +near. Only one thing did Patricia pause to do: It was like driving the +last nail in the old life. She telegraphed to Chicago, accepting the +position of designer!</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Ours, if we be strong.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>Joan had sung herself into an exalted mood. She had floated along on the +wings of music, touching happy memories and tender, nameless yearnings. +Her loved ones seemed crowding about her—Doris, dear, sweet Nancy, and +pretty Pat. They were pressing against her heart and calling to her.</p> + +<p>She began to feel a dull ache for them, a growing impulse stirred deep +in her unawakened nature such as always drives the Prodigal unto his +Father! The superficial life of the past year seemed husks indeed. It +was the beautiful music that mattered and that she could have had with +her blessed, safe, loved ones. She need not have left them lonely; she +had been shamelessly selfish. Freedom! What was her freedom? Just a +tugging against the sweetest thing in life—the false against the true!</p> + +<p>Joan felt the tears falling down her cheeks while she sang on—and +suddenly it was Patricia who seemed closest to her.</p> + +<p>"I will not desert Pat," she actually sang the words into her song +fiercely, resolutely. "Patricia must come into safety with me."</p> + +<p>With this vowed to her soul, Joan dried her tears and sprang to her +feet. She had never felt so lonely, so happy, so free as she did that +moment when her spirit turned homeward again.</p> + +<p>She kicked off her sandals and began to dance about the studio, lightly, +joyfully.</p> + +<p>The late afternoon was fading into a sudden darkness—a storm was +coming; black, copper-dashed clouds were rolling on rapidly, full of +noise and electricity; in a short time they would break over the +city—but Joan danced on and on!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> + +<p>In that hour not one thought of Kenneth Raymond disturbed her. He +belonged to the time of mistaken freedom; he was one who had helped her +to think she could make unreal things true. He had no place here and +now. She somehow felt that he had passed from her life.</p> + +<p>Joan was abnormally young and only superficially old; her experiences +had but developed her spiritually—aroused her better self; and in that +self lay her womanhood, her knowledge of sex relations; there it rested +unharmed, unheeding.</p> + +<p>And then came a knock on the door!</p> + +<p>The whirling figure paused on the tips of its toes; the brooding face +broke into smiles.</p> + +<p>"It's Pat! Come!"</p> + +<p>The word "come" was all that reached the waiting man outside—and when +he entered he gathered to himself the glad, joyous welcome meant for +Patricia, and smiled at the poised figure.</p> + +<p>"Why!" gasped Joan, and in her excitement almost spoke Raymond's name.</p> + +<p>"How—did you find your way here? How did you know?"</p> + +<p>"Forgive me; I had to come. I telephoned to the Brier Bush—they gave me +your number."</p> + +<p>Raymond closed the door behind him and came to the centre of the big +room, and there he stood smiling at Joan.</p> + +<p>"So your name is Sylvia?" he said.</p> + +<p>Then Joan understood—Elspeth had respected her wish to be unknown +outside her business, she had given Sylvia's name, had made Sylvia +responsible.</p> + +<p>"I tried to get you earlier by telephone."</p> + +<p>"I was not home." Joan was thinking hard and fast. Something was very +wrong, but she could not make out what it was.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me for breaking rules: I wanted to see you so that rules did +not seem to count. Go on with your dance. You look like the spirit of +twilight. Dance. Dance."</p> + +<p>Joan grew more and more perplexed. The anger she felt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> was less than the +sense of unreality about it all. Raymond was a stranger; he repelled +her; in a way, shocked her.</p> + +<p>"I'm through dancing," she said. "Since you are here, sit down. I will +turn on the lights."</p> + +<p>"Please don't. And you are angry. I'm awfully sorry, but it was this +way: I was having dinner with some friends and suddenly I seemed to hear +you calling to me. It gave me quite a shock. I thought you might be in +danger, might be needing me."</p> + +<p>Joan kept her eyes on Raymond's face. She was trying to overcome the +growing aversion which alarmed her.</p> + +<p>"No, I was not calling to you," she said. "I was bidding you +good-bye—really, though I did not know it myself."</p> + +<p>"Oh! come now!" Raymond bent forward over his clasped hands; "you are +peeved! Not a bit like the little sport with that line in her hand."</p> + +<p>"I—I wish you wouldn't talk like that." Joan frowned. "And I know it +will sound rude—but I—wish you would go."</p> + +<p>"You are—surly!" Raymond laughed again, and just then a deep, rumbling +note of thunder followed a vivid flash.</p> + +<p>"Come," he went on; "dance for me. There's going to be a devil of a +storm—keep time to it. I'm here—I ask pardon for being here—but you +can't turn me out in the storm. Come, let us have another big memory for +our adventure."</p> + +<p>Still Joan sat contemplating the man near her, her hands lightly clasped +on her lap, her slim feet crossed and at ease—little stocking-shod feet +to which Raymond's eyes turned. She had never looked, to Raymond, so +provoking and tempting.</p> + +<p>"What's up, really?" he asked, "you're not going to spoil everything by +a silly tantrum, are you?"</p> + +<p>Joan hadn't the slightest appearance of temper—she was quite at ease, +apparently, though her heart almost choked her by its beating.</p> + +<p>"You have spoiled everything," she said, "not I. You somehow have made +our play end abruptly by coming here. I don't think I ever can play +again. It's like knowing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> there isn't—any—any Santa Claus; I can't +explain. But something has happened. Something so awful that I cannot +put it into words."</p> + +<p>Raymond got up and stood before Joan. He looked down and smiled, and at +that moment she knew that he was not his old self and she knew what had +changed him! And yet with the understanding a deeper emotion swept over +her, one of familiarity. It was like finding someone she had known long +ago in Raymond's place; as if she had lived through this scene before.</p> + +<p>She summoned a latent power to deal with the new conditions.</p> + +<p>"You pretty little thing!" Raymond whispered, and touched Joan's +shoulder. She got up quickly and moved across the room.</p> + +<p>"I always want light when there is a storm," she said, and touched the +switch.</p> + +<p>Raymond, in the glare, looked flushed and impatient. A crash of thunder +shook the old house.</p> + +<p>"Will you dance for me?" he said.</p> + +<p>Joan stiffened—she was dealing with the strange personality, not the +man who was part of the happy past.</p> + +<p>"No," she said, evenly. "And you have no right to be here. I wish you +would go at once."</p> + +<p>"Out in this storm, you little pagan?"</p> + +<p>"You could go downstairs and wait in the hall."</p> + +<p>"You are afraid of me?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the least."</p> + +<p>"Afraid of yourself, then?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not. Why should I be afraid of myself?"</p> + +<p>"Afraid <i>for</i> yourself, then?"</p> + +<p>Raymond was enjoying himself hugely.</p> + +<p>"No, but I'm a bit afraid—for you!" Joan was watching the stranger +across the room, and she shivered as peal after peal of thunder tore the +brief lulls in the storm.</p> + +<p>"Oh! that's all right—about me!" Raymond said, mistaking the trembling +that he saw; "you know, while I was at dinner to-day I got to thinking +what fools we were—not to—to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> take what fun there is in life—and not +count the costs like mean-spirited misers. You've got more dash and +courage than I have—you must have thought me, many a time, a—— What +did you think me, little girl?"</p> + +<p>With the overpowering new knowledge that was possessing her Joan spoke +hesitatingly. It seemed pitifully futile and untruthful; but her own +thought was to get this stranger from her presence.</p> + +<p>"I thought you—well, I thought about you just as I thought about +myself. Someone who was strong enough and splendid enough to make +something we both wanted come true! It was believing that we two +grown-up, lonely people could—play—without hurting—anything—or each +other. I see, now, just as I used to see when I was a little girl—that +one can never, never do that."</p> + +<p>Tears dimmed Joan's eyes and she tried to smile.</p> + +<p>The whole weird and unbelievable experience was making her distrust +herself, and the storm was more and more unnerving her. She feared she +could not hold out much longer.</p> + +<p>"You're a—damned good little actress!" Raymond gave a hard, loud laugh +so unlike his own wholesome laugh that Joan started back.</p> + +<p>"I want you to go away at once!" her eyes flashed. "I think you must be +mad."</p> + +<p>"But—the storm." Raymond walked across the room.</p> + +<p>"I do not care—about the storm. I want you to go!" and now Joan +retreated and unconsciously took her stand behind a chair.</p> + +<p>A sudden, blinding flash, a deafening crash and—the lights went out!</p> + +<p>In the terrifying blackness Joan felt Raymond's arms about her.</p> + +<p>So frightened was she now that for an instant the human touch was a +blessing. She relaxed, panting and trembling. In that moment she felt +kisses upon her lips, her eyes, her throat!</p> + +<p>She sprang away, dashing against the furniture and then,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> as suddenly as +they had failed, the lights were blazing and in the revealment Joan +faced the man across the room.</p> + +<p>Her face was flaming, but his was as white as if death had marked it.</p> + +<p>"You—coward!" she flung out.</p> + +<p>The words stung and hurt.</p> + +<p>Raymond did not move bodily, but his eyes seemed to be coming nearer the +girl.</p> + +<p>"If you do not go at once," Joan said, slowly, "I will call for help."</p> + +<p>"Oh! no, you won't, and I am not going to-night."</p> + +<p>The beast in Raymond had never risen before, had never been suspected, +never been trained: it was the more dangerous because of that.</p> + +<p>"What?" Joan stared at him aghast.</p> + +<p>"I said that I am not going to-night."</p> + +<p>The awful feeling of familiarity again swept over Joan. She felt that +she must have lived through the scene: had made a mistake that must not +be made a second time.</p> + +<p>"You have been drinking," she said, and her voice shook. She had hoped +that she might save him the degradation of knowing that she understood.</p> + +<p>"Well! Suppose I have? It has made me live. Set me free. I wonder if you +have ever lived?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid not." Joan could not repress the sob that rose in her +throat.</p> + +<p>"We can live, I bet." Raymond gave his ugly laugh. "That line in our +hands gives us the right."</p> + +<p>For a moment Joan contemplated escape. Any escape open to her. The +telephone, the door, even a call from the window in the heart of the +storm. Then the desire was gone and with it all personal fear. She +wanted again, in a vague way, to save this man who had once been her +friend. She felt that she must save him.</p> + +<p>Somehow, she had wronged him. She must find out just how, and then he +might once more be as she had known him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p>Presently it came to her. She should have known that he could not +understand the past. He had pretended to, while they had played their +foolish game, but when restraint was set aside he showed the deadly +truth. She had cheapened herself, cheapened all women—she could not fly +now, not until she had made him see the mistake.</p> + +<p>Raymond was crossing the room. He laughed, and insanity flashed in his +eyes.</p> + +<p>"What shall I call you from now on?" he said: "Sylvia?—or shall we make +up another name?"</p> + +<p>"My name is not Sylvia. And there is to be no time ahead for us."</p> + +<p>"You are mistaken. A girl has no right to lead a man on as you have led +me, and then run. It isn't the game, my dear. You must not be afraid to +play the game."</p> + +<p>Raymond reached his hand toward her and said pleadingly:</p> + +<p>"Don't be afraid. I hate to see you flinch."</p> + +<p>"You must not touch me." Joan's eyes flashed.</p> + +<p>"I see. You've raised the devil in me—and you do not want to pay?" The +brute was rearing dangerously.</p> + +<p>"I do not want to pay more than I owe."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by that?"</p> + +<p>"I mean that as true as God hears me I meant no wrong. I've done things +that girls should not do. I see that now. But I believed that you +understood. I thought that, in a way, you were like me—you were so fine +and happy. I still have faith that when you are yourself again you will +realize this. Oh! it is horrible that drink can do such an awful thing +to you."</p> + +<p>"Whatever ideals I may have had," Raymond broke in, "you have destroyed. +Perhaps you think men have no ideals? Some women do."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I believe with all my soul that they have. It was because I did +think that, that I dared to trust you." Joan was pleading; she could not +own defeat; she was appealing to him for himself.</p> + +<p>But Raymond gave a sneering laugh.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You trusted so much," he said, "that you hid behind a veil and would +not tell your name."</p> + +<p>Raymond was hearing himself speak as if he were an eavesdropper. He +trembled and breathed hard as a runner does who is near the goal.</p> + +<p>"What's one night in a life?" he asked, as if it were being dragged from +him.</p> + +<p>Again his voice startled him. He looked around, hoping he might discover +who it was that spoke.</p> + +<p>It was Joan now who was speaking:</p> + +<p>"I think that in me as well as in you there is something that neither of +us knew. I cannot explain it—but it was something that we should have +known before——"</p> + +<p>"Before what?" Raymond asked.</p> + +<p>"Before I—anyway—was left to go free! It is the <i>knowing</i> that makes +it safe, safe for such as you and me! I do not believe you ever knew +what you could be—and neither did I."</p> + +<p>Raymond gripped his hands together and his face was ghastly.</p> + +<p>"My God!" he breathed, and sank on the couch covering his eyes from +Joan's pitiful look. He was coming to himself, trying to realize what +had occurred as one does who becomes conscious of having spoken in +delirium.</p> + +<p>Outside, the storm was dying down—it sounded tired and defeated.</p> + +<p>Joan looked at the bent form near her and then went to a chair and +leaned her head back. She knew the feeling of desperate exhaustion. She +had never fainted, was not going to faint now, but she had come to the +end of a dangerous stretch of road and there was no strength left in +her. Surprise, shock, the storm—all had combined to bring her to where +she was now. The tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks; all her hope and +faith were gone—she had left them in the struggle and could not even +estimate her loss.</p> + +<p>The clock ticked away the minutes—who was there to notice or care? Joan +was thankful to have nothing happen! She closed her eyes and waited.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> + +<p>Presently Raymond spoke. His hands dropped from his haggard face and his +eyes were filled with shame and remorse.</p> + +<p>"Will you listen to me?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes." Joan looked at him—her eyes widened; she tried to smile. She +longed to cry out at what she saw, wanted to say: "You have come back. +Come back." Instead she said slowly:</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I can never expect to have your forgiveness. I thank God that it is +possible for us to part and, alone, seek to forget this horror. I will +never intrude. I promise you that. Back in my college days I found out +that I could not drink. It did something to me that it does not do to +others. I never quite knew what until to-day. When I saw you standing +there—the devil got loose. I know now. My God! To think that all one's +life does not count when the devil takes hold."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Yes, it does, and it is the knowing that will help." Joan was +crying softly. "You will have the right to trust yourself hereafter +because you know."</p> + +<p>"I will always think of women as I see you now." Raymond spoke +reverently.</p> + +<p>"You must not. Some women do not have to learn—I did. I think the best +women know."</p> + +<p>"You must not say that."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I feel it. Had I shown you a better self while we played all would +have been different. You would not have misunderstood. Women must not +expect what they are not willing to give. I had done things that no girl +can safely do and be understood and then—when you lost control—you +thought of me as you really believed me. I can see it all now, see how I +hurt you; hurt myself and hurt other girls; but it was because—not +because I am a bad girl—but because I did not know myself any more than +you knew yourself. How could we hope to know each other? I seem so old, +now—so old! And I understand—at last."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p> + +<p>Raymond looked at her and pity filled his eyes, for she looked so +touchingly young.</p> + +<p>"I think," he said, "that I shall see all girls for ever as I see you at +this minute."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you must not." Joan gave a sob. "They are not like me, really."</p> + +<p>There was an awkward silence. Then:</p> + +<p>"Will you tell me your name? Will you try to trust me—just a little? It +would prove it, if you only would."</p> + +<p>"I do not want you to know my name. You must promise to keep from +knowing. It is all I ask."</p> + +<p>"Will you let me tell you—mine?"</p> + +<p>"No! no!" Joan put up her hands as if to ward off something tangible.</p> + +<p>"I only meant"—Raymond dropped his eyes—"that there isn't anything +under heaven I wouldn't do to prove to you my sense of remorse. I +thought if you knew you might call upon me some day to prove myself. I'm +bungling, I know, but I wish I could make you understand how I feel."</p> + +<p>"I do." And now Joan got up rather unsteadily. "And some day—I—I may +call upon you—for—for I have known your name—always!"</p> + +<p>"What!"</p> + +<p>"Please—forgive me. I was taking an advantage—but it did not seem to +matter then, and I must keep the advantage now—for your sake as well as +mine. And now, before we say good-bye, I want to tell you that I know +you are going to have your ideals again. You will try to get them back, +won't you?"</p> + +<p>"I will get them back, yes! I only lost them when the devil in me drove +me mad."</p> + +<p>"And bye and bye, try to believe that although one cannot make the +unreal real, still there are some foolish people that think they +can—and be kind to such people. Help them, do not hurt them."</p> + +<p>"Will you—take my hand?" Raymond stretched his own forth.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why—of course—and tell you that I am glad, oh, so glad because—you +have come back! Glad because it was I not another who saw that other +you—for I can forget it!"</p> + +<p>"And—and we are—to see each other some day?" This came hopefully. +"Some day—as we left ourselves—back before this?"</p> + +<p>"Some day—some day? Perhaps. If we do—we will understand better than +we did then."</p> + +<p>"Yes. We'll understand some things."</p> + +<p>Raymond bent and touched Joan's hand with his lips and went quickly from +the room.</p> + +<p>He was conscious of passing, on the stairs, a wet and draggled young +woman, but he did not pause to see the frightened look she cast upon +him.</p> + +<p>A moment later Joan raised her head from the pillow on which she was +weeping the weakest—and the strongest—tears of her life.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Pat," she sobbed. "Oh! Pat."</p> + +<p>Patricia came to the couch and sat down. She was thinking fast and hard. +Life had not been make-believe to Patricia; she had builded whatever +towers had been hers with hard facts.</p> + +<p>She drew wrong and bitter conclusions now—but she dealt with them +divinely.</p> + +<p>"You poor kid," she whispered, "and I left you—to this. I! Joan, I told +you not to trust men. It's when you trust them that you get hurt.</p> + +<p>"Listen, you poor little lamb, I felt you calling me, tugging at me. The +storm delayed me, or I would have been here sooner. Joan, I had nearly +run off the track myself—it was the thought of you that got me. I kept +remembering that night you made the little dinner for me—no one had +ever taken care of me like that—and, child, I've accepted that job in +Chicago. If I go alone, remembering that dinner you got for me, I don't +know what I'll do. Come with me, Joan, will you? No man in the world is +worth such tears as these. You don't have to tell <i>me</i> anything. We'll +begin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> anew. You'll have your music—I'll have my work—and we'll have a +dinner every night."</p> + +<p>Patricia was shivering in her wet clothing.</p> + +<p>Joan put her arms about her. At that moment nothing so much appealed to +her as to get away—get away to think and make sure of herself. Get away +from the place where her idols lay shattered.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Pat. I will go. But"—and here she took Patricia's face in her hot +palms—"don't you believe that any man can be trusted?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't. It isn't their fault. They are not made for trust—they're +made to do things."</p> + +<p>"Pat, you're all wrong. It's girls like you and me that cannot be +trusted. I—I didn't know myself that was the trouble. Pat—you +mustn't—think what you are thinking—you are mistaken."</p> + +<p>"I saw him—on the stairs," gasped Patricia.</p> + +<p>"Suppose you did?"</p> + +<p>"Joan, do you know what time it is?"</p> + +<p>"No. I do not care. It takes time to have the world tumble about your +ears."</p> + +<p>"You—you—do not—love him, do you?"</p> + +<p>Joan paused and considered this as if it were a startlingly new idea.</p> + +<p>"Love him?—why, no. I'm sure I don't. But, Pat, what is it that seems +like love, but isn't—you're sure it isn't—but it hurts and almost +kills you?"</p> + +<p>The two young faces confronted each other blankly.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," Patricia said.</p> + +<p>"Nor I, Pat. But we've got to know. All women have unless they want to +mess their own lives and the lives of men. They cannot be free until +they do."</p> + +<p>Then Joan took hold of Patricia and exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"Pat, you are dripping wet. Come to bed." While helping Patricia to +undress she talked excitedly of going away.</p> + +<p>"It's the only thing to do. This silly life is a waste of time. Why, +Pat, we have been making all kinds of locks to keep ourselves shut away +from freedom and the things we want.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> Some day we would want to get out +and we could not. I am going to be free, Pat—not smudgy."</p> + +<p>Patricia paused in the act of getting into bed and remarked demurely:</p> + +<p>"My God! Out of the mouths of babes and pet lambs—— Come, child, shut +your eyes. You make me crawl."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Queer—to think no day is like to a day that is past.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>When Joan and Patricia arose the following day they confronted life as +two criminals might who realized that their only safety lay in flight, +and that they must escape without running risks.</p> + +<p>Patricia shuddered when the first mail was delivered. She rescued her +own letter—addressed to Joan—and raised her heart in gratitude that no +letter of angered remonstrance came from Burke.</p> + +<p>But he might <i>come</i>; he might telegraph!</p> + +<p>"My God!" Patricia exclaimed at noon time, "I cannot stand this, Joan, +we must vacate."</p> + +<p>Joan was quivering with excitement, too—she was wild-eyed and shook +with terror at every step on the stairs.</p> + +<p>Her ordeal of the day before had not merely devastated her beautiful +dreams, but it had, in a marvellous fashion, created an entirely new +outlook on life. She felt that once she was safe from any possible +chance of meeting Raymond, he might, spiritually, rise from the ashes +and eventually overcome the impression that would cling in spite of all +she could do. Intellectually she understood—but her hurt and shocked +sensibilities shrank from bodily contact with one who had forced the +fruit of knowledge so crudely upon her. The youth in her seemed to have +died, and it held all the charm and delight. The <i>woman</i> of Joan made a +plea for the man, but as yet he was a stranger. More strange, even, than +the unnamable creature who had, for an hour, while the storm raged, +stood in her imagination like some evil thing between the woman who had +not fully understood and the woman who was never again to +misunderstand.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> + +<p>While she feared and trembled Joan could, already, recall the moment +when Raymond began to gain the victory over his fallen self. She knew +that he was always to be the master in the future. How she knew this she +could not have explained, but she knew! In all the years to come Raymond +would be the better for that hour that proved to him his weakness. And +with this knowledge, poor Joan found comfort in her own part. He and she +had learned together the strength of their hidden foes. She realized +with a sense of hot remorse that she had wanted freedom not so much for +the opportunity of expressing that which was fine and worth while, but +that which she, herself, had not been conscious of.</p> + +<p>But she had been awakened in time. She, like Raymond, had faced her +worst self, and now the most desirable thing to do was to get away. +Anywhere, separated from all that had led to the shock, she would look +back and forward and know herself well enough to make the next step a +safer one.</p> + +<p>To go with Patricia for a few months would not interfere with her winter +plans; so she decided not to write fully to Doris, but to state merely +that she was going to see Patricia settled in her new venture—or, +should the business not appeal, bring Patricia back with her.</p> + +<p>"But," she said to Patricia while they restlessly moved about the +studio, "what can we do about—this," Joan spread her arms wide, "the +furniture and all Syl's beloved things?"</p> + +<p>Patricia sighed.</p> + +<p>"Has it ever struck you, my lamb," she said, "that our dear Syl is a +selfish pig?"</p> + +<p>Joan started in surprise.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know," Patricia went on, "her respectability and genius protect +her, but she is selfish. How long did she stop to consider us when her +own plans loomed high? She dumped everything on us and went! It was +business, +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'pleassure'">pleasure</ins>, +art, and John. For the rest—'poof!'" Patricia spoke +the last sound like a knife cutting through something crisp and hard.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joan continued to stare. Unformed impressions were taking shape—she +felt disloyal, but she was not deceived.</p> + +<p>"Syl brought you here," Patricia was going on, "because she was lonely +and you fitted in; she never changed her own course. She has engaged +herself to her John because <i>he</i> fits in and will never interfere. I've +seen him—and I grieve over him. He'll think, bye and bye, that he's +gone into partnership with God in giving Syl and her art to the world! +But he'll never have any nice little fire to warm the empty corners of +his life by. I hope he'll never discover them—poor chap! He's as good +as gold and Syl has pulled it all over him without knowing it. She's +made him believe that he was specially designed to further a good +cause—she is the good cause.</p> + +<p>"And the best, or the worst, of it is that Syl will make good. That kind +does. It is such fools as you and I who fail because we have imagination +and find ourselves at the crucial moment in the other fellow's shoes."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Pat!" It was all that Joan could think of saying.</p> + +<p>Patricia was rushing on.</p> + +<p>"Very well, then! Now, listen, lamb, you and I are going to skip and +skip at once. I'm done up. A change is all that will save me—and you've +got to go with me!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, Pat!"</p> + +<p>"Why, child, a step on the stairs is giving us electric shocks. This +lease is up in October. I'll telegraph Syl to-day. She can make her own +arrangements after that—we'll leave things safe here and get out +to-morrow!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly Joan got up and threw her hands over her head.</p> + +<p>"Thank heaven!" was what she cried aloud.</p> + +<p>There was much rush and flurry after that, and in the excitement the +nervous tension relaxed.</p> + +<p>A note, a most bewildering one, was posted to Elspeth Gordon. It came at +a moment when Miss Gordon greatly needed Joan and was most annoyed at +her non-appearance. It simply stated:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Something has happened—I'm going at once to Chicago with Pat.</p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now as Patricia had been an unknown quantity to Miss Gordon—her +relations with Joan being purely those of business—she raised her brows +with all the inherited conservatism of her churchly ancestors and +steeled her heart—as they often had.</p> + +<p>"Temperamental!" sniffed Miss Gordon, "utterly lacking in honour. Just +as I might have expected. A poor prospect for—Pat! I do not envy the +gentleman."</p> + +<p>Miss Gordon had contempt instead of passion, but her resentment was none +the less.</p> + +<p>And it was at high tide when Raymond came in at four-thirty for a cup of +tea and what comfort he could obtain by seeing how Joan had survived the +storm. He was met by blank absence and a secret and unchristian desire +on Miss Gordon's part to hurt Joan.</p> + +<p>Miss Gordon had not been entirely unobservant of all that had been going +on. She had had her qualms, but business must be business, and so long +as Joan did not interfere with that she had not felt called upon to +remonstrate with her on her growing friendliness with the protégé of +Mrs. Tweksbury.</p> + +<p>But now things were changed and by Joan's own bad behaviour.</p> + +<p>Raymond looked sadly in need of tea and every other comfort +available—he was positively haggard.</p> + +<p>While he sipped his tea he was watching, watching. So was Miss Gordon. +Finally, he could stand it no longer and he spoke to her as she was +passing.</p> + +<p>"Your little sibyl—she is not here? On a vacation, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>This was futile and cheap and Raymond felt that he flushed.</p> + +<p>Miss Gordon poised for action. Her face grew grave and hard—she +believed she was quite within her just rights when she sought to protect +this very handsome and worth-while young man. She really should have +done it before! She was convinced of that now.</p> + +<p>"My assistant," she said, "has left without giving the usual notice. She +has left me in a most embarrassing position<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> but I suppose she felt her +own personal affairs were paramount.</p> + +<p>"I—I think she has made a hasty marriage." On the whole, this seemed +more kind than Joan deserved.</p> + +<p>"A—what?" Raymond almost forgot himself. "A—what—did you say?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I presume it was marriage. She simply stated that something had +occurred that was taking her to Chicago at once with a young man."</p> + +<p>Elspeth Gordon watched the face of Mrs. Tweksbury's adopted son. She +felt she was serving a righteous cause. If any worthy young man came to +harm from the folly she had permitted she could never forgive herself! +Miss Gordon had an elastic conscience.</p> + +<p>Raymond's countenance grew suddenly blank. He had recovered his +self-control. He laughed presently—it was a light, well-modulated +laugh, not the laugh of a shocked or very much interested man.</p> + +<p>Miss Gordon was relieved—but disappointed.</p> + +<p>And then Raymond went out to do his thinking alone. He walked the +streets as people often do who are lonely and can find relief in action.</p> + +<p>He had never been so confused in his life, but then, he reflected, what +did he really know about the girl with whom he had spent so many happy, +sweet, unforgettable hours? The one black hour through which she had, +somehow, stood as the only tangible safe thing he could recall, had +shattered his faith in himself, in everything.</p> + +<p>What was she? Who was she? And now she had gone—with some man! It +sounded cruel and harsh—but it could not, it never could, blot out +certain memories which lay deep in Raymond's mind. He was miserable +beyond words. He deplored his own part in the unhappy affair; he could +not adjust himself to the inevitable—the end of the amazing and +romantic episode.</p> + +<p>Of course he had always known that it must end some time, but while he +drifted damnably he had not given much thought to that. But now he had +finished it by his own beastiality<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> when, had he kept his head, it might +have passed as it came—a thing undefiled; a beautiful, tender memory.</p> + +<p>Perhaps—and at this Raymond shuddered—perhaps he had driven the girl +upon a reef. He had heard of such things. In despair she had violently +taken herself out of his reach. He could not believe she had been +seriously involved while she played with him. Whatever she was, he could +but believe that she was innocent in her regard for him—else why this +mad flight? And he could not believe that her regard for him was +serious. He was humble enough.</p> + +<p>After leaving Joan the night before Raymond had met his Other Self +squarely in the shrouded house. Toward morning he had come to a +conclusion: he was prepared to pay to the uttermost for his folly, +whatever the demand might be. She must be the judge.</p> + +<p>He would go to the tea room—not to the house that he had so brutally +invaded. He would again talk to the girl and watch her—he would make +her understand that he was not as weak as he might seem. If he had +misunderstood, that should not exempt him from responsibility. But if +she should spurn any attempt of his to remedy the evil he could regard +himself with a comparatively clean conscience.</p> + +<p>Raymond could not get away from the idea that the girl was of his +world—the world where he was supposed, by Mrs. Tweksbury and her kind, +to constantly be.</p> + +<p>But then the empty tea room—and how empty it was!—stared him blankly +in the face. Miss Gordon's manner angered him beyond expression. Almost +he felt he must tell her of his own low part in the tragedy in order to +place her beside the girl he had insulted, instead of beside him, as he +felt she was.</p> + +<p>Raymond was hurt, disappointed, and disgusted; but as the day wore on a +grave and common-sense wave of relief flooded his consciousness. Bad as +things had been, they might, God knows, have been worse. As it was, with +the best of intentions, he was set aside by the girl's own conduct of +her affairs.</p> + +<p>To seek her further would be the greatest of folly and then,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> toward +night, lonely, half ill, Raymond undertook that time-honoured custom of +turning over a new leaf only to find that it stuck to the old +persistently!</p> + +<p>Then he resorted to a sensible alternative—he read and re-read the old +page. He tried to understand it line by line. He was humbled; filled +with shame at his meaningless attitude of the past, and acknowledged +that the grit in him, that he had hoped was sand, was, after all, the +dirt that could easily defile. He must begin anew and rebuild. He must +take nothing for granted in himself. Having arrived at that conclusion, +the leaf turned!</p> + +<p>And Joan, in like manner, thrashed about. It was not so much her actions +that caused her alarm—she had played most sincerely—but it was the +power behind the play that caused her to tremble and grow hot and cold. +What was it within her that had driven her where wiser girls would fear +to stray? What was it that was not love in the least and yet had caused +her heart to beat at Raymond's touch or glance? Whatever it was, Joan +concluded, it could not be depended upon. It could lay waste every holy +spot unless it were understood and controlled, and Joan set herself to +the task.</p> + +<p>The first step was to get away. That was inevitable.</p> + +<p>After a few months—and Joan was sure Patricia could not run in harness +longer than that—they could both come back, saner and better women. +Then Doris would be called into action; no more butting against the +pricks and calling it freedom!</p> + +<p>In the meantime, Patricia and Joan worked madly to get away and still +secure Sylvia's interests.</p> + +<p>Telegrams passed to and fro. Sylvia was fair enough to see both sides, +and while she was irritated at being disturbed she did not resent it and +even bade Patricia and Joan success with honest enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>"I'll run back and see to things," she wrote; "I'm making a lot of +money."</p> + +<p>And then Patricia tucked Joan, so to speak, under her frail wing and +took to flight.</p> + +<p>Chicago was new territory to both the girls but Patricia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> from the +necessity, as she told Joan, of grubbing, had become an adept at finding +shelter.</p> + +<p>After a week at a hotel, while she settled herself in business, Patricia +had free hours for home-hunting, and she and Joan made a lark of it.</p> + +<p>Patricia had the enviable power of shutting business from her own time, +and she quickly discerned that Joan needed prompt and definite interests +to hold her to what they had undertaken.</p> + +<p>And the venture had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions to Patricia. +She feverishly desired it to be a success.</p> + +<p>She realized that Joan was being torn by conflicting emotions while she +was idle and alone. She asked no questions; appeared not to notice +Joan's teary eyes and pensive mouth. Wisely she made Joan feel her own +need of her—to that Joan responded at once.</p> + +<p>"Joan, I never had a home in my life before," she confided while they +flitted from one apartment to another. "I used to walk around in strange +cities and peep in people's windows, just to see homes!</p> + +<p>"After my father died, I rustled about on the little money he left, and +I got to sneaking into other women's homes. I didn't mean harm at first, +but after awhile it seemed so easy to sneak and so hard to—make good! +But down in my heart, as truly as God hears me, I've been homesick +for—what I never had."</p> + +<p>"Pat! Of all things—you are crying!" Joan looked frightened.</p> + +<p>"Well, let me cry!" sniveled Patricia. "I've never given myself that +luxury, either."</p> + +<p>For a moment there was silence broken only by Patricia's sniffs. Then:</p> + +<p>"What do your folks say about it, Joan?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't sent the big letter yet—it's written. I don't want them to +say anything until I'm fixed. I only told them of our leaving New York."</p> + +<p>"Whew!" ejaculated Patricia. "You certainly run your career +free-handed."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie will take it like the darling she is," Joan mused on, "and +she'll make Nan and Doctor Martin see it. When she gave me my chance she +did not tie a string to me—not even the string of her love. We +understand each other perfectly."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you know," Patricia gave a sigh, "but I don't think an +explanation would hurt any and I don't want her to blame me more than I +deserve, Joan."</p> + +<p>"Blame you, Pat? Why, how could she?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know. She might get to thinking on her own hook if you +don't give her the facts. Joan, send the letter at once!"</p> + +<p>So Joan dispatched the letter, and it had the effect of depressing Nancy +to an alarming degree and, in consequence, of spurring Doris to renewed +effort.</p> + +<p>She was perturbed by the lack of what she knew. She had her doubts of +Patricia; the sudden flight had an aspect of rout—what did it mean?</p> + +<p>Her reply to Joan, however, was much what Martin's would have been to +his nephew.</p> + +<p>She accepted and took on faith what Joan had explained—or failed to +explain.</p> + +<p>She laid emphasis on plans for the coming winter and referred to Joan's +promise to give herself seriously to her music.</p> + +<p>"Either in New York or there, my dear, begin your real work. It is all +well enough to look about before you decide, but there is a time for +decision."</p> + +<p>This letter put Joan on her mettle.</p> + +<p>"Pat, I'm going to begin as soon as we've settled," she declared, and +her wet eyes shone. "Aunt Dorrie is quite right."</p> + +<p>The girls finally secured four pretty, sunny rooms overlooking the lake, +and reverently selected the furniture for them.</p> + +<p>"Let's get things artistic," Patricia wisely explained, "we'll make the +place unique and then"—for Patricia always left, if possible, a way +open for retreat—"if we should ever want to dispose of it, we'd have a +good market."</p> + +<p>But as the days passed it looked as if the venture were turning out +better than one could have hoped. Joan had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> never felt so important in +her life, and, to her surprise, developed possibilities never suspected +before. She prepared for Patricia's homecomings with the keenest +delight. The cozy, charming little dinners, the evenings by the open +fire—for they had selected the rooms largely on account of the +fireplace—or the occasional theatre or concert grew in delight. +Patricia was the merriest of comrades, the most appreciative of +partners. She also, to her own surprise, became deeply interested in her +work and, while the hours and confinement sometimes irritated her, her +field of invention was wide enough to employ her real talent, and her +success was assured from the first.</p> + +<p>And when things were running smoothly and there were hours too empty for +comfort in the lonely day, Joan discovered a professor of music who gave +her much encouragement and some good advice.</p> + +<p>After this interview she wrote to Doris more frankly than she had done +for a long time. She explained her financial situation and quite simply +asked for help:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>It's very expensive learning <i>not</i> to be a fool, Aunt Doris. I have +proved that. I am very serious now and Chicago, with Pat, is better +for me than New York with Sylvia.</p> + +<p>What I really want is to prove myself a bit before I come back to +you. I'm sorry about this winter, dear, but a year more and I will +be able to come to you not <i>on</i> my shield, I hope, but with it in +fairly good condition.</p></div> + +<p>"I think you ought to make her keep her promise about this winter," +Nancy quivered; "she is always upsetting things."</p> + +<p>"Why, my little Nan!" Doris drew the girl to her. Oddly enough, she felt +as if Nancy was all that she was ever to have. Never before had Joan +sounded so determined.</p> + +<p>"Instead," Doris comforted, "I am going to help Joan prove herself and +you and I, little girl, will go up to town and have a very happy, a very +wonderful winter, and next summer, if Joan does not come to us, we will +go to her. I think we all see things very clearly now."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> + +<p>Nancy was not so sure of this but she, like Joan and Patricia, had felt +the lash upon her back and was chafing at delay.</p> + +<p>Mary worked early and late to hasten the departure from The Gap. Always +in Mary's consciousness was that threatening old woman on Thunder Peak.</p> + +<p>With care and comfort old Becky was more alert; more suspicious. She was +wondering <i>why</i>. And Mary felt that at any time she might defeat what +daily was gaining a hold on Mary's suspicions. The woman tried hard to +shield the secret from her own curiosity, but under all else lay the +conviction that it was Nancy's toys which were in peril. And gradually +the love that the silent, morose woman felt for the girl absorbed all +other emotions. It was like having banked everything on a desired hope +she was prepared to defend it. If her suspicions were true, then all the +more must the secret be hid.</p> + +<p>And so in November Doris and Nancy went to New York and Mary, apparently +unmoved, saw them depart while she counted anew her assumed duties.</p> + +<p>There was The Peak—and with winter to complicate her duties, it loomed +ominously.</p> + +<p>"And I'll have to back letters for old Jed." Mary had promised to write +for the old man and to read from the Bible to him, as Nancy had always +done. "And keep the old man alive as well." Mary sighed wearily. "And +when there's a minute to rest—keep my own place decent." The cabin was +the one bright thought and, because of that which had made the cabin +possible, Mary bowed her back to her burdens.</p> + +<p>"A strange woman is Mary," Doris confided to Nancy; "nothing seems to +make any impression upon her."</p> + +<p>Nancy opened her lovely blue eyes wide at this.</p> + +<p>"Why, Aunt Dorrie," she replied, "Mary would die for us—and never +mention it. She's made that still, faithful way."</p> + +<p>Doris smiled, but did not change her mind. The people of the hills were +never to be to her what they had been to Sister Angela—her people.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>It Is Felicity on Her Wings.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>The old New York house was once more opened and the fountain set free. +Birds sang and flowers bloomed, but Joan was not there and for a blank +but silent moment both Doris and Nancy wondered if the lack were to +defeat them. The moment was appalling but it passed.</p> + +<p>Felicity brooded over them and her wings did not droop.</p> + +<p>Martin, with his sound common sense, came to the fore among the first. +He was never more alert. His nephew, Clive Cameron, was entrenched in +Martin's office and home—his name, alone, shone on the new sign.</p> + +<p>"I've flung you in neck and crop, Bud, because I believe in you and have +told my patients so. Sink or swim, but you've got clear water to do it +in. I'll hang around—make my city headquarters with you; lend myself to +you; but for the rest I'm going to do exactly what I want to do—for a +time."</p> + +<p>Cameron regarded his uncle as the young often do the older—yearningly, +covetously, tenderly.</p> + +<p>"I—I think I understand about Miss Fletcher, Uncle Dave," he said.</p> + +<p>"I had hoped you did, boy. And remember this—it's only when a woman +gets so into your system that she cannot be purged out, that you dare to +be sure."</p> + +<p>"But, Uncle Dave, the knowledge—what has it done for you?"</p> + +<p>"You'll never be able to understand that, Bud, until you're past the age +of asking the question."</p> + +<p>And having settled that to his satisfaction, Martin turned resolutely to +what threatened Doris and Nancy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> + +<p>He meant to see fair play. Doris could be depended upon for a few +strenuous months if her friends turned to and helped her as they should.</p> + +<p>Nancy must no longer be sacrificed!</p> + +<p>"If there is any sense in this tomfoolery about Joan," Martin mused, "it +must apply to Nancy also."</p> + +<p>Martin was extremely fond of Nancy. He often wished she would not lean +so heavily, but then his spiritual ideal of a woman was after Nancy's +design. Of Joan he disapproved, and Doris was a type apart.</p> + +<p>"If we can marry Nancy off," plotted Martin—and he had his mind's eye +on his nephew—"I'll bring Sister on from the West and get Doris to +share Ridge House with us. Queer combination, but safe!"</p> + +<p>And then he saw, as in a vision, the peaceful years on ahead. He would +hold Doris's hand down the westering way. Hold it close and warm; never +looking for more than the blessed companionship. And his sister, happy +and content, would share the way with them and Nancy's children—would +they be Clive's also?—would gladden all their hearts. And Joan?—well, +Martin did not feel that Joan needed his architectural aid—she was +chopping and hacking her own design.</p> + +<p>At this point Martin sought Emily Tweksbury and bullied her into action.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury had not unpacked her trunks yet and was sorely depressed +about Raymond.</p> + +<p>"I wish I had stuck to Maine," she deplored, "and devoted myself to the +boy. He looks like a fallen angel.</p> + +<p>"Ken, what have you been doing to yourself?" she had asked.</p> + +<p>"Just pegging away, Aunt Emily."</p> + +<p>"Ken," Mrs. Tweksbury had an awful habit of felling the obvious by a +blow of her common-sense hatchet; "Ken, you've got to be married. You're +not the kind to float around town and enjoy it—and you are the kind +that would enjoy the other."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'm having a bully time, Aunt Emily."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That's not true, Ken. Life lacks salt; you look the need of it and I +blame myself for going abroad."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you went!" fervently said Raymond.</p> + +<p>"You are, eh? Well, I'm not going again until you're safely married."</p> + +<p>At this Raymond found that he could laugh, and just then the hatchet +fell, for Doctor Martin had entered the arena and Mrs. Tweksbury had +agreed to help.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember my speaking of that niece of Miss Fletcher's last +spring?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I do recall it. Wasn't she to come here—or something like that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, she was, but she isn't. Doris Fletcher has brought her girl up to +town herself and the old house is opened. I called there the other day. +Ken, that girl is the loveliest thing I ever saw!"</p> + +<p>"Is she?" Raymond was sitting on the edge of the table in Mrs. +Tweksbury's dressing room. When she got through talking he was going to +bed. He had to stifle a yawn.</p> + +<p>"Yes, she is. She's not only the prettiest girl I've seen for many a +year, but she's <i>the girl</i>."</p> + +<p>"For what?" Raymond swung his lifted foot while he balanced with the +other.</p> + +<p>"For you, Ken!" The crash unsettled Raymond and he brought his free foot +to the floor.</p> + +<p>"Oh! come," he blurted; "don't begin that sort of rubbish, Aunt Emily. I +thought you were above that."</p> + +<p>"I'm not, Ken. I would go slow if I dared, but this girl will be snapped +up before we get in touch with her, unless we act quick."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Emily! For heaven's sake, is the girl hanging about open-mouthed +for the first hook tossed to her?"</p> + +<p>"No. But, Ken, she is the kind that men want—the kind they hold sacred +in their souls and hardly dare hope ever to see in the flesh. The girl +made me want to grab her. I remember as a child she was charming—she's +a perfect, but very human, woman now."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p> + +<p>With this Mrs. Tweksbury dilated upon what Doris had confided of Nancy's +loyal and devoted life.</p> + +<p>"You see, Ken," Mrs. Tweksbury ran on, "the girl is like a rare thing +that you cannot debate much about, and once lost, the opportunity will +never come again. I've gone off about her, Ken."</p> + +<p>"I should say you had! Will you smoke, Aunt Emily?"</p> + +<p>"Yes!"</p> + +<p>To see Emily Tweksbury smoke was about as incongruous as to see an +antique remodelled to bring it up to date; but the smoke calmed her.</p> + +<p>"You will call with me upon her, won't you, Ken?"</p> + +<p>"With pleasure."</p> + +<p>Raymond felt that any compromise would be well to offer.</p> + +<p>"I'll do my best by her, too, Aunt Emily. I rather shy at perfect types; +girls, at the best, make me skittish. They make me think of myself and +then I get gawky."</p> + +<p>"You'll forget yourself when you see Nancy Thornton."</p> + +<p>"Nancy—queer old name for a modern girl!" The two puffed away like old +cronies—Raymond had got into a chair now and Mrs. Tweksbury had +relaxed, also.</p> + +<p>"She isn't modern!"</p> + +<p>"No? What then, Aunt Emily?"</p> + +<p>"Ken, she's just woman. She appears just once so often, like a prophet +or something, that keeps your faith alive. She's the kind that the Bible +calls 'blessed,' and if she didn't reappear now and then I think the +race would perish."</p> + +<p>"Ugh!" grunted Raymond. Then added: "Calm down, Aunt Emily, go slow. +When you lose your head you're apt to buck."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury laughed at this and helped herself to another cigarette.</p> + +<p>It was a week later that Raymond met Nancy at his aunt's dinner table. +He knew she was coming. At least he thought he knew—but when he saw her +he felt that he had not expected her at all.</p> + +<p>It was a small party: Doris Fletcher, Doctor Martin, young Doctor +Cameron, and Nancy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p> + +<p>Nancy came into the dim old drawing room behind young Cameron. It was +that fact that attracted Raymond first. He recalled what Mrs. Tweksbury +had said about the type being the ideal of man—or something like +that—and Cameron, whom he had just met a few weeks before, had +apparently got into action.</p> + +<p>After Nancy came Doctor Martin—it was as if the male element surrounded +the girl.</p> + +<p>She was rather breath-taking and radiant. She wore a coral-pink satin +gown, very short and narrow. Her pretty feet were shod in pink stockings +and satin slippers. Her dainty arms and neck were white and smooth, and +her glorious fair hair was held in place by a string of coral beads.</p> + +<p>There are a good many platitudes that are really staggering facts.</p> + +<p>"Caught on the rebound," is one.</p> + +<p>Raymond was more open to certain emotions than he had ever been in his +life. He was sore and bruised; he had lost several beliefs in +himself—and was completely ignorant of the big thing that had given him +new strength.</p> + +<p>He had had the vision of passion through the wrong lens; he had been +blinded by the close range, but he <i>knew</i> what the vision was. In that +he had the advantage of poor Joan.</p> + +<p>His youth cried out for Youth; he wanted what he had all but lost the +right to have. But he in no sense just then wanted Nancy; it was what +she represented. She was what Mrs. Tweksbury had said, the kind of girl +that men enshrine in their souls and never replace even when they gladly +accept a substitute.</p> + +<p>"If only——" and then Raymond's eyes looked queer. He was living over +the black hour which he did not realize was the hour of his soul's +birth. He'd never have that battle again, he inwardly swore, but that +was poor comfort.</p> + +<p>And then, while talking to Nancy, he grew very gay and light-hearted, +like someone who had made a safe passage past the siren's rocks. Not +that it mattered, except that one did not want to be shipwrecked. Of +course, Raymond knew,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> he wouldn't forget while he lived, the other +thing just past, but it had not wrecked him.</p> + +<p>After that dinner nothing would have happened if all sorts of pressure +had not been brought to bear. Raymond was affectionately inclined to be +kind to Mrs. Tweksbury because he knew he had wronged her faith in him, +though she would never know; so he accompanied her whenever she +beckoned, and she beckoned frequently and always toward Nancy.</p> + +<p>Then Clive Cameron happened, at the crucial moment, to be on the middle +of the stage for the same reasons that Raymond was there. Cameron +followed Martin's vigorous beckoning, although he was bored to the +limit. He liked Nancy and thought her very beautiful, but Cameron had +not enshrined any type of woman—a few men are like that. He knew, +because he was young and vital and sane, that he had a shrine, or +pedestal, in his make-up and if, at any time, he saw a girl that made +him forget, for a moment, the profession that was absorbing him just +then, he'd humbly implore her to fill the empty niche and after that he +would do the glorifying. But if it pleased his uncle to trot him about, +he went with charming grace; and because it did not affect him in the +least, he played almost boisterously with Nancy and made her jollier +than she had ever been in her life.</p> + +<p>He made her forget things! Forget The Gap!</p> + +<p>Cameron simply knocked unpleasant memories into limbo; he was like a +fresh northwest wind—he revived everyone. He made Doris think of David +Martin as she first knew him—and naturally Doris adored Cameron. She +came near praying that Nancy might, after a fashion, pay her debts for +her. But no! she would not influence Nancy—she must be respected in her +beautiful freedom as Joan was in hers.</p> + +<p>So Doris widened the field of Nancy's vision, and old friends came +happily to the front.</p> + +<p>It is not wholly ignoble, the marriage market. To understand the game of +life is to be prepared, and women like Doris Fletcher were not entirely +self-seeking when they presented their best to what they believed should +be the best. Nancy was worthy, as Martin often said, to carry on the +truest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> American tradition of womanhood, so it became a reverent concern +to help this matter personally, and nationally, on its course.</p> + +<p>Young men swarmed about Nancy because, as Mrs. Tweksbury truly said, the +<i>ideal</i> was in their hearts and they were stirred by it.</p> + +<p>And Nancy was radiant and lovely. She blossomed and throbbed—she was +happy and appreciative. She was charming to everyone, but ran to Cameron +for safety and kept her sweet eyes on Raymond.</p> + +<p>So secretly did she do this that no one but Cameron suspected it. The +perfectly serene atmosphere that surrounded him and Nancy permitted him +to understand the state of affairs.</p> + +<p>When a girl uses a man as a buffer between her and others he does not +confuse things.</p> + +<p>For a short time Cameron debated as to which particular man Nancy wanted +him to save her for while he was preserving her from the mass. It did +not take him long to decide. He grinned at the truth when it struck him. +He was surprised, as men usually are, at a woman's choice of males. +Cameron liked Raymond; thought him a good sort, but herd-bound.</p> + +<p>"But Nancy's got the brand mark, too," he reflected. "They're both +headed in the same direction, only Raymond doesn't know it—a woman +always finds things out first, and it's up to me, I guess, to lasso +Raymond for her."</p> + +<p>So Cameron took up the "big brother" burden and steered the unsuspecting +Raymond to his fate.</p> + +<p>Cameron did this in a masterly way. He blinded everyone except Nancy.</p> + +<p>Doris sighed with content, and Martin lifted his eyes in praise and +gratitude. Mrs. Tweksbury, like a war-horse smelling powder, saw danger +to her plans and quickened Raymond to what was going on.</p> + +<p>At first Raymond was relieved—he wished Cameron good luck. Having done +that, he began to wonder if he really did?</p> + +<p>There was something unutterably sweet about Nancy: she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> was so purely +the kind of woman that made life a success. Why should he play straight +into Cameron's hand? If Nancy really preferred Cameron, why, then—but +did she?</p> + +<p>This was interesting. He took to watching; presently he concluded that +Cameron was a conceited ass.</p> + +<p>After a short time Raymond began to feel the pressure of Nancy's little +body in his arms—when their dance was over. He began to resent other +arms about her. Her eyes were lovely—so blue and sympathetic. She never +set a man guessing. Raymond had had enough of guessing!</p> + +<p>About that time Mrs. Tweksbury added an urge to her heart's desire that +she little suspected.</p> + +<p>"Ken," she remarked one morning, "I dropped into the Brier Tea Room +yesterday." It was the <i>brier</i> that signified the meaning of the place +to the old lady.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember?"</p> + +<p>Raymond nodded. Did he <i>not</i> remember!</p> + +<p>"The place is quite ordinary now—but the food is still superior. Miss +Gordon has come to her senses."</p> + +<p>"Has she?" Raymond asked, lamely.</p> + +<p>"Yes. And that girl—do you remember her, Ken?"</p> + +<p>Raymond nodded again.</p> + +<p>"Just as one might expect," Mrs. Tweksbury rattled on, keeping to her +one-tracked idea of things, "the minx ran off with a man, never +considering Miss Gordon at all."</p> + +<p>"I doubt if Miss Gordon could see any one's side but her own," ventured +Raymond.</p> + +<p>"Ken, that's unjust. The girl was a little fraud, and I think Miss +Gordon is heartily ashamed of herself for having resorted to such cheap +methods to get trade. She has young Scotch girls helping her now. No +more tricks, says Miss Gordon."</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>"I thought for a time, Ken, that that girl was one of our kind—risking +far too much. I'm not usually mistaken in blood, but—the creature was a +good counterfeit; I'm glad she's gone. Say what you will, we older women +know the young man needs protection as well as the young women."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh! Aunt Emily, cut it out!"</p> + +<p>Raymond got up and stalked about. This added to Mrs. Tweksbury's +uneasiness.</p> + +<p>For days after that talk Raymond had his uncomfortable hours. He wished +he knew about the girl of the tea room. It was "the girl" now. If she +were only unscathed the future would be safer for everyone.</p> + +<p>But how could he—Raymond was getting into the meshes—how could he run +to safety and happiness and forget, if he had really harmed, in any way, +a girl who might have cared? The difference between playing with fire +and being burned by fire was clear now.</p> + +<p>Had that hour, when the beast in him rampaged, killed forever the ideal +she had had? Was she saved by his madness? Or had she been driven on the +rocks? If he only knew!</p> + +<p>Raymond still had moments when he believed that the girl would +materialize in his own safeguarded world. He had seen a resemblance now +and then that turned him cold, but when all was said and done there was +no reason, no unforgivable reason, for him to exile himself from life.</p> + +<p>And when he was in this state of mind, Cameron was like vinegar on a raw +wound to him. Cameron's joyousness, born of indifference, passed for +assurance based, as Raymond believed, on his +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'assinine'">asinine</ins> +conceit.</p> + +<p>"He takes Nancy for granted," Raymond grumbled, "and he need not be too +sure—why, only last night——"</p> + +<p>Then Raymond recalled the look in Nancy's eyes.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, while Raymond was no better nor worse than the +average young man visiting the marriage market, Nancy had selected him +for worship and glorification. He loomed high and then, suddenly, he +loomed alone!</p> + +<p>There is that in woman which selects for its own. It is not merely the +instinct of mating, it is choice, in the main, and makes either for +success or failure—but it always has its compensations in that vague, +groping sense that calls for its own. The world may look on wondering or +dismayed, but the woman, under the crude exterior, clings to the ideal +she sought.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p> + +<p>With Nancy and Raymond conditions favoured the moment. Nancy had a wide +choice and she was radiantly happy. Doris saw to it that the girl should +see and hear the best of everything and be free to live her days +unfettered.</p> + +<p>Raymond had inherited the purest desires for family and home—he had +never seen them gratified in his parents' life, so they still lay +dormant in his heart. Nancy presently awakened them and Cameron's +mistaken attitude drove them into action.</p> + +<p>Raymond counted Nancy's charms. Her devotion to her aunt, her unselfish +service while her twin sister followed her own devices, Doctor Martin's +very pronounced admiration, and Mrs. Tweksbury's ardent affection all +carried him along like favouring winds. And presently the constant +appearance of Cameron with Nancy lashed Raymond to the amazing +conviction that he was in love!</p> + +<p>He grew pale and abstracted; the revealment was pouring like light and +sun into the depths of his nature. He wished that he was a better man; +he thanked whatever god he reverenced that he was not a worse one. He +recalled the one foolish episode of his youth with contempt for his +weakness and gratitude for the escape—not only for himself but for the +unknown girl.</p> + +<p>As a proof of the sincerity of his present change of heart he wished +above everything that he might find the girl and confess to her, for he +felt, beyond doubt, that it would give her joy.</p> + +<p>He believed this, not because he wanted to believe it, but because he +felt the truth of it, and presently it gave him courage.</p> + +<p>But there was Cameron!</p> + +<p>Finally Raymond discovered that his business was suffering. He grew +indifferent to the exact hour of leaving his office; took no pride in +his well-regulated habits. He began to dislike Cameron and he dreamed of +Nancy. Day and night he saw her as the safe and sweet solution of all +that was best in him. She held sacred what his inheritance reverenced; +she was human and divine; she was his salvation—or Cameron's.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> + +<p>At this point Mrs. Tweksbury gave him an unlooked-for stab.</p> + +<p>"Well!" she remarked with a groan—she never sighed, "I guess Clive +Cameron has got in at the death!"</p> + +<p>She looked gruesome and defeated. Raymond grew hot and cold.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" he asked, and glared shamelessly.</p> + +<p>"I mean," Mrs. Tweksbury confronted Raymond as if repudiating him +forever, "I mean that you've let the chance of your life slip through +your fingers and fall into the gaping mouth of that Clive Cameron. It's +disgusting, nothing less!"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Emily! What in thunder do you mean? Nancy Thornton has only been +here a month; if she's so easily gobbled"—the discussion waxed +crude—"I'm sure I could not prevent it—I'm not a gobbler."</p> + +<p>"No—you're a fool!"</p> + +<p>"Come, come, Aunt Emily." Raymond flushed and Mrs. Tweksbury grew +mahogany-tinted.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I know"—two tears—they were like solid balls—rolled down the +deep red cheeks. Almost it seemed that they would make a noise when they +landed on the expansive bosom.—"I sound brutal, but I'm the female of +the species and it hurts to know defeat the—the second time."</p> + +<p>"The—second—time?" gasped Raymond.</p> + +<p>"Yes—your father! I could—oh! Ken, it is no shame to say it to +you—but I could have made him happy, but it came, the chance, too late. +Then when you came I pledged my soul that I would try to secure your +happiness. I know what you want, need, and deserve, and here is this +perfect child—the one woman for you, snatched from under your nose by +Clive Cameron who will—" Emily Tweksbury sought for a figure of +speech—"who will, without doubt, end in dissecting her!"</p> + +<p>"Good Lord!" gasped Raymond. The dramatic choice of words was unnerving +him.</p> + +<p>"Oh! you men," spluttered Mrs. Tweksbury. "You make me weary—disgusted; +you're no more fit to manage your affairs than babies, and your +monumental conceit drives sensible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> women crazy. We ought to ask you to +marry us. We ought not wait to see you ruin yourselves and us, too."</p> + +<p>"But, Aunt Emily, why in thunder do you think Nancy Thornton cares for +me? If she wants Cameron, why shouldn't she have him?"</p> + +<p>At this Emily Tweksbury flung her head back and regarded Raymond with +flaming eyes.</p> + +<p>"You—well!—just what are you? Can't you see? Could you possibly +believe any girl would take Cameron if she had you to choose?"</p> + +<p>At this Raymond laughed. He laughed with abandon, going the gamut of +emotions like a scale. But presently he became quiet, and a rare +tenderness overspread his face. He went over to Mrs. Tweksbury and bent +to kiss her.</p> + +<p>"I never knew before, Aunt Emily," he said, "just what a mother meant. +I'm sorry, dear. Upon my word, I'm deadly sorry, but I'm made slow and +cautious and mechanical—I'm afraid of making mistakes—and if I have +lost because of my weakness, why, you and I must cling the closer."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Ken. When you talk like that I feel that I must go and have it out +with Nancy!"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Emily, hands off!"</p> + +<p>Raymond was suddenly stern, and Mrs. Tweksbury bowed before the tone.</p> + +<p>But Raymond meant to make sure before he accepted defeat. He spurred +himself to the test with the name of Emily Tweksbury on his lips. That +name seemed to hold all his responsibilities and hopes—his long-ago +past; the only claim upon the future except—— And in this Raymond was +sincere. His own honest love for the girl who had entered his life so +soon after his doubt of himself had had birth made him fear to put his +feet upon the broad highway.</p> + +<p>But he braced himself for effort and on a stormy, sleety January +afternoon he telephoned to Nancy and asked her if she were to be free +that evening.</p> + +<p>She was. And—to his shame Raymond heard it gleefully—she had a "sniffy +little cold" that made going out impossible.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Are you afraid of sniffy colds?" asked Nancy, "they say they are +catching!"</p> + +<p>"I particularly like them," Raymond returned.</p> + +<p>"We'll have a big fire in the sunken room and," here Nancy gurgled over +the telephone, "we'll toast marshmallows."</p> + +<p>Raymond presented himself as early as he dared and was told by the maid +to go to the sunken room. Believing that Nancy was there awaiting him, +he approached with a beaming countenance.</p> + +<p>Cameron stood with his back to the roaring fire.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Ken!" he blurted, cheerfully. "You look like a gargoyle."</p> + +<p>"Thanks!" All the light and joy fled at the sight of the big fellow by +the hearth. Dispiritedly, Raymond sat down and resigned himself to what +he believed was the inevitable.</p> + +<p>Cameron regarded him critically as he might have a puzzling case. Then, +having made a diagnosis, he prescribed:</p> + +<p>"Sorry to see me here, old chap?"</p> + +<p>"Why in thunder should I be?" Raymond glared.</p> + +<p>"No reason—but then reason isn't everything. Nancy's a bit off—I'd +hate to have her confront that mug of yours, Ken, if I can soften it up +any. I came to bring some medicine from Uncle David—he's worried about +colds these days. Nancy told me you were coming, she went upstairs to +take her dose in private—she told me to stay and give you the glad hand +and explain. Somehow you don't look exactly appreciative."</p> + +<p>"Sorry!" Raymond found himself relaxing. "Want me to kiss you?"</p> + +<p>"Try it! I'd like to have a fling at you. What's up, anyway, Ken? See +here, old man, you know there might be any one of twenty fellows here +to-night—you ought to be on your knees thanking heaven that it's I—not +one of the twenty."</p> + +<p>"What the devil do you mean?" Raymond got up, tried to feel resentment +but could not.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, only I'm going and—well, Ken, don't be an ass. It don't +pay."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> + +<p>Raymond tried to think of something to say, but before the right thing +occurred he heard Cameron's cheerful whistle cut off by the closing of +the heavy front door.</p> + +<p>Then he sat down by the fire and did some thinking. It was the kind of +concentrated thought that separates the chaff and wheat; foregoes the +glitter of romance and reaches out for the guiding, unfailing light of +reality.</p> + +<p>How long he sat alone Raymond never realized. It seemed like years, then +like a moment—but it brought him to Nancy as she stood at the top of +the flight of steps leading to the warm, fire-lighted room while the +fountain splashed cheerfully and a restless, curious little bird +twittered in its cage.</p> + +<p>Nancy wore the faintest of blue gowns; a cloudlike scarf fell from her +shoulders; her eyes held the full confession of her love as they met the +groping in Raymond's.</p> + +<p>He opened his arms.</p> + +<p>"My darling!" he said, "will you come?"</p> + +<p>Slowly, radiantly, Nancy stepped down.</p> + +<p>"It seems as if I'd always been coming," she was saying. "I—I don't +want to hurry now that I—I see you."</p> + +<p>"I—I think I've always been coming, too," Raymond would not take a +step, "but I was walking in the dark."</p> + +<p>"And I——" but Nancy did not finish her sentence—she had found her +heart's desire.</p> + +<p>"I'm not worthy," murmured Raymond, pressing the light hair with his +lips.</p> + +<p>"Neither am I. We'll grow worthy together. It's like finding a beautiful +thing we both were seeking. It isn't you or I—alone—it is something +outside us that we are going to make—ours."</p> + +<p>Spiritually Raymond got upon his knees, humanly he pressed the girl +close.</p> + +<p>"It's—you—the Thing is—<i>you</i>" he whispered, and at that moment knew +the last, definite difference between what he now felt and—all that had +gone before.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>To suffer sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. +This is a great truth that has to be learned in the fire.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>It was all so exactly as it should be—the love affair of Nancy and +Raymond—that it lacked excitement. There was a moment when Doris and +David Martin looked into each other's eyes and sadly smiled; but that +was past as it came.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, Davey!"</p> + +<p>"Of course, Doris, and Bud wasn't in it after all. It was our +desire—not his. He seems to feel he ought to be cheered for whooping +the thing on; making Raymond jealous, you know."</p> + +<p>"Dear boy!"</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Doris. He is something worth while."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury was so expansive in her happiness that she embarrassed +Nancy. She fairly bounded over the fragrant garden of new love and +scanned the wide pastures beyond.</p> + +<p>"Ken, if I can see children in this old house, I'll thank God and depart +in peace. Say that you will come here, boy. You know I'm always +scuttling overseas. I won't be in the way—but it is the one desire of +my shrivelled old heart."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Emily, go slow and don't be ridiculous. The idea of your being in +the way in your own house!"</p> + +<p>"Ken, make Nancy love me. I know I'm gnarled and crusty, but I need what +she has to give all the more because of that. I have no pride—I want +that girl's love so—that I'd—I'd humble myself."</p> + +<p>Raymond kissed her.</p> + +<p>"Has she told you of her—her sister—yet?" Mrs. Tweksbury asked.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes. Nancy says that until Joan, that's the name I believe, comes home +she cannot leave Miss Fletcher. Nancy must not sacrifice herself."</p> + +<p>Raymond was quickly assuming the charms of ownership.</p> + +<p>"She always has been," snapped Mrs. Tweksbury, "an unconscious offering. +Where is her gad-about sister?"</p> + +<p>"I forget—out West somewhere, I believe."</p> + +<p>"What is she doing?"</p> + +<p>"The Lord knows. I got a very disagreeable impression of her. I didn't +do much questioning—Nancy was on the defensive. She adores her sister."</p> + +<p>"Bless the child! I have an unpleasant remembrance of the girl, too." +Mrs. Tweksbury smiled grimly. "She was always a pert chit, and I believe +she is like her disreputable father—you know about him, Ken?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—something. Miss Fletcher mentioned him—she says she wants to have +a talk later on. But what do I care, Aunt Emily?"</p> + +<p>"I should rather like to know, myself." Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scandal. +"I never have been sure about him, but I know he was socially above +reproach. If he personally went wrong it is deplorable, but, Ken, if he +had his roots in good soil instead of mud, it isn't fatal."</p> + +<p>"Bosh! Aunt Emily."</p> + +<p>"Bosh! all you want to, boy. It's easy to bosh when you're on the safe +side—but neither you nor I can afford to ignore the difference."</p> + +<p>"Nancy speaks for herself, Aunt Emily."</p> + +<p>"Yes, thank God, and redeems her father. Wait until you see the sister. +She was a lovely, distracting imp—but with a queer twist. I shouldn't +be surprised a bit if she needs a deal of explaining and excusing."</p> + +<p>But when Nancy's wonderful news reached Joan in the tiny Chicago home it +made her very tender and wistful.</p> + +<p>"Think, Pat, of dear little Nan—going to be married. Married!"</p> + +<p>Patricia, who shared all Joan's letters, lighted a cigarette<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> and puffed +for a moment, looking into the glowing grate, then she quoted +eloquently:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 10%"> +"There was a little woman,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So I've heard tell,</span><br /> +Who went to market,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her eggs for to sell!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Joan stared.</p> + +<p>"My lamb, for this cause came Nancy and her kind into the world."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand, Pat." Joan's eyes were shining and misty.</p> + +<p>"Well, what on earth would you do with Nancy if you didn't marry her +off? If she were homely she'd have to fill in chinks in other people's +lives, but with her nice little basket of eggs, good looks, money, not +too much wit, and a desire to please, she just naturally is put up for +sale and off she goes!"</p> + +<p>"Pat, you are vulgar! Nancy is the finest, sweetest of girls. She would +only marry for love."</p> + +<p>"Sure thing, my lamb. And she could make love out of—anything."</p> + +<p>Joan was thinking of Nancy's capacity for making truth.</p> + +<p>"Dear, little, sweet Nan," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"Just the right stuff out of which to make successful marriages. Who is +the collector, Joan?"</p> + +<p>"Pat, you make me angry!" Joan really was hurt.</p> + +<p>"She doesn't tell me his name. She says——" here Joan referred to the +letter; "'I am going to try and keep him until you come and see him. +Joan, he is worth a trip from Chicago.'"</p> + +<p>"You are—going?" asked Patricia.</p> + +<p>"Pat—I am. Only for a visit, but suddenly I find myself crazy hungry +for them all.</p> + +<p>"I'll be back in a couple of weeks; I'll only lose three lessons and +surely, Pat, you'll forgive me if I desert you for that one glimpse of +my darling Nan and her man?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I suppose so. But, Joan, don't stay long. I know how the reformed +drunkard feels when he's left to his lonesome. He doubts his +reformation."</p> + +<p>"Pat!" Joan felt the tug of responsibility.</p> + +<p>The next night Patricia came home with a bedraggled little dog in her +arms.</p> + +<p>"Where did you find that, Pat?" Joan paused in her task of getting +dinner and fondled the absurd creature.</p> + +<p>"Oh! he was +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'browzing'">browsing</ins> +along like a lost soul, sniffing to find—not a +scent, I wager he never had one of his own, but a possible one. Out of +all the mob, Joan, he chose me! He came up, nosed around my feet, and +then whined delightedly—the old fraud! I picked him up and looked in +his eyes—I know the look, Joan. He might be my never-had-brother, there +is a family resemblance."</p> + +<p>"Pat, how silly."</p> + +<p>"No joking, lamb. I couldn't ignore the appeal—besides, he'll keep me +straight while you are away."</p> + +<p>"Pat—come with me!" Joan bent over the dog, who already showed his +preference for Patricia.</p> + +<p>"I cannot, Joan. The trade is growing—I am planning an exhibition. I'm +ashamed to say it, but the business is getting into my gray matter. +No—go to your duty, lamb—the pup and I will get acquainted and make up +for lost time."</p> + +<p>And while Joan made preparations to go to New York, and while Doris and +Nancy planned to make her visit a success, something occurred that +changed all their lives. It was the epidemic of influenza. The shrouded +and menacing Thing approached like the plague that it was to prove +itself. It was no discerner of people; its area was limitless, it +harvested whence it would and, while it was named, it was not +understood.</p> + +<p>David Martin ordered Doris and Nancy out of town at once.</p> + +<p>"You may not escape," he said, "but your best chance is in the open. +Besides, you'll leave us freer here."</p> + +<p>"But Joan—David!"</p> + +<p>"Joan be hanged! Can't she get to Ridge House?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of course. But I wanted to have her here to—to justify herself. Emily +Tweksbury is trying to make a tragedy of Joan. I'm afraid Ken suspects +her—his awful silences are insulting—I wanted to—to show her off."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Doris! But this is no time for squibbling. Scoot!"</p> + +<p>"But—you, David!"</p> + +<p>"I? Oh! I'm all right. Remember I have Bud. Why, the chap is pulling up +his sleeves and baring his breast to the foe. I'm going to stand close +by him."</p> + +<p>Martin's eyes shone.</p> + +<p>"David, if anything should happen to you——" Doris paused.</p> + +<p>"I'll run down now and then," Martin took the thin, delicate hands in +his. "I'll come—when I feel tired."</p> + +<p>"You promise, David?"</p> + +<p>"I—swear it."</p> + +<p>So Doris took Nancy away. A tearful, woe-begone Nancy who clung to +Raymond with the tenacity of a love that faces a desperate situation.</p> + +<p>"Beloved," whispered Raymond, "I'm going to get Aunt Emily out of the +danger zone and then I'll come to you. If this Joan of yours has +arrived—we'll be married, you and I, at once. We don't care for the +society fizz. This epidemic makes you think about—taking joy while you +can."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ken—if—if Joan will stay with Aunt Dorrie."</p> + +<p>"Well, by heaven! She'll have to stay. I'm not going to let them cheat +me!"</p> + +<p>To this Nancy gave a look that thrilled Raymond as he had never been +thrilled before—it was supreme surrender.</p> + +<p>And presently in the stricken city gaiety and laughter seemed to die +away in the black, swooping shadow.</p> + +<p>"When you use up all you know," Clive Cameron said one night to David, +"you still keep hunting about for something else, don't you?"</p> + +<p>Martin nodded. Both men were worn and haggard. They were fighting in the +front ranks with the men of their profession—fighting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> an unknown foe, +but bravely gaining confidence.</p> + +<p>"The death rate is lower to-day, Bud. Hang to that!"</p> + +<p>"I do, Uncle Dave. If it still goes down, will you take a vacation?"</p> + +<p>"You are willing to go it alone, boy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes!" grimly. "I know I must."</p> + +<p>The two men relaxed and smoked peacefully, their feet stretched out to +the fire. Their long day warranted this pause. They were strangely +alike; strangely unlike. Occasionally their eyes met and then their lips +smiled.</p> + +<p>They were friends. The blood tie was incidental.</p> + +<p>"You ought to be married, Clive."</p> + +<p>"Why, especially?"</p> + +<p>"A man should; a doctor especially. A wife and children are better to +come home to than a pipe—and a housekeeper."</p> + +<p>"You managed to buck along, Uncle Dave."</p> + +<p>"Yes—buck along! I couldn't make up my mind to——"</p> + +<p>"I understand, Uncle Dave. Miss Fletcher is great stuff—she makes other +women look cheap."</p> + +<p>"Bud, some women are like that."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so."</p> + +<p>Both men shook the ashes from their pipes—there was a night's work +ahead.</p> + +<p>Martin stared at the young face opposite. It was a strong, kind face—a +face waiting for the high waves to strike it. Martin seemed never to +have known the boy, really, before.</p> + +<p>"Bud, suppose you never find your woman?" he asked, huskily.</p> + +<p>"All right, then I'll peg along with that much lacking. Oh! I know what +you are thinking of, Uncle Dave. I've been through it—and turned it +down! Ever since I can remember I've kept a grip on myself by +remembering you!"</p> + +<p>"Good God, boy!" Martin choked; "I'm a poor model. At the best I've +been—neutral."</p> + +<p>"Like hell you have!" irreverently ejaculated Cameron, pleasantly. "Why, +Uncle Dave, you've got muscle all over you from fighting the demon in +you, but you have no ugly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> scars. We can look each other in the eyes as +we couldn't—if there were scars. It's all right, Uncle Dave. We'll get +Mother here before long and have a bully time."</p> + +<p>Martin could not speak for a moment; he was looking ahead to the time +when he'd have only this boy and his mother!</p> + +<p>"Well, what's up, Uncle Dave?"</p> + +<p>"Bud, have you suspected anything about Miss Fletcher? Her health, I +mean?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I've studied about her, too."</p> + +<p>"And kept quiet, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! But, Uncle Davie, if we—" Martin blessed him for that "we"—"if +we could get her outside of herself, it would do a lot for her. I've a +hunch that you have let her get on the shelf. I wouldn't if I were you! +I know it may be necessary to keep her to rules, but she thinks too much +about the rules; they cramp her. When Nancy marries—what then?"</p> + +<p>"The Lord knows!"</p> + +<p>"Where's that other girl—Joan?"</p> + +<p>Martin's face hardened.</p> + +<p>"Living her life. <i>Her</i> life," he said.</p> + +<p>"Anything—dirty about it?" Cameron asked.</p> + +<p>"No. So far as I can find out, she's just taking what she calls <i>her +own</i>."</p> + +<p>"Well, why shouldn't she, Uncle Dave? By all that's holy why shouldn't a +woman have her own as well as a fellow? Just because she was born to +petticoats doesn't mean that she's born to all the jobs men don't want."</p> + +<p>"There are certain things the world exacts of a woman, Bud."</p> + +<p>"What, for instance, Uncle Dave?"</p> + +<p>Martin considered. He was a just man, but he was prejudiced.</p> + +<p>"Self-sacrifice, for one thing!"</p> + +<p>"Who says so? Who benefits most by her self-sacrifice?" Cameron flushed +as he rambled on. "We may split on this rock, Uncle," he blurted. "Think +of my mother—I sort<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> of resent it, because I <i>am</i> a man, that we +idealize virtues and plaster them on women when we know jolly well, if +we lathered them on ourselves, we'd cave in under them. It's up to the +woman! That's what I say. Let her select her own little virtues and see +to it that she squares it with her soul and then men—well, men keep to +the right and keep moving!"</p> + +<p>Having flared forth, Cameron laughed at his own fireworks.</p> + +<p>"Joan is selfish, Nancy quite the reverse." Martin's brows drew +together. "Don't be an ass, Bud!"</p> + +<p>"What's this Joan doing?"</p> + +<p>"Thinking she's gifted," snapped Martin.</p> + +<p>"How is she to find out if she doesn't try? Is Miss Fletcher paying for +the racket?"</p> + +<p>"No. That's the rub. The girl's paying for it herself. Smudging herself +doing it, too. A woman can't escape the smudge."</p> + +<p>"Oh! well"—Cameron was tiring of it all—"it's when the smudge sticks +that counts. If it is only skin deep, it doesn't matter."</p> + +<p>"But—a woman, Bud—well, skin matters in a woman."</p> + +<p>"Who says so? Oh! chuck it, Uncle Dave. Which shall it be—bed for an +hour or a rarebit at Tumbles and then—on to the fight?"</p> + +<p>"What time is it?"</p> + +<p>"Eleven-thirty."</p> + +<p>"Bud, let us have another look at our salvage before we choose; if we +find them sleeping, we'll take the rarebit as a recompense for a night's +sleep."</p> + +<p>And together they went out into the night. Two tired men who had done a +stiff day's work—but felt that they must make sure before they sought +rest for themselves.</p> + +<hr class="minor" /> + +<p>And Joan and Patricia faced the epidemic as so many of the young +did—nothing really <i>could</i> happen to them, they believed—and Chicago +was not paying so heavy a toll.</p> + +<p>"We'll take a little extra care with food and sleep and wet<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> feet," Joan +cautioned, "and I'll put off my visit, Pat, for awhile."</p> + +<p>"And, Joan," Patricia said, laughingly, "keep your mouth shut in the +street!"</p> + +<p>The four little rooms were sunshiny and warm; Joan sang hour by hour; +worked at her music and "made the home," while Patricia kept to her +rigid hours and designed marvellous things in which other women +revelled.</p> + +<p>Since Nancy had gone South and her beloved was absent, Joan felt that +her duty was to Patricia. Without being able to classify her feeling she +clung to Patricia with a nameless anxiety.</p> + +<p>She taught the little dog to fetch Patricia's slippers to the +living-room fire; she always had dinner ready when, tired and frail, +Patricia appeared with that glad light in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You act as if I, not you, were going away, my lamb," Patricia often +said; "but you are a blessing! And Cuff"—she leaned down and gathered +the small, quivering dog in her arms—"and Cuff runs you a close +second."</p> + +<p>Cuff wagged his stubby tail excitedly. He was a proud creature, a proof +of what could be done with a bad job, and he had all the snobbishness +that is acquired, not bred in the bone. He slept on the foot of +Patricia's bed and forgot back alleys. He selected tidbits with the air +of one who knew not garbage cans, but he redeemed all shortcomings by +his faithful love to her who had rescued him. The melting brown eyes +found their highest joy in Patricia's approval, and a harsh word from +her brought his diminutive tail between his legs for an hour.</p> + +<p>It was April when Patricia came up the stairs, one night, laggingly. +Cuff was on the landing with his token of devotion. The girl picked him +up, kissed his smooth body and went on, more slowly. Joan had the table +set for the dainty dinner by the broad western window. She turned when +Patricia entered.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, Pat?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, only Cuff is growing heavy."</p> + +<p>"Are you tired?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not a bit. What a wonder you are, Joan! That table is a dream with +those daffodils in the green bowl. Old Syl was right—you put the punch +in home!"</p> + +<p>"There's chicken to-night, Pat. I plunged on the strength of what my +Professor said to-day."</p> + +<p>There were times when Joan wondered if Patricia was not insisting upon +home more for her sake than her own.</p> + +<p>"What did she say, Joan?"</p> + +<p>"That next winter I might—sing!"</p> + +<p>"Bully! But you sing now—like several kinds of seraphs. Warble while I +make ready for dinner, Joan."</p> + +<p>So Joan sang as she flitted from kitchen to dining room.</p> + +<p> +"I'll take the high road and you take the low road<br /> +And I'll get to Scotland before you——"<br /> +</p> + +<p>she rippled, and Patricia joined in:</p> + +<p> +"I'll get to Scotland before you!"<br /> +</p> + +<p>Then she said, from the bedroom beyond:</p> + +<p>"I know what it is in your singing that gets us, Joan. It's the whole +lot more than words can express."</p> + +<p>"Of course! That's high art, Pat! Come on, dearie-thing, you must +carve."</p> + +<p>"Now, Scotland"—Patricia issued forth in a lovely gown and Joan dropped +her long apron and appeared a happy reflection of Patricia's +magnificence—"Scotland stands for everything your soul wants when you +sing. Not a place—but—everything."</p> + +<p>"Yes. That's what I feel," Joan replied, quite seriously.</p> + +<p>Patricia did not eat much that evening, but she gave the impression that +she was doing so.</p> + +<p>The girls always disposed of the dishes, after dinner, in a wizard-like +manner. They disappeared until morning—and no questions were asked!</p> + +<p>Then, when the meal was over this night, Patricia flung<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> herself on the +couch, clasped Cuff in her arms, and asked Joan to sing her to sleep.</p> + +<p>"You <i>are</i> tired, Pat. Was it a hard day?"</p> + +<p>Joan came wistfully to the couch.</p> + +<p>"No, not hard, only bracing. They're going to raise me in the summer, +Joan. We'll be fat and lazy next winter—and just think: the summer in +The Gap lies between!" For that was what Joan's deferred visit had +resolved itself into.</p> + +<p>"Pat, your cheeks are—red!"</p> + +<p>"Joan, don't be silly. I touched them up. I never could see the +difference between rouge and dyes and powder and false teeth! They're +all aimed at the same thing—and it isn't mastication, either. It's how +you handle the aids to beauty."</p> + +<p>"Dear, funny, pretty old Pat!"</p> + +<p>"Joan, go and sing!"</p> + +<p>That night Cuff was dreaming the old haunting dream about waking up in +the gutter when something startled him. It was a very soft call.</p> + +<p>"Come up here, Cuff, I want you—close!"</p> + +<p>Cuff needed no second invitation! But the closer he got the more nervous +he became.</p> + +<p>"Cuff, look at me!"</p> + +<p>Cuff looked.</p> + +<p>"Cuff—once—you wouldn't have looked!"</p> + +<p>Cuff denied this by a vigorous whack of his stumpy tail.</p> + +<p>There were a few minutes more during which Patricia said some very +remarkable things about being glad that children and dogs could look at +her; and that Joan felt happy with her, and that love had something to +say for itself if you didn't wrong it, and then Cuff voluntarily jumped +from the bed and scampered into Joan's room. Joan was sleeping and Cuff +had to tug rather savagely at her sleeve before he attracted her +attention. But when Joan was awake every sense was alert.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" she asked, but while she was speaking she was on +her way to Patricia's room.</p> + +<p>Patricia was tossing about and laughing gently; she was insisting that +she was going up the Climbing Way and that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> the travelling was hard and +the weather hot! For a moment Joan stood still. All her strength +deserted her, but in that instant she knew the worst, as people do at +times—when the end is near!</p> + +<p>It was only three days for Patricia and she never realized the truth for +herself. A nurse, a weary but faithful doctor, and Joan kept her company +on the Climbing Way which got easier toward the top.</p> + +<p> +"You take the high road and I'll take the low road<br /> +But I'll get to Scotland before you——"<br /> +</p> + +<p>It was Patricia who sang, not Joan, and then she laughed gaily.</p> + +<p>"I bet I will beat you out, Joan—but it wasn't—Scotland, you know +it—was—home!"</p> + +<p>Just before the top was reached Patricia grew quiet and grave. She clung +to Joan with one hand and patted Cuff with the other.</p> + +<p>"I think," she whispered, "that when dogs and little children can look +you in the eye, God can!"</p> + +<p>She did not speak much after that—but she sang in fragments, hummed +when very tired, and murmured—"Nice little old Joan and Cuff," just +before she reached—home!</p> + +<p>It was all so crushingly sudden that Joan was dazed and could not feel +at all. Fortunately, the nurse arranged to stay with her for a week, and +the doctor acted, through all his burdened days, as if an extra load was +really a comfort to him. He asked Joan what steps he should take about +Patricia, and Joan stared at him.</p> + +<p>"You see, Pat just belonged to me," she explained; "and—and well! must +I decide anything just now?"</p> + +<p>"I think we must—about the body—you know!" The doctor felt his heart +beat quicker as he gazed into the wide, tearless eyes.</p> + +<p>"The—the body? Oh! I see what you mean. I—I was going to take Pat home +next summer; this summer—but——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Perhaps we can arrange to have the body remain here in Chicago until +you make plans."</p> + +<p>"Oh! if you only could." Joan looked her gratitude.</p> + +<p>And so Patricia Leigh was laid to rest in the vault of strangers until +the girl who had loved her could realize the thing that had overtaken +her.</p> + +<p>In the lonely rooms the empty stillness acted like a drug upon Joan. She +mechanically performed the small services she used to perform so gladly +for Patricia. She held Cuff in her arms as she repeated:</p> + +<p>"It cannot be, Cuff, dear, it cannot! Such a terrible thing couldn't +happen—not without warning. She <i>will</i> come back; she will, +Cuff—please don't look so sad!"</p> + +<p>It was three weeks after Patricia went that Cuff met Joan as she entered +the room—with Patricia's slippers which he had found where Joan had +hidden them! The sight of the pathetic little figure touched something +in Joan and it sprang to hurting, suffering life.</p> + +<p>For hours the girl wept in the dark rooms. She begged for death; +anything to dull forever the pain that she could not understand. But the +grief saved her and she began to think for herself, since no one was +there to think for her. The city was full of sickness and death. Those +who could, must do for themselves. Joan had not written home; she +wondered what she had done in all the ages since Pat went.</p> + +<p>All Patricia's small affairs were in order. Her money and Joan's were +banked under both names, and the dreary little home was but an empty +shell.</p> + +<p>"I've failed—utterly," the girl sobbed over Cuff in her arms; "I told +Aunt Dorrie when I found that out—I would go to her."</p> + +<p>So Joan sold the furniture and sublet the rooms; she paid her small +debts and promised her music teacher that she would continue her work in +New York. Then she turned wearily, aimlessly—homeward, with Cuff in her +arms.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>Love, hope, fear, faith—these make humanity!</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>The trip to New York was always marked in later years, to Joan, by the +most trivial occurrences.</p> + +<p>The passing to and fro to the baggage car where Cuff, a crumpled and +quivering mass, seemed to ask her what it all meant; the sense of +eagerness to get to The Gap before it was too late; the determination +not to frighten any one she meant to telegraph from New York; she would +leave her trunks in the station and take a bag to a little hotel where +she and Pat had stayed the night before they fled from New York. So far, +all was clear.</p> + +<p>So she planned; forgot, and planned again. Between these wanderings and +the care of Cuff there were long hours of forgetfulness and a sound of +rushing water—or was it the train plunging through the dark?</p> + +<p>Once in New York, with Cuff trotting behind, Joan seemed to gather +strength—but not clear vision. She went to the small hotel and secured +a room. She meant to telegraph and buy her ticket South—but instead she +fed Cuff, took a little food herself, and fell asleep. It was late when +she awakened to a realization of acute suffering that seemed confused +and spasmodic. It was like being partially conscious. She was frightened +and tried to fix upon some direct and immediate means of securing help +for herself. She did not want to call assistance from the office, so she +got up and dressed and half staggered downstairs. It needed all her +effort to hold to one thought long enough to accomplish anything.</p> + +<p>First there was Cuff. She must get Cuff, quiet his nervousness, and feed +him. Then with that in mind she took food herself—as much as she could +swallow. It was while she was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> forcing herself to this task that Doctor +Martin came, like an actual presence, to her consciousness.</p> + +<p>Why had she not thought of him before?</p> + +<p>"Uncle Davey!" she murmured and her eyes filled with tears. Of course! +She would take a cab to Doctor Martin's office and then everything would +be solved. He would take care of her; send word to The Gap; protect Aunt +Doris and Nancy from shock. She began to laugh quietly, tremblingly—she +was safe at last. Safe!</p> + +<p>It was after ten o'clock when she paid her taxi driver in front of +Martin's office and dismissed him. Gathering Cuff in one aching arm and +clutching her bag she slowly, painfully mounted the steps without +noticing the sign bearing a new name.</p> + +<p>If anything were needed to prove how detached Joan had been for the past +year or two it was this ignorance concerning the arrangement between +Martin and his nephew. Had she not been on the border of delirium she +would have recalled certain things which would have guided her; as it +was she felt, dazedly, for the bell, pressed the button, and to the maid +who responded she faintly said:</p> + +<p>"I—I want the doctor." She looked, indeed, as if this were shockingly +true.</p> + +<p>"It's past office hours," stammered the girl, a little scared; "but +perhaps if you come in——"</p> + +<p>Joan staggered in and, seeing a door open at the end of the hall, +reached it, entered, and sank down in a chair with the astonished eyes +of Clive Cameron upon her!</p> + +<p>He was ready for his rounds—was on the way, then, to his hospital; it +was Martin's pet institution and Cameron's first care in the morning.</p> + +<p>"I'm—tired," Joan informed him. "Please take care of—Cuff!"</p> + +<p>And then everything went black and quiet.</p> + +<p>Never in all his life had Cameron had anything so surprising happen to +him. He looked at the girl, whom he managed to carry to the couch; he +turned to the dog whose faithful eyes rather steadied him, then he +applied all the remedies<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> that one does at such times. Eventually Joan +revived, but she stared vacantly at the face above her and did not +attempt to speak.</p> + +<p>Presently Cameron called in his nurse.</p> + +<p>"I think it is brain fever," he explained to the cool, capable woman who +asked naturally:</p> + +<p>"Who is she?"</p> + +<p>"The Lord knows."</p> + +<p>"Where did she come from? Where does she belong?"</p> + +<p>"The Lord knows. She just came in with the dog and then dropped after +asking me to care for—for Cuff—yes, that's what she called him—then +she went off."</p> + +<p>"It's a duck of a dog," the nurse remarked as one does make inane +remarks at a critical time. Then:</p> + +<p>"Have you looked in her bag?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not!"</p> + +<p>"We had better." And they did.</p> + +<p>There was a trunk key, seventy-five dollars, and a letter signed "Syl," +and frivolously dilating upon a man named John and loads of love to Miss +Lamb!</p> + +<p>"Well!" said the nurse, "and as one might expect, no heading, date, or +any sensible clue—and the envelope missing. We must label this patient, +I suppose, as Miss Lamb. The articles of clothing are unmarked. Queer +all around!"</p> + +<p>"We must get her into the hospital at once," Cameron replied. The doctor +in him was getting into action.</p> + +<p>"Can we manage her in my car?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Doctor."</p> + +<p>"Then get busy. Call her Miss Lamb when you have to answer questions. We +can find out about her later. Where's that dog?"</p> + +<p>Cuff was making himself invisible. He was under the couch.</p> + +<p>"Have him fed and taken care of, Miss Brown—tell the maid."</p> + +<p>Joan leaned against Cameron on the way to the hospital while Miss Brown +kept a finger on her pulse. The girl's body acted mechanically, but the +brain was clogged.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p> + +<p>Day by day in the white, quiet hospital room the battle for her life +went on; day by day outside effort was made to trace her and find her +friends.</p> + +<p>"You wise-looking brute," Cameron often thought as he regarded Cuff at +the day's end; "why can't you tell what you know?"</p> + +<p>But Cuff simply wagged his stump and slunk off. Life was becoming too +puzzling for him.</p> + +<p>Cameron studied advertisements and certain columns in the papers, but no +one seemed to have missed the pretty young creature in the Martin +Sanatorium.</p> + +<p>"It's the very devil of a case!" Cameron declared, and set about +erecting some sort of foundation upon which "Miss Lamb" might repose +without causing too much unhealthy curiosity.</p> + +<p>Eventually, Joan was simply a bad case of Doctor Cameron's. One from out +of town. Her folks trusted him, but were too distant to visit the girl.</p> + +<p>Cameron considered telegraphing for Martin, who was at The Gap, but he +knew that sooner or later he must rely upon himself alone, and so he +began with "Miss Lamb."</p> + +<p>The days and weeks dragged on. There were ups and downs, hopes and +discouragements, but through them all Joan looked dazedly at Cameron, +and if she ever showed intelligence it was when he spoke to her in a +perfectly new set of tones that were being incorporated into his voice +and which seemed to disturb her. To all questions, as to names, the girl +in the dim room returned a dull stare and silence, but there were times +when she deliriously rambled intimate confidences. When these times +occurred, Cameron, if he chanced to be present, ordered the nurse from +the room and listened alone. He was relieved to hear that the patient +rarely spoke when he was not with her.</p> + +<p>Joan dwelt upon her failure—her longing to go to Pat.</p> + +<p>These items Cameron recorded in a small red book, for his memory was +none too good and he was busy to a dangerous degree.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then, again, the sick girl depicted the night of the storm—the shock +and consequent flight.</p> + +<p>"But," she pleaded piteously, holding the strong hand that anchored her +to life, "he won! he won, and it is always going to be all right. Oh! if +he could only know!"</p> + +<p>There would be a pause always ending in: "I want Pat."</p> + +<p>"Where is—Pat?" Cameron ventured.</p> + +<p>"Home!" And then, weakly, but with a wrenching pathos, Joan sang—"<i>I'll +get to—Scotland</i>—no! <i>home</i>—before you!"</p> + +<p>"Come, come, now!" Cameron pressed the thin form down. "You know you've +got to live—for Pat."</p> + +<p>"Yes—for Pat." And then Joan would sleep.</p> + +<p>It was a day in late May that Cameron noticed a change in his case. She +was weaker, but steadier. She seemed to connect him with something in +the recent past, and that encouraged him. All her previous conscious +moments had been like detached flashes.</p> + +<p>"What was it you said I must live for?" she asked Cameron. "I've +forgotten."</p> + +<p>"For everything," he replied, throwing off his coat and gripping the +promising moment. "You're not the kind to slink out. Besides, you've got +to tell me about your folks. Give them a chance to prove themselves and +set things straight." Cameron watched the struggle on the thin face. +"And there is—Pat!" he added.</p> + +<p>Joan looked amazed and then quivered.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Pat, of course!"</p> + +<p>There was a long pause, the consciousness was seeking something to which +it might cling. Something forever eluding it.</p> + +<p>A day or two later Cameron brought the dog into the sick room. Joan +turned as she heard steps.</p> + +<p>"Cuff!" she cried and then, as the dog leaped on to her, she sobbed and +murmured over and over: "Pat's little Cuff; Pat's little Cuff."</p> + +<p>Her way on ahead was safer after that—safer but more secretive.</p> + +<p>As Joan got control of her thoughts she became more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> silent and +watchful. She questioned the nurse and found out where she was and how +long she had been there; she smiled with her old touch of humour when +she was called Miss Lamb but gave thanks that she had a name not her +own!</p> + +<p>She regarded Cameron with deep gratitude, but drove him to a corner by +insisting that he tell her how much she owed him.</p> + +<p>Cameron, having her purse under lock and key, at home, told her she owed +the hospital fifty dollars.</p> + +<p>At that Joan laughed, and the sound gave Cameron more hope than he had +known for some time, but it seemed to mark, also, Joan's complete +self-control.</p> + +<p>Often she lay for hours with closed eyes and wondered with a bit of +self-pity why she had not been discovered? Had she so completely dropped +from the lives of those she loved that they had forgotten her? She did +not know, for some time to come, of the letters to her that were +returned to The Gap! She was never to know, fully, the anguish that +Doris Fletcher was enduring in her mistaken determination not to hamper +the girl who was testing her strength.</p> + +<p>While David Martin rated her for ingratitude and carelessness; while +Nancy's face set in resentment and disapproval, Doris smiled and +insisted that she would not judge until Joan explained.</p> + +<p>"Of course," she added, "if anything were really wrong Joan or Patricia +would write. They are probably away on business—and at the worst they +will soon let me know when to expect them. Joan was always a poor +correspondent."</p> + +<p>"Would you like to have me go to Chicago?" Martin asked.</p> + +<p>"David, would you go if—it were your boy?" Doris hung on his answer.</p> + +<p>"I jolly well wouldn't! I'd let the scamp learn the whole lesson."</p> + +<p>"Very well, then I do not want you to go to Chicago!"</p> + +<p>Joan, slowly recovering, could hardly have explained to herself why she +was so secretive, but more and more she determined<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> not to go to The Gap +and open her heart to Doris until she was able to command the situation. +Since she had, for some reason, dropped from their lives, she would +wait. Meanwhile, her heart ached with the pity of it all.</p> + +<p>She wondered how the name of Lamb had ever been attached to her, and +finally she decided to ask Cameron about it.</p> + +<p>It was Cameron's custom, now, to delay his call upon Joan until late +afternoon. When he was on his way to dinner he took a half hour or more +to sit beside her bed and indulge in various emotions.</p> + +<p>So long as Joan had been a desperate case she had no individuality at +all, except scientifically.</p> + +<p>She was bathed, and eventually her hair was cut, not shaved—the nurse +put in a plea at the cutting point—and she was fed and made to sleep; +but gradually, as she emerged from the shadowy boundary, she assumed +different proportions.</p> + +<p>Cameron concluded that her reticence, now her brain was growing clearer, +came from a determined effort to cover her tracks and perhaps those of a +man—unworthy, undoubtedly, and Cameron believed this man to be the +"Pat" to whom his patient had so frantically referred in her raving.</p> + +<p>There had evidently been a strenuous scene in which Pat had figured and +through which he and the girl had emerged rather deplorably.</p> + +<p>Cameron also arrived at the conclusion that the young woman in his care +must be made to take a keener interest in life than she seemed to be +taking, or her recovery would be slower than it ought to be, according +to physical indications. The growing silence worried him; he wished that +he could gain her confidence, not in order to gratify curiosity, but to +enable him to be of real service.</p> + +<p>One afternoon he called at the hospital reinforced with a box of roses.</p> + +<p>The flowers had an immediate effect upon Joan. She buried her face in +them and closed her eyes, and then Cameron saw large, slow tears +escaping the close-shut lids. He welcomed these. Presently Joan asked:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How is—is—Cuff?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! he's ripping," Cameron replied; "after seeing you he seemed to size +up the situation and come to terms."</p> + +<p>"How—how did you happen to know his name?" This had been a burning +curiosity for the past week.</p> + +<p>"You happened to mention it when you keeled over in my office. Cuff was +apparently your one responsibility. We found your name in a letter—Miss +Lamb."</p> + +<p>The roses hid the quivering face while a new and hurting question for +the first time entered in. Then:</p> + +<p>"Did—did I go to your office? I thought I—was brought here from——"</p> + +<p>"You were brought here, all right," Cameron felt his way slowly along +the opening path; "Miss Brown and I had rather a vigorous trip with +you—in my automobile."</p> + +<p>"Cuff belonged to—to Pat!" Joan remarked, irrelevantly. She was forcing +her thought back to the blank period lying between the hotel and the +hospital. Gradually it brightened and a smothered sob found place in the +roses.</p> + +<p>"So that is why they have left me alone!" Joan reflected; "but oh! how +frightened they must be!"</p> + +<p>"I rather imagine Pat must be fairly well used up wondering about you," +Cameron was saying as if the whole matter were an everyday affair, but +rather annoying; "queer things happen in a big city. We've done our best +to locate your friends; I think some of the officials I have consulted +have their doubts as to my mental condition. I kept under cover as well +as I could until you were well enough to act for yourself."</p> + +<p>"Thank you—oh! thank you." This very faintly and brokenly.</p> + +<p>"You see, you are one of the cases that prove that an impossibility +is—possible. Truth-stronger-than-fiction idea. But if you would like me +to communicate with Pat, I'll be glad to help you."</p> + +<p>"No—I will wait now." Joan drew her lips close.</p> + +<p>Cameron controlled his features while he listened, but he never referred +to Pat again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I've sometimes thought," Cameron spoke calmly, "that you might have +been looking for my uncle, Doctor Martin, when you stumbled into his old +office. I could not flatter myself that you were bent upon obtaining my +services."</p> + +<p>At this Joan astonished Cameron almost as much as if she had sat up in +her coffin.</p> + +<p>She rose, as though propelled by a spring, she stared at him and then, +as slowly, sank back, still holding him with her eyes that seemed +preternaturally large.</p> + +<p>"Oh! come now!" Cameron exclaimed. "What's up?" He took her hand and +bent over her and to his amaze discovered that she was laughing! He +touched the bell. Things were bewildering him—Miss Brown always managed +trying situations by reducing them to normal. She responded at once; +cool, serene, and capable.</p> + +<p>"Nerves?" she asked. And then took command. She raised Joan and settled +the pillows into new lines; she removed the roses almost sternly—she +disliked the nuisance of flowers in a sick room.</p> + +<p>"There, now!" she whispered to Joan, "take this drink and go to sleep +like a good girl."</p> + +<p>In the face of this sound common sense laughing was out of the question. +Joan pretended sleep rather than risk another: "There, now!"</p> + +<p>But her recovery was rapid after that day. Like a veil withdrawn she +reflected upon the past as if it were, not a story that was told, but a +preface to the real story that her life must be.</p> + +<p>The folly, the irresponsibility, no longer dismayed her, but gave her +reasons and arguments.</p> + +<p>She wanted to live at last! She wanted to go home and separate herself +forever from the cheap, theatrical thing she had believed was freedom! +She saw the folly of it all; she seemed an old woman regarding the +dangerous passage of a younger one.</p> + +<p>She realized her own selfishness in her demand for self-expression. What +had she expressed while others fixed their faithful eyes on duty?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> + +<p>Nancy shone high and clear in those dull hospital days. Nancy who +demanded so little, but who trod, with divine patience, the truer +course.</p> + +<p>"Well, Nan shall have her own!" Joan thought, and gripped her thin hands +under the bedclothes. "I'll strive for Nan as I never have for myself."</p> + +<p>Out of the débris of the feverish past Joan held alone to Patricia. +Strange, it seemed to her, that the dead girl should have grown to such +importance, but so it was. Patricia was the real, the sacred thing, and +she planned the home-bringing of the dear body and the placing of it on +the hillside in The Gap.</p> + +<p>And through the convalescing days Cameron had his place, like a fixed +star.</p> + +<p>Often worn by the day's silent remorse and earnest promise as to the +future, Joan looked to that hour when Cameron, calm, serious but +cheerful, sat by her bedside—a strong link between the folly of the +past and the hope of the times on ahead.</p> + +<p>Vaguely she recalled the blurred weeks of fever and pain, and always his +quiet voice and cool touch held part.</p> + +<p>"And to think," Joan could but smile, "that he does not know me—but I +know who he is just as I knew about——" She could not name Raymond +yet—she could only think kindly of him when she held to the days before +that last, tragic night.</p> + +<p>And Cameron, meanwhile, was drawing wrong conclusions. Not that they +changed his personal attitude toward the girl whose life he had helped +save. To him she was a human creature whose faith in her future must be +restored as her body was in the process of being. Cameron believed in +stepping-stones and was utterly opposed to waste of any kind.</p> + +<p>"She's paid her debt and his, too, I wager," Cameron often muttered; +"that's the devil of it all, and she'll go on and perhaps down—if she +doesn't get a start up. If I could only get hold of her folks—it would +help!"</p> + +<p>But Joan held him at bay when he ventured on that line.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p> + +<p>"When I am quite well," she said with gentle dignity, "I am going home +and do my own explaining."</p> + +<p>"Are you considering—them?" Cameron frowned at her.</p> + +<p>"I am—as I never have before!"</p> + +<p>To this silence was the only reply.</p> + +<p>Presently Joan made her first big stride toward complete recovery. She +forsook her bed during the day and, in pink gown and dainty +cap—procured by Miss Brown—she passed from a "case" to an individual.</p> + +<p>The twilight hour now became something of a function and Cameron dropped +his professional manner with his outdoor trappings and appeared, often, +as a tired but very humanly interesting young man.</p> + +<p>He talked of safe, ordinary things, he brought books and flowers, and +while Miss Brown kept a rigid appearance, she inwardly sniffed—or the +equivalent.</p> + +<p>And then came the Sunday before Joan was to leave the hospital. It +happened to be Easter, and a woman was singing in the little chapel down +the hall. The room doors were open and the sweet words and melody +floated in to the silent listeners—Joan pictured them as she sat and +felt her tears roll down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Some—are going out!" she thought, "and others, like me, must go on. +And here we all are with walls between, but our doors open to:</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 10%"> +"He weaves the shining garments<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unceasingly and still</span><br /> +Along the quiet waters<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In niches of the hills."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>The words seemed to paint, in the narrow room, the dim Gap. The sound of +the river was in Joan's ears and she knew that the niches of the safe +hills where her loved ones waited, were full of the spring blossoms.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 10%"> +No leaf that dawns to petal,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But hints the Angel-plan.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joan looked up and saw Cameron at the doorway. He almost filled it, and +his eyes grew troubled as he noted the thin, white, tear-wet face.</p> + +<p>"Shall I close the door?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"No. Please do not. I like to think that all the others, down the +corridor, and I are together—listening, growing better!"</p> + +<p>"Oh! I see." Cameron tossed aside his coat and sat down.</p> + +<p>"I—I don't think you do," Joan smiled at him; "I think I puzzle you +terribly, but some day I am going to explain everything. All my life I +have been, as I am now, in a narrow little room—peeping out and never +touching others any more than I am touching"—she pointed to the right +and left—"my neighbours, here. But we were all listening to much the +same thing then as now.</p> + +<p>"I am going"—here Joan dashed her tears off—"I am going somehow to +pull the walls down and know really!"</p> + +<p>"Bully!" Cameron had a peculiar feeling in his throat. Then added: "I +cut something out of a paper the other day that seemed to me to hold all +the philosophy necessary for this tug-of-war we call life. Here it is!"</p> + +<p>"Read it, please," Joan dropped her eyes.</p> + +<p> +"A shipwrecked sailor, buried here, bids you set sail.<br /> +Full many a gallant bark, when he was lost, weathered the gale."<br /> +</p> + +<p>"Isn't that good, gripping stuff? I've caught the sense of it, and when +I get to thinking—well, of such as lie in many of these little rooms, +I'm glad—you're—setting sail!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Doctor Cameron. I am setting sail! I thought I was before—I +see the difference now. And to-morrow——"</p> + +<p>"And to-morrow—where are you going—to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>Cameron was ill at ease.</p> + +<p>"To a little hotel—I will give you the address in the morning. It is +from there that I will set sail."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>No one can travel that road for you, you must travel it for yourself.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>David Martin came into the living room of Ridge House bringing, as it +seemed, the Spring with him. He left the door open and sat down. He was +in rough clothes; he was brown and rugged. He was building, with his own +hands, much of the cabin at Blowing Rock. He had never been more content +in his life. He often paused, as he was now doing, and thought of it.</p> + +<p>The hard winter's work was over and Martin felt the spring in his blood +as he had not felt it in many a year.</p> + +<p>Things were going to suit him—and they had had a way of eluding him in +the past. Perhaps, he thought, because he had always wanted them just +his way.</p> + +<p>Somewhere, above stairs, Doris was singing, and Nancy from another part +of the house was calling out little joyous remarks.</p> + +<p>"Two telegrams in one day, Aunt Doris. Such riches!"</p> + +<p>Doris paused in her song long enough to reply:</p> + +<p>"Joan may come any day, Nan, dear. It is so like her to act, once she +decides."</p> + +<p>Martin, sitting by the hearth, reflected upon the injustice of Prodigal +Sons and Daughters—but he smiled.</p> + +<p>"They don't deserve it—but it's damnably true that they get it," he +mused, irrelevantly.</p> + +<p>"Joan's room is a dream, Nan, come and see it!" called Doris, and Nancy +could be heard running and laughing to inspect the Prodigal's quarters.</p> + +<p>"It looks divine!" she ejaculated. "Push that pink dogwood<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> back a +little, Aunt Dorrie—make it like a frame around the mirror for the +dear's face."</p> + +<p>"How's that, Nan?"</p> + +<p>"Exactly—right. Aunt Dorrie?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, my dear girl."</p> + +<p>"I have the dearest plan—I feel that Ken would love it, but I hate to +be the one to propose it."</p> + +<p>From his armchair Martin smiled more broadly.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I can do it for you, Nan." Doris spoke abstractedly—she was, +apparently, giving more thought to the decorations for the returning +wanderer than to the plans of the good child who had remained at her +post.</p> + +<p>"Well, Aunt Doris, I don't want to wait until next winter to be married. +Ken writes that he will have Mrs. Tweksbury safely settled in New York +by the first of June——" Emily Tweksbury had fled the influenza and +gone to Bermuda only to fall victim to pneumonia. Kenneth Raymond had +been summoned, to what was supposed to be her death-bed, but which she +indignantly refused to accept as such.</p> + +<p>"When women are as old as I, Ken," she had whispered as he bent over +her, "they consign them to death-beds too easily. Give me a month, boy, +and I'll go back with you."</p> + +<p>Kenneth had given her a month, then two weeks extra; he was bringing her +back now—a frail old woman, but one in whose heart the determination to +live was yet strong.</p> + +<p>"But, darling, we'd have to give up the beautiful wedding—Mrs. +Tweksbury could never stand the excitement now, or even this summer."</p> + +<p>Doris's voice was more suggestive of attention as she now spoke. Martin +waited.</p> + +<p>"I know, Aunt Dorrie, but I am sure she would rather have me and Ken +married than come to our wedding. Listen, duckie! Suppose, after Joan +comes, we plan the dearest little service in the Chapel—I'm sure we +could snatch Father Noble as he flits by. There would be you and Uncle +David and Joan, and perhaps Clive could wrench himself away, and Mary +and Uncle Jed—and," a tender pause, "and—Ken and me! We could make the +Chapel beautiful with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> flowers from The Gap—our flowers—and then I +could help Ken with Mrs. Tweksbury—for you, Aunt Dorrie, will have +Joan."</p> + +<p>Martin blinked his eyes. He never admitted a mistiness to the extent of +wiping them. He listened for Doris's next words.</p> + +<p>"Childie, it sounds enticing and just like you. I will talk it over with +Uncle David."</p> + +<p>The voices upstairs fell into a silence and Martin got up and paced the +room.</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Doris came down the stairs and, singing softly, +entered the living room.</p> + +<p>There was welcome in her eyes; the languor and helpless expression had +faded from her face.</p> + +<p>"Davey," she said, "I felt the draught—you have left the door open—I +knew you were here.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Davey, to-day the twenty-year limit seems quite the possible thing. +My dear, my dear, Joan is coming home!"</p> + +<p>Martin met Doris midway of the big room. He was startled at the change +in her.</p> + +<p>"I heard that a telegram had come. It's great news, Doris."</p> + +<p>"Queer, isn't it, Davey, how one can brace and bear a good deal while +there is the necessity, and then realize the strain only when the need +is past? Joan says only 'coming home,' but I know as surely as I ever +knew anything that it has been for the best and she is coming gladly to +me—coming home! I could not have endured the silence much longer."</p> + +<p>Martin put his arm around Doris and led her to the hearth. A mild little +fire was crackling cheerfully, rather shyly, between the tall jars of +dogwood that seemed to question the necessity of the small blaze.</p> + +<p>"Davey, I want to talk to you. There are so many things to say if you +are absent twenty-four hours. How goes the cabin?"</p> + +<p>"Like magic. It will be livable by June or before. The men like to have +me pothering around, and I've discovered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> that one never really has a +house unless he helps build it. I'm going to get Bud down the minute I +can put a bed up. And, Doris——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Davey."</p> + +<p>"I've been eavesdropping, I've been here a half hour. I heard what Nancy +said—let the child have her wish!"</p> + +<p>"You feel that way, David? I had hoped to have everything rather +splendid—to make up for what I could not do for—Merry."</p> + +<p>"All stuff and nonsense! Give the girl her head. She knows her path and +will not make mistakes. What she wants is Raymond and her own life. +Nancy is simple and direct; no complications about her. Don't make any +for her."</p> + +<p>"David, her happiness and peace almost frighten me. You remember how she +drooped last summer? Taking her to New York has done more than give her +love and happiness. She is quite another girl, so resourceful and clear +visioned."</p> + +<p>"She's on her own trail, Doris, that's all. Things are right with Nancy. +The rule holds."</p> + +<p>"But, David, I have not told her yet——"</p> + +<p>"Told her?—oh! I see—about the birth mix-up?"</p> + +<p>Martin smiled—he always did when the subject was referred to. The +humour and daring of it had never lost their zest.</p> + +<p>"It is no laughing matter, Davey; as the time draws near when I must +tell I am in a kind of panic. I always thought it would be easy; if it +had been right why should I know this fear?"</p> + +<p>Martin was serious enough now. He folded his arms and leaned back in his +chair—he held Doris with his calm gray eyes.</p> + +<p>"It seems to me," he spoke thoughtfully, "that you should stand by your +guns. You did what you did from the highest motives; you have succeeded +marvellously—why upset the kettle of fish, my dear?"</p> + +<p>Doris's face softened.</p> + +<p>"I think if I had committed murder," she said, "you would try to defend +the deed."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I certainly would!"</p> + +<p>They smiled into each other's eyes at this.</p> + +<p>"But, David, I am afraid to tell Nancy. Somehow I think the doubt would +hurt her more cruelly than the real truth might have. It has always been +the not knowing that mattered to Nan—unless what was to be known was a +happy thing. Merry was like that, you remember."</p> + +<p>"Then why run a risk with Nancy, Doris?"</p> + +<p>Martin had the look in his eyes with which he scanned the face of a +patient who could not be depended upon to describe his own symptoms.</p> + +<p>"I—think—Ken should know."</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Why—why—what there is to know!"</p> + +<p>"Just muddle him. Nancy would be the same girl, but he'd get to puzzling +over her and tagging ideas on her—and to what end, Doris? The girl has +the right to her own path and you have, by the grace of God, pushed +obstacles from before her, in heaven's name give her fair play and +don't—flax out at this stage of the game."</p> + +<p>"But, Davey, if in the future anything should disclose the truth, might +Ken not resent?"</p> + +<p>"I don't see why he should. When the hour struck you could call him into +the family circle and share the news. By that time he'd feel secure in +his own right about Nancy."</p> + +<p>"I'm not afraid of, or for, Joan, Davey." Doris lifted her head proudly. +"And, David, I want to tell you now that my coming to The Gap was more +on the children's account than my own. I have always felt that here, if +anywhere, the truth might be exposed. At first I was anxious; fearful +yet hopeful. I know now that The Gap has no suspicions, and I am more +and more confident that George Thornton has passed from our lives."</p> + +<p>"Very good!" Martin sat up and bent forward in order to take Doris's +hands in his own.</p> + +<p>"My dear," he said, gently, "have you never thought that—Nancy is—your +own?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Davey, I have grown to believe it. She is very like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> Meredith—not +in looks, but in her character and habits. She is stronger, happier than +Merry, and oh! Davey, for that very reason I hesitate to touch the +beautiful faith and love of the child. I do not want her disillusioned. +It would kill her as it did Merry."</p> + +<p>"Then, again I caution against risks, especially when the odds are with +Nancy, not against her."</p> + +<p>The fire burned low—a mere twinkle in the white ashes, then David asked +as one does ask a useless question:</p> + +<p>"Are those words over the fireplace, Doris?" He puckered his +near-sighted eyes.</p> + +<p>"I think so. There are carvings and paintings everywhere through the +house. One of the Sisters did them. This one is so blackened by smoke +that it is all but destroyed—some day I will see what can be done to +restore it."</p> + +<p>"I like the idea," Martin said. "I mean to have something over my +fireplace. It sort of strikes one in the face."</p> + +<p>Presently Doris spoke, going back past the interruption:</p> + +<p>"Davey, the wonderful thing to me is that while believing Nancy to be +Merry's child I find my heart clinging passionately to Joan. I know how +you disapprove of her—but I glory in her. Through this anxious time I +have been able to follow her, understand her better, even, than I have +Nan. Joan has often seemed like—well, like myself set free. I might +have been like Joan in many ways. And, Davey, this could not have +happened had I known the real truth concerning the girls."</p> + +<p>"No, I do not think it could. And it goes to prove my theory that two +thirds of the inherited traits are common to us all. The whole business +lies in the handling of them by the one third that does come down the +line. The thing we know as the ancient law of inheritance. Doris, take +my advice and keep your hands off."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Davey. To keep my hands off is so easy that it doesn't seem safe or +right."</p> + +<p>David smiled, then said:</p> + +<p>"There are times, Doris, when I fear that you should be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> taken by the +roots and—transplanted. The old soil is used up."</p> + +<p>"I—I do not understand, David."</p> + +<p>"Don't try! Come, now, I want you to take a rest. Go on the porch in the +sun, I'll wrap you warm. I'm going to take Nancy over to the cabin for +lunch and plan her wedding with her. This afternoon you and I are going +for a drive—the roads have settled somewhat and I want your advice +about things to put in my garden."</p> + +<p>As he spoke Martin was leading Doris to the piazza, gathering rugs and +pillows in one arm as he went.</p> + +<p>"I am so happy, David, so unspeakably happy." Doris sank into her +pillows and smiled up at the face bending over her. "It's beautiful, all +this care and love, and I have a feeling that I will be able, soon, to +really live. I have had so much without paying the price."</p> + +<p>"And you'd mess it all, would you, Doris, when you don't know what the +price is?"</p> + +<p>"No, David, I wouldn't."</p> + +<p>Martin walked into the house and whistled to Nancy. She responded, so +did the hounds and a new litter of long-eared pups.</p> + +<p>Doris, with closed eyes, smiled and then she thought. She, too, was +planning for Nancy's wedding—she saw the small altar in the Chapel +flower-decked; they must have some music, perhaps Joan would sing one of +her lovely, quaint songs—and then Doris slept while the sun lay on her +peaceful face and the sound of the busy river soothed her.</p> + +<hr class="minor" /> + +<p>It was like Joan to do exactly what she did.</p> + +<p>After two deplorable days in the little hotel—days devoted to +collecting her belongings and eating and sleeping—she suddenly found +herself so strong that she sent the telegram to The Gap.</p> + +<p>Having sent it, she meant to prepare carefully against shock at her +appearance by buying a rather giddy hat and coat to offset her short +hair and thin body. Cameron had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> insisted, at the last, that she reserve +her cash for emergencies and repay him later.</p> + +<p>Joan accepted this solution, and having arrayed herself frivolously she +bought Cuff a most remarkable collar which embarrassed the dog +considerably. In all the changing events of Cuff's life a collar had not +figured, and it was harder to adjust himself to it than to foots of beds +and meals served on plates. However, Cuff rose to the emergency and bore +himself with credit.</p> + +<p>Twice Cameron came to the hotel; twice he took Joan for a drive—"It +will help you get on your feet," he explained.</p> + +<p>"I—I don't quite see how," she faltered and, as they were driving where +once she and Raymond had driven, her eyes were tear-filled. The old, +dangerous, foolish past had a most depressing effect upon her.</p> + +<p>At Cameron's second attempt to put her on her feet he succeeded, for +when he paid his third call, a quaint little note greeted him at the +office:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Thank you—thank you for all that you have done. I will explain +everything soon, in the meantime, morally and physically, I am +wobbling home.</p></div> + +<p>Cameron's jaw set as he read.</p> + +<p>"I'll wait," was what he inwardly swore. And at that moment he was +conscious that, for the first time in his career, a woman had got into +his system!</p> + +<p>When Joan reached Stone Hedgeton she feared that she and Cuff would have +to overcome many obstacles before they reached The Gap, for no one was +willing to travel the roads.</p> + +<p>"There is holes in the river road mighty nigh a yard deep," one man +confided. "I ain't going to risk my hoss, nor my mule, nuther!"</p> + +<p>It was the mail man who, at last, solved the problem. He had a small car +whose appearance was disreputable but whose record was marvellous.</p> + +<p>"If you-all," he included Cuff in the general remark, "ain't sot 'bout +reaching The Gap at any 'pinted time, I'll<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> scrooge you in. There's a +couple of stops to make, and I reckon I'll have to dig us-all out of +holes now and then—that shovel ain't in yo' way, is it, Miss?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>For Joan and Cuff were already among the mail bags and merchandise.</p> + +<p>"Nothing is in the way!" Joan replied, "and I'll help you dig us out."</p> + +<p>It was just daylight when they started.</p> + +<p>It was past noon when, stiff and rather shaken, Joan scrambled out of +the old car and, followed by Cuff, noiselessly made her way over the +lawn to Ridge House.</p> + +<p>She went lightly up the steps, then stood still. Doris Fletcher lay +sleeping in the full, warm glow. So quiet was she, so pale and delicate, +that for a moment Joan knew a fear that had had its beginning when +Patricia passed from life.</p> + +<p>The awful uncertainty, the narrow pass over which all travel, were newly +realized perils to Joan, and her breath came sharp and quick.</p> + +<p>So this was what had happened while she was learning her lessons! She +had not learned alone.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Aunt Dorrie," she murmured. "You and I have paid and paid—but you +never held me back!"</p> + +<p>Joan sat down and waited. It was always to be so with her from now on. +In that hour a great and tender patience was born that was to calm and +guide her future life. She was given, then and there, to draw upon the +strength and vision that do not err. And it may have been that in sleep +Doris Fletcher, too, was prepared, for when suddenly she opened her eyes +upon Joan she was not startled: a gladness that was almost painful +overspread her face.</p> + +<p>"My darling! You have come at last!" was what she said.</p> + +<p>And, as on that night when she had come to plead for freedom, Joan did +not, now, rush into human touch. She nodded and whispered:</p> + +<p>"I've come as I promised to, Aunt Dorrie. It—it wasn't my chance! Not +my big chance, anyhow, but I had to find out, dearie."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My little girl!"</p> + +<p>Joan went nearer; she bent and kissed again and again that radiant face; +then, sitting on the floor by the couch, with Cuff huddled close, she +touched lightly the high peaks that lay between the parting and this +home-coming, but Doris, with that deep understanding, followed +laboriously, silently, through the dark valleys.</p> + +<p>"I'm rather battered and cropped, Aunt Dorrie—but here I am!"</p> + +<p>With this Joan tossed off her hat and voluminous coat.</p> + +<p>"Your—hair, Joan? Your beautiful hair!"</p> + +<p>"I have been very sick, Aunt Dorrie, my hair and my fat had to go—just +enough bones left to hold my soul. But I'm all right now."</p> + +<p>"Don't be sorry for me," Joan was pleading, "I'm the gladdest thing +alive to-day. I've dropped all the old husks; I've found out just what +they are worth, but some of them that seem like husks, dear, are +not—I've learned that, too."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Joan—and now go on, in just your own way. For a little while I +have you to myself. Nancy will take lunch at Uncle David's new +bungalow."</p> + +<p>There was a good deal of explanation necessary in dealing with Sylvia's +part in the past—Doris had banked on Sylvia. The tea room was easier, +but Joan slipped over that experience so glibly that Doris made a mental +reservation concerning it.</p> + +<p>Patricia was the critical test. At the mention of her name Cuff whined +pathetically, and Joan bent and gathered him in her arms.</p> + +<p>"I—I can't talk much about Pat, dearie, not now"; Joan bent her head; +"she was so wonderful. Just a beautiful, lost spirit in the +world—trying to find its way home. There was only one way for Pat—I +shall always be glad that I could go part of it with her."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes—I am glad, too!" Doris whispered, for she had caught up with +Joan now. She did not know all that lay in the valleys—but she felt the +chill and darkness through which her child had come up to the light. +Strange as it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> might seem, she was thinking of that time, long ago, when +she had escaped from the Park and had touched life in the open.</p> + +<p>The hospital experience Joan could describe with a touch of humour that +eventually brought a smile to Doris's face. She took for granted that it +had been in Chicago, and when Joan told of flitting away from the young +doctor who had saved her, Doris laughingly said:</p> + +<p>"Joan, that was cruel. You should have explained."</p> + +<p>"No, Aunt Dorrie, it was wise. Of course I'm going to explain to him and +send him the money, but I wanted to shut the door on my silly past +first. I shall only let in, hereafter, that part of it that I choose. +When I saw a man looking at me, Aunt Dorrie, where before I had been +seeing a doctor, there was nothing to do but scamper. He hadn't the +least idea what was happening—he saw only the bag of bones that he had +rescued, but I wasn't going to let him run any risks. You see, I've +learned more than some girls."</p> + +<p>And then Joan, mentally, turned her back on the past. With that power +she had for holding to the thing she desired, the thing she wanted to +make true, she laughed her merry, carefree laugh—she recalled only the +joyous, amusing incidents and she watched with hungry, loving eyes the +effect she was creating.</p> + +<p>It was while this was going on that Mary came upon the piazza to +announce luncheon. There were days when no one saw Mary, when her cabin +was closed and locked; but after such absences she came to Ridge House +and worked with a fervour that flavoured of apology.</p> + +<p>She gazed long upon Joan before she spoke. It was not surprise she +showed, but a slow understanding.</p> + +<p>"Miss Joan," she said at last, "seems like you ain't got the world by +the tail like you uster have."</p> + +<p>Joan threw her head back and laughed.</p> + +<p>"No, Mary," she presently replied, "it swung so fast that I fell +off—but I'll catch hold soon."</p> + +<p>The quiet little luncheon in the quaint dining room did much to restore +the long-past relations of Joan with the family. Uncle Jed came in and +chuckled with delight. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> old man lived mostly in the past now, and +followed Mary like a poor crumpled shadow. What held the two together +was difficult to understand—but it was the kinship of the hills, the +stolid sense of familiarity.</p> + +<p>After the meal was over Joan wandered about through the living rooms for +a few moments, touching Nancy's loom, but speaking seldom of Nancy.</p> + +<p>"I want to hear all about it from her," she explained; and Doris, with +Joan's affairs chiefly in her thought, referred merely to Nancy's +happiness, their perfect sympathy with it; and if Kenneth's name was +mentioned, Joan did not notice it.</p> + +<p>At last she went up to her room to rest.</p> + +<p>"Quite as if I had never been away, Aunt Doris," she said, "and you +don't mind if I take Cuff? The poor little chap has had so many changes +that I fear for his nerves!"</p> + +<p>Joan went upstairs to the west wing chamber singing a gay little +song—her own voice seemed to hold her to the safe, happy present—so +she sang.</p> + +<p>She paused at the door of her room to read the words carved there long +ago by Sister Constance:</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +<b>And the Hills Shall Bring Peace</b><br /> +</p> + +<p>It was like someone speaking a welcome.</p> + +<p>"Oh! it is all so dear," Joan murmured, "how could it ever have seemed +dull!"</p> + +<p>Flowers filled the vases, and there was a small, fragrant fire on the +hearth—a mere thing of beauty, there was no need of it, for the windows +were open to the gentle spring day.</p> + +<p>Joan slipped into a loose gown and then stood in the middle of the room +leisurely taking in the comfort and joy of every proof of love that she +saw.</p> + +<p>On the desk by the window lay a pile of unopened letters—she took them +up. They were the letters from Doris and Nancy which had been returned +from Chicago. Pitiful things that had been so +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'hopefuly'">hopefully</ins> +sent forth only +to come back like blighted hopes!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p> + +<p>For a moment Joan contemplated throwing them all on the fire. She did +not feel equal to re-living the past. It was only by laughing and +singing that she could hold her own.</p> + +<p>But on second thought she opened the first one—it was from Nancy.</p> + +<p>"I better have all I can get to begin on," she reflected; "it will save +time."</p> + +<p>She sat down in a deep chair and presently she was aware of combating +something that was being impressed upon her; she was not conscious of +reading it.</p> + +<p>"Such things do not happen—not in life——" her sane, cautious self +seemed to say. For a second Joan believed her tired brain was playing +her false as it had during those awful weeks in the hospital. She closed +her eyes; grew calm—then tried again:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Since you are not coming to see Ken now, Joan, I will try to +describe him. You remember old Mrs. Tweksbury? Well, my dear boy +belongs, in a way, to her——</p></div> + +<p>Again Joan closed her eyes while a faintness saved her from too acute +shock. She felt the soft air upon her face; she was conscious of that +bewildered whine of poor Cuff. Vaguely she thought that he must be +hungry; thirsty—then there was a moment's blank and—the sickening +weakness was gone!</p> + +<p>With the strength and clarity that sometimes comes at a critical moment +Joan's mind worked fast and carried her where hours of quiet thought +could not have done.</p> + +<p>It was natural, of course, that Nancy should meet Raymond—the most +natural thing in the world.</p> + +<p>His loving her—so soon after what had happened! That was the thing that +gripped and hurt. Joan tried to connect the date of that night in the +studio and the one on Nancy's letter. She seemed powerless to do so—the +time between was a blank; there was no time! Everything belonged to a +previous incarnation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> + +<p>With a shudder, Joan presently realized the insignificant part she had +borne in Kenneth Raymond's life.</p> + +<p>The humiliation turned her hot and cold. He had always held but one +opinion of her; his loss of self-control had simply torn down the +defences behind which he had played with her, amused himself with her, +during the dull summer.</p> + +<p>She was, to him, one of the women not to be considered, while Nancy +was—the other kind!</p> + +<p>Joan regarded, as she never had before, the freedom and safety of such +girls as Nancy. She could realize the pressure, the favouring +environment that surrounded so desirable a thing as this coming together +of Raymond and Nancy!</p> + +<p>She knew how the same force could blot such as she was supposed to be +from the inner circle! How little they counted!</p> + +<p>Oh! the bitterness of the knowledge that it was such girls as +Patricia—as Raymond believed her—who were not free; who must snatch +what they can from life and not resent what goes with it. They must—not +care! Outside the code there was no real freedom—because there was no +choice! It was a place of chains and bars compared to the other.</p> + +<p>The waves of humiliation and shame swept over Joan, but each time she +emerged she held her head higher.</p> + +<p>"And he left me—to go my way and he went—to Nancy! He did not care!" +It was anger now; proud, life-saving anger. "If he had only cared!"</p> + +<p>"And why—should he?" The thought was like a dash of cold water in her +face.</p> + +<p>After all, why should he? It <i>was</i> only play until that awful night! +That was the revealing hour of real danger.</p> + +<p>Clutching her hands, Joan went over every step of the way upon which +Raymond had gone with her.</p> + +<p>It had all been a mad escapade in that time of mistaken freedom. He and +she had both been brought to the realization of the folly by a blow that +had awakened them, not stunned them. They had been forced to acknowledge +the danger hidden in themselves. It was in such whirlpools many were +lost, but they—<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>And at this point Joan recalled, as if he were before her now, the look +in Raymond's face when he gained control of himself!</p> + +<p>Always, since that night, Joan had felt, when thinking of Raymond, that +she never wanted to see him again. She knew that he had never held any +real part in her life and he would always hold her back, as she might +him—from proving the best that was in each other if they came into +contact.</p> + +<p>With this conclusion reached Joan had gained a secure footing. As a man, +detached from herself and her past, she knew that Raymond was worthy of +love and happiness, just as, in her heart, she knew that she herself +was. But could others understand? Others, like Nancy?</p> + +<p>While she had been buffeted on a rough sea, since that stormy night in +the studio, Raymond had drifted into his safe harbour, sooner. There was +nothing to hold him back—and here Joan began to sob in self-pity; in +pity for all girls, like Patricia and her, who were so lightly +considered.</p> + +<p>"We do not matter!" she murmured. Then she dashed her tears away. "But +we <i>must</i> matter!"</p> + +<p>She sprang up. She flung the letters upon the embers; she gathered Cuff +to her bosom and—laughed!</p> + +<p>It was her old, old laugh. The laugh that held in its depth, not scorn +of life, but an appreciation of it.</p> + +<p>"It's how we take it all, Cuff, my dear, just how we take it! And, +Cuff"—here Joan held the little animal off at arms' length and looked +into his deep, serious eyes—"I'm going to get the world by the tail +again—<i>you watch me!</i>"</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>O, friend never strike sail to a fear.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>Because the woman in Joan had not been hurt by her experiences, because +it was only the wildness of youth that had carried her to the verge of +making mistakes and then sent her reeling back, she reacted quickly. She +was no longer the reckless, heedless Joan—the change made Martin frown. +He put full value on her cropped hair and thin body—he had grappled +with the scourge, and he knew!</p> + +<p>He presently found himself in friendly sympathy with this new, patient, +tender Joan—they had much to say to each other.</p> + +<p>Nancy was not so keen about the change. Joan had come back—Joan was +putting into life all that it lacked. This was enough for Nancy! The +spring days were dreams of bliss and she radiated joy.</p> + +<p>"Ken will adore you, Joan!" she confided. "You see, he has a twisted +idea about you just because you weren't with us all, but when he sees +you, darling, he'll be on his knees before you as we all are!"</p> + +<p>"I'd love to get my first view of him in that attitude," Joan laughingly +replied, "but on the whole, I'd rather take him standing."</p> + +<p>During those waiting days, until Raymond came to marry Nancy, Ridge +House quivered with excited preparation.</p> + +<p>"Of course!" Joan had agreed to the quiet wedding idea, "we must have it +as Nancy wishes, but it must be perfect."</p> + +<p>So Joan sewed and designed—some of Patricia's gift was hers—and often +her face fell into pensive lines as she worked,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> for she seemed to see +Patricia as she used to sit, well into the night, planning and evolving +the dainty garments that others were to wear.</p> + +<p>"My turn!" Joan comforted herself with the thought; "my turn now, dear +Pat."</p> + +<p>And then the day came when Kenneth Raymond was to arrive. Mrs. Tweksbury +could be safely left in New York. She was resigned to the wedding but +deplored the necessity of being absent.</p> + +<p>"I know something will go wrong," she said to Kenneth; "do be careful +and make sure that you are really married, Ken! They are so sloppy in +the South, and it would be quite like Doris Fletcher, if she couldn't +get that candlestick preacher of hers, to let Dave Martin or any one +else read the service. Doris never could put the emphasis of life where +it belonged."</p> + +<p>Kenneth laughed merrily.</p> + +<p>"Nancy and I will see to it, Aunt Emily," he replied, "that we are tied +up close. Just use your time, until I bring her back, in thinking of the +good days on ahead—when we'll have her always, you and I."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Tweksbury relaxed.</p> + +<p>"She's a blessed child, Ken. She always was."</p> + +<p>Raymond arrived late one May afternoon. Joan was dressing for dinner, +dressing slowly, tremblingly—she did not mean to go downstairs until +dinner was served if she could avoid it.</p> + +<p>She had worked late, worked until she was weary enough to plead an +hour's rest, and now she stood by the window overlooking The Gap.</p> + +<p>"I've got the world in my grip," she thought, "but the whirl makes me +dizzy."</p> + +<p>Silver River was rushing along rather noisily—there had been a big +storm the night before and the water had not yet calmed down; the rocks +shone in the last rays of the sun, and just then Joan looked up at The +Rock!</p> + +<p>There it was—The Ship! Sails set and the western light full upon it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p> + +<p>For a moment Joan gazed, trying to remember the old superstition. Then +her face grew tender.</p> + +<p>"Whatever happens," she murmured, "it shall not happen to Nancy. I've +spoiled enough of her plays—she shall not be hurt now."</p> + +<p>The thought held all the essentials of a prayer and it gave an uplift.</p> + +<p>Then Joan turned to her toilet. Recalling Patricia's theory about the +artistic helps to one's appearance, she worked fervently with her slim +little body and delicate face.</p> + +<p>A bit of fluffing and the lovely hair rose like an aura about the +smiling face. The eyes did not seem too large when one smiled—so Joan +practised a smile! The gowns, one by one, were laid out upon the bed and +regarded religiously; finally, one was chosen that Patricia had loved.</p> + +<p>"My lamb," Joan recalled the words and look, "a true artist knows her +high marks. This gown is a revealment of my genius."</p> + +<p>It was a pale blue crêpe, silver-touched and graceful; a long, heavy, +silver cord held it at the waistline, and the loose, lacy sleeves made +the slim arms look very lovely.</p> + +<p>"If ever I needed bucking, Pat, dear, I need it now!" whispered Joan, +and her eyes dimmed.</p> + +<p>She heard the pleasant bustle below; the light laughter, the cheery +calls. She heard Raymond's voice when he greeted Nancy—it startled her +by its familiarity and its strangeness.</p> + +<p>"He sounds as if he were in church," mused Joan. She felt as the old do +as they re-live their youth.</p> + +<p>There was candlelight in the dining room when Joan entered. The family +were all assembled, for Doris had sent for Joan only at the last moment.</p> + +<p>"Ken, dear, this is Joan."</p> + +<p>Nancy said it as if she were flouting all the foolish things any one had +ever felt about Joan. Pride, deep affection, rang in her voice. "This is +Joan!"</p> + +<p>Joan went slowly, smilingly forward. She saw Raymond's knuckles grow +white and hard as his hands gripped the back<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> of his chair. His eyes +dilated, and for a moment he could not speak. Finally he managed:</p> + +<p>"So this—is Joan!" and went forward to greet her.</p> + +<p>"I reckon they will all get this shock," thought Doris; "what they have +thought about the child ought to shame them. Emily Tweksbury was always +a snob."</p> + +<p>Martin, from under his shaggy brows, watched the scene curiously. He, +like everyone else, was, unconsciously, on guard where Nancy was +concerned. This frank surprise was gratifying for Joan, but it placed +Nancy, for a moment, to one side.</p> + +<p>Joan had never looked lovelier; never more self-controlled. She was +holding herself, and Raymond, too, by firm will power. He must not +betray anything—he owed her and Nancy that! There was no wrong. No +suggestion of it must enter in.</p> + +<p>In another moment the danger was over; the colour rose to Raymond's +face.</p> + +<p>"I—I hadn't expected anything quite so—splendid," he said.</p> + +<p>"You are very kind," Joan had her hands in his, now; "you see—I've been +wandering in strange places; I am rather an outlaw and the best any one +could do for me was to wait and let me speak for myself. I'm glad you +approve!"</p> + +<p>"I certainly do!" Raymond said, and gratefully joined the circle as it +sat down.</p> + +<p>As the time passed the situation caught Joan's feverish imagination; she +dared much; she was cruel but fascinating. She proposed, after dinner, +to read palms—explaining that she and Pat had learned the tricks.</p> + +<p>At the name of "Pat" Raymond's grave eyes fixed themselves upon her. +Joan saw the firm lips draw together, and she paused in her gaiety, +sensing something she did not quite understand.</p> + +<p>In the living room by the fire Joan again grew witchy. She insisted upon +proving her cleverness at palm-reading. Raymond dared not refuse, but he +showed plain disapproval.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It's rot!" Martin broke in, "but here goes, Joan!" And spread his +honest hand upon the altar.</p> + +<p>Joan had a good field now for her wit, and she set the company in a +merry mood. When she touched upon Martin's nephew, which, of course, she +wickedly did, she made an impression.</p> + +<p>"See here," Martin broke in, "this isn't palm-reading, you little +fraud—you're trying to be funny trading on what you've heard but +couldn't know for yourself."</p> + +<p>"That's part of the trick, Uncle David. Now, Nan, dear, let me have that +small paw of yours."</p> + +<p>Frankly Nancy extended the left hand upon which glittered Raymond's +diamond.</p> + +<p>"The right one, too, Nan darling! What dear, soft, pink things!" Joan +bent and kissed them. "Such happy hands; good, true hands. Every +line—unbroken. Running from start to finish—as it should run."</p> + +<p>"A stupid pair of hands, I call them." Nancy puckered her lips.</p> + +<p>"They are blessed hands, Nan."</p> + +<p>Raymond went behind Nancy's chair and fixed his eyes upon Joan—he was +almost pleading with her to have done with the dangerous play.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie?" Joan turned to her, ignoring Raymond.</p> + +<p>"My hands can tell you nothing, Joan, dear," Doris said; "I've been a +coward. See, my hands are flabby inside—the hands of a woman who has +had much too easy a time. 'Who has reached forth—but never grasped.'"</p> + +<p>At this Martin came and stood over Doris. Joan looked up and suddenly +her eyes dimmed. She seemed alone. Alone among them all. There was no +one beside her—they seemed, Martin and Raymond, to be defending their +loved ones from her.</p> + +<p>"And now, my brother Ken!" The words were like a call.</p> + +<p>"Oh, let me off!" Raymond tried to speak lightly.</p> + +<p>"No, indeed! The safety of my family is at stake!"</p> + +<p>Raymond was inwardly angry, but he sat down and defiantly spread his +hands.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joan regarded them silently for a dramatic moment, then she quietly +opened her own.</p> + +<p>"Isn't this odd," she said, "there is a line in your hand and +mine—alike!"</p> + +<p>Every eye was fixed on the four hands.</p> + +<p>"Right here——" Joan traced it.</p> + +<p>"What does it mean?" Martin asked.</p> + +<p>"Capacity for friendship; that we are rather daring; not afraid of many +things—but canny enough to know——"</p> + +<p>"What, Joan?—out with it!" It was Doris who spoke.</p> + +<p>"Canny enough—to distrust ourselves once in awhile."</p> + +<p>Martin gave a guffaw.</p> + +<p>"Joan," he said, "you ought to be sent to bed. Your eyes are too big and +your colour too high. Stop this foolishness and let us take a turn on +the river road. The moonlight is filling it—it's too rare to be +overlooked."</p> + +<p>So they went out, keeping together and talking happily until it was time +to return to the house; there, Raymond managed to say to Joan, just as +they were parting:</p> + +<p>"This has been rather a shock, you know, I wish I could see you +alone—for a moment."</p> + +<p>She looked up at him, and all the mad daring was gone from her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Is there anything to say?" she whispered. "Now or—ever?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>And Raymond knew that Joan would come back.</p> + +<p>He sat on the broad porch, opening to The Gap, and smoked. The house +grew still with that holy quietness that holds all love safe.</p> + +<p>Then came a slight noise; someone was coming!</p> + +<p>It was significant that Raymond should know at once who it was. All the +love and yearning in the world would not have drawn Nancy through the +sleeping house to him. The knowledge made him smile grimly, happily.</p> + +<p>Doris, once having said good-night, meant it, and Martin had gone to his +bungalow.</p> + +<p>"Well—here I am." Joan appeared and sat down, looking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> as if she were +doing the most commonplace thing in life. It was the old daring that had +led to dangerous ways.</p> + +<p>"Is it—safe?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" It was the same frank, childlike look.</p> + +<p>"But—Nancy; your Aunt——"</p> + +<p>Joan twisted her mouth humorously.</p> + +<p>"We'll have to risk them—you said you had something to say."</p> + +<p>"Joan! Good Lord! but it's great to have a name to call you by—you +drove me pretty hard to-night. I make no complaint—except——" He +paused.</p> + +<p>"For Nancy?" Joan asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes! Joan, she's wonderful. She's the sort that makes a man rather +afraid until he realizes that he means to keep her as she is—forever." +This was spoken with a definiteness of purpose that made Joan recoil. +Again he was defending Nancy from what he had believed Joan to have +been!</p> + +<p>"I wonder"—she looked away—"I wonder if any one could do that? Or if +it would be wise if he could?"</p> + +<p>"Joan, when I saw you to-night, after the shock—I could have fallen on +my knees in gratitude—there have been hours when the fear I had about +you nearly drove me crazy; made me feel I had no right—to Nancy."</p> + +<p>"So you—did remember, for a little time?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I went to the Brier Bush—Miss Gordon gave me to understand that +you had gone away with someone—married, she thought.</p> + +<p>"Joan—who was—Pat?"</p> + +<p>For a moment Joan could not understand, then, as was the way with her, +the whole truth flooded in.</p> + +<p>Raymond had taken thought for her—Elspeth had deceived him—oh! how +hard Elspeth could be. Joan recalled scenes behind closed doors when +Elspeth Gordon dealt with her assistants!</p> + +<p>"And when you thought—I had—gone away—you felt free?" Joan's face +quivered. Raymond nodded. How easy it was to talk to Joan. How quick she +was to comprehend and help one over a hard stretch!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Joan—who was Pat?" That seemed to be the vital thing now. And then +Joan told him. As she spoke in low, trembling tones, she saw his head +bow in his hands; she knew that he was suffering with her, for her; as +good men do for their women. Joan was conscious of this attitude of +Raymond's—she was reinstated; fixed, at last, where she could be +understood: she belonged to his world!</p> + +<p>"Poor little girl! After the beast in me dashed your card house to atoms +you made another try—alone!" Raymond raised his face.</p> + +<p>"No—I had Pat." At that instant Patricia symbolized the link between +the unreal and the real.</p> + +<p>"Yes, for a little while—but, Joan, it didn't pay—the danger you ran +and all that—did it? Such girls as you cannot afford such experiences."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Having had Pat, I am able to see—wider."</p> + +<p>Joan was thinking of the girls whom Raymond could <i>not</i> have understood +or sympathized with! Girls such as she might so easily have been +like—unless—— Unless what?</p> + +<p>"Joan, you and I always said we could speak plain truth, didn't we?" +Kenneth's words brought her back.</p> + +<p>"Of course!"</p> + +<p>"Well," Raymond dropped his eyes and flushed, "you really didn't +care—not in the one, particular way, did you? It was only play; you +meant that?"</p> + +<p>"It was only play, Ken. The suffering came because we did not know what +we were playing with. It's the not knowing that matters."</p> + +<p>"Joan, you have seen the worst in me——?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and the best, Ken. It was like seeing you come back from +hell—unharmed."</p> + +<p>"Do you think I should tell Nancy? Put her on her guard? There <i>is</i> +something in me——"</p> + +<p>At this Joan leaned forward with a new light on her face—it was the +maternal taking shape.</p> + +<p>"No, Ken, you must <i>not</i> tell Nan. With her it is the <i>not</i> knowing that +matters. She must be guarded; not put on guard. I know now that Nan will +be safe with you; I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> wasn't sure before; but if you raised a doubt in +her mind all would go wrong. She was always like that."</p> + +<p>"But——" for a moment a beaten terror rose in Raymond's eyes.</p> + +<p>Joan nodded bravely to him.</p> + +<p>"You and I, Ken, must never give fear a chance. Once we know, we must +not turn back."</p> + +<p>She stood up, looking tall and commanding.</p> + +<p>Raymond rose also and took her hands.</p> + +<p>"You're great, Joan," he said, "simply great. You understand—though how +you do, the Lord only knows.</p> + +<p>"Joan!" Raymond flung out the question that was tormenting him. "Joan, +why didn't we—care the other way?"</p> + +<p>"I think," Joan looked ancient, but pathetically young, "I think men and +women don't, when they understand too well. And the line in our hands +explains that, perhaps," she smiled wanly. "You see, Miss Jones and Mr. +Black are—paying!"</p> + +<p>"Joan, go now, dear. Others might not understand." Raymond at that +moment grimly shut the door on his one playtime!</p> + +<p>"And you—would hate to have them misunderstand about me—for Nancy's +sake?"</p> + +<p>"No, Joan, for your own. You're too big and fine—to have any more +hurting things knock you. May I kiss—you good-night?"</p> + +<p>For a moment something in Joan shrank, then she raised her face.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Good-night—brother Ken."</p> + +<p>For another moment they stood silent. Then:</p> + +<p>"What was it that made you so hard at dinner, Joan, and makes you so +sweet now?"</p> + +<p>"Ken, I thought that you—had not tried to find out about me—after that +night!"</p> + +<p>"Did the mere going back really matter?"</p> + +<p>"It meant everything, Ken."</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! can you not understand? If you had just—not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> cared I would have +been afraid to-night for Nancy! Ken, I believe you went back to pay for +all our folly—had I been willing to accept; had I—cared in the +way—you suspected."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Joan. I would have." Raymond said this solemnly. "That's what I +went for."</p> + +<p>"And you should not have paid! Girls—must not—let others pay more than +is owed—I've learned that, Ken. But it was the going back that made +it—right for you to—go on. Ken, for Nancy's dear sake I am glad it +was—you and I!"</p> + +<p>"For that I thank God!" Again Raymond bent his head. This time his lips +fell on the open palms of the hands with those lines in them—lines like +his own!</p> + +<p>"Some day you are going to be happy, Joan."</p> + +<p>"I am happy now. I was never happy, really, before. You see, I was +always looking for myself in the past; now I think I have found +myself—rather a dilapidated self, but mine own. It's going to be very +interesting, this getting acquainted, and"—here Joan was thinking of +the last day in the hospital and the rooms opening to the sweet +singer—"and I'm going to touch and feel life instead of merely looking +out through my own small door. And so—good-night."</p> + +<p>She was gone as she had come—not stealthily, but noiselessly; not +afraid, but cautious.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> + +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> +<p class="center">"<i>This shall be thy reward—the ideal shall be real to thee.</i>"</p> +</div> + +<p>Doris and Joan were in the living room of Ridge House trying to make +things look "as usual" in the pathetic way people do after a loved one +has gone forth never to return in quite the same relation.</p> + +<p>Doris paused by Nancy's loom and touched gently the unfinished pattern.</p> + +<p>"Dear little Nan," she said; "she used to make such dreadful tangles, +but she learned to do beautiful work. This is quite perfect—as far as +the child has gone."</p> + +<p>Joan was on her knees polishing away at the fireboard. The smoke-covered +wood with its motto she meant to restore. She looked up brightly as +Doris spoke. Joan was accepting many things besides Nancy's going away +as Raymond's wife; accepting them without question, without explanation, +but with perfect understanding. She understood fully about David Martin +and Doris—her heart beat quick at Martin's lifelong devotion; at +Doris's withholding. She understood, too, she believed, why the coming +to the South had been necessary—the look in Doris's eyes was the same +that had haunted Patricia's—the look that holds the unfailing message.</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie, Nancy is the belonging kind. No matter how many places and +people share her she will always belong to us and the hills. She told me +that before she went. She meant it, too. She'll finish the weaving quite +naturally, soon—New York is not far."</p> + +<p>Doris gave a soft laugh. Almost she resented the constant tone of +comfort, Joan's attitude of authority.</p> + +<p>"No; it seems nearer and nearer all the time—since my strength has +returned. We will have part of the winter in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> New York and Nan and Ken +will be coming here, and there is your music, Joan!" Doris assumed +authority and Joan submitted sweetly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you and I will scour these hills and get +acquainted with our people and have trips abroad, perhaps. It is simply +splendid—the stretch on ahead."</p> + +<p>The sun-lighted room was still radiant with the decorations of Nancy's +wedding. Tall jars of roses woodbine and "rhoderdeners," as old Jed +called them, were everywhere. Nancy had only departed two days before.</p> + +<p>"What a charming wedding it was!" Doris mused, patting the loom; "every +time I think of it something new and unusual recurs."</p> + +<p>Joan rubbed away and laughed gaily.</p> + +<p>"Father Noble looked like a precious old saint," she said. "I declare +when he told about Mary I was almost afraid he'd be translated before he +had a chance to marry Nan."</p> + +<p>How little Joan realized that she was touching upon a mighty thing; how +little either she or Doris were really ever to know.</p> + +<p>Doris came to the hearth and sat down in a deep chair, her face had +suddenly grown serious.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of that incident," she said.</p> + +<p>"Joan, I have always misjudged Mary. She has always puzzled me. I have +thought her hard and selfish—the people here have thought her mean." +Doris paused, and Joan looked around and remarked:</p> + +<p>"She's a blessed trump. Nan always understood Mary better than I; Mary +liked Nan the best of all, but I'm going to cultivate Mary. There is +something about her like these hidden words—it must be brought out."</p> + +<p>"To think of her caring for and loving that poor, deserted creature on +that lonely peak all this time!" Doris went back to the story. "Father +Noble says the trail up there is the worst on the mountain, yet Mary +went every day. She mended the cabin and kept the old woman clean and +clothed and happy—to the very end. Think of her alone in that cabin at +night when the poor soul passed away! Mary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> was always so timid, too, +and superstitious—and we never suspecting!"</p> + +<p>"And then," Joan took up the thread, "those ten miles to get Father +Noble so that there might be a proper funeral, and Nancy's wedding +having to wait while they saw the thing properly through. Oh! Aunt +Dorrie, it's like a glorious old comedy with so much humanity in it that +it hurts. Can you not just <i>see</i> that funeral as Father Noble described +it?"</p> + +<p>Joan stood up, her eyes shining; the polishing cloth held out daintily +from the pretty blue gown.</p> + +<p>"'Twilight and evening star' effect, and those silent, amazed folks that +Mary had compelled to come up the trail; the children and dogs and that +comical boy tolling an old, cracked dinner bell; the procession to the +clump of trees where the old women's children and grandchildren are +buried—why, Aunt Doris, I see it all like a wonderful picture! There's +no place on earth like these hills."</p> + +<p>Doris saw it, too, as Joan graphically portrayed it—but she was +thinking still of Mary; she was baffled.</p> + +<p>"And yet," she said, thoughtfully, "you cannot get Mary to talk about +it, and she turned quite fiercely upon poor old Jed when he asked his +simple questions. She's hard as well as gentle."</p> + +<p>"And old Jed"—Joan waved her cloth—"here's to him! Think of him crying +because The Ship wouldn't sail off The Rock and insisting that the old +woman on Thunder Peak had something in her arms—that ought to have gone +on The Ship, not in the ground. The place and the people, Aunt Dorrie, +are like a Grimm fairy tale. I'm going to have the time of my life +reading them and playing with them."</p> + +<p>Joan was thinking, as she often did now, of touching the lives of +others—all others who pressed close to her. She had never been so keen +or vivid before—the calls upon her were awakening the depths of her +nature. She had travelled far only to come home to find Truth.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I shall never be able to understand these silent, +unresponsive folk, Joan." Doris shook her head—she was realizing her +own shortcomings; her incapacity for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> new undertakings; "they frighten +me. I have always been able to make an ideal seem real, dear, but I am +afraid I fail utterly when it comes to making the real seem +ideal—particularly when it is not lovely."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, duckie, just let me do the interpreting. Father Noble is +going to take me under his big, flapping capes and speak a good word for +me."</p> + +<p>Doris smiled. In the growing conviction that Joan had indeed come back +to her she was happy and content. She rarely rebelled now. Her one great +adventure was turning out perfectly; she was thankful she had taken +David Martin's advice and kept her secret. She had been fair; she had +made no personal claims, but she had done what Martin had once suggested +that all mothers should do—"point out the channel and keep the lights +burning." There were moments when she wished that Joan were more +communicative—but she must accept what was offered. Nancy had gone +forth radiant to her chosen life and Joan had come back—not defeated +but clearer of vision. What more could any woman ask of her children? +Her children!</p> + +<p>Doris bent and touched Joan's pretty hair.</p> + +<p>"I love to think of the look on Ken's face and Nancy's," she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Aunt Dorrie, it was wonderful. Your opening the window and letting +the west light in did the trick. It was inspiration—nothing less."</p> + +<p>Doris nodded, recalling why she had opened the window—Meredith had +seemed nearer!</p> + +<p>"You sang beautifully, Joan," for Joan had sung at Nancy's request a +wedding hymn. "Your voice has gained a richness, dear. Next winter——"</p> + +<p>"Yes—Aunt Dorrie!" Joan broke in nervously, then suddenly she dropped +on her knees by Doris's chair and said softly:</p> + +<p>"Aunt Dorrie, I'm going to ask some very—queer questions. You see, +while I was away—I missed a lot—and I want to catch up.</p> + +<p>"If—if—Nan hadn't loved Ken, wouldn't you and Uncle David have wanted +her to care for Clive Cameron?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joan felt that Nancy had garnered all that she had sown during her +learning time, and often the thought made her lonely, detached her from +them. She believed that Cameron's absence from the wedding covered a +hurt that her loved ones hid from her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Joan," Doris replied very simply, "but—we feel now that it is +best as it is."</p> + +<p>"Why, Aunt Dorrie?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot explain. When you meet Clive Cameron"—Joan winced—"you will +understand."</p> + +<p>"Did—did Clive Cameron—care?"</p> + +<p>Doris laughed.</p> + +<p>"No. It was quite comic, Joan, the whole proceeding. Mrs. Tweksbury, +Uncle David, and I played matchmakers with a vengeance—but we bungled +frightfully, and then Clive Cameron wedged his big body in between Nancy +and several young men who might have made trouble, and—and—" Doris +thought for an illuminating word. Then—"whistled Ken on!"</p> + +<p>"Why, that's awfully funny, Aunt Dorrie—I rather imagined that Ken +plunged!"</p> + +<p>"No, he always felt attracted by Nancy—she was wonderfully attractive +to men, Joan, but I honestly believe it was Clive who made Ken realize. +Ken is the slow, sure sort; while Clive is rather devastating, you know. +He doesn't waste time or energy—when he sees his way he goes! He is +very like what his uncle was when I first knew him—only surer of +himself." Doris's lips trembled.</p> + +<p>"More bumptious, maybe!" Joan laughed. She was again in high spirits, +though why she could hardly have told.</p> + +<p>"No, he isn't, Joan!" Doris took up cudgels for the absent Cameron. "You +mustn't get that idea. He's the most humble of fellows—but he has a +vision. David says he plods along after his dreams and ideals, but when +he grips them—well, he grips! I see now how right he was about Nancy +and Ken. They are suited to each other."</p> + +<p>"Yes—they're the carrying-on sort, Aunt Dorrie"; Joan looked wise and +confident. "They're like their kind—Nan<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> is like you. Away back in the +Dondale days she used to gloat over all that went to your making, all +your grandfathers and grandmothers. She was fore-ordained to carry on, +and so was Ken. They'd be done for on paths without signboards. Aunt +Dorrie——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear."</p> + +<p>"I wonder why it was in me to—to well, not to carry on?"</p> + +<p>Doris bent and laid her thin, fair cheek against the short, bright hair +again.</p> + +<p>"Your way, little girl," she whispered, "was to fly. You had to try +wings."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm a homing pigeon, I reckon." And Joan tossed her short hair +back.</p> + +<p>Just then there was the toot of a horn outside.</p> + +<p>"Uncle David!" Joan exclaimed, jumping up; "and by the manner of his +toot I get an impression of exhilaration.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Uncle Davey!" For Martin was filling the long window with his +big presence.</p> + +<p>He smiled on Joan—he did it very naturally these days. The girl was +becoming strangely dear and companionable; then he looked at Doris as he +always did, eagerly, gratefully.</p> + +<p>"Jump into your coat and hat," he said to her with a ring in his voice; +"I've just had a telegram. Bud's coming!"</p> + +<p>"Oh! David," Doris's face flushed rosily. "And you want me to go with +you to meet him. I <i>am</i> glad."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Martin replied. Doris was already on her way from the room. Joan +dropped to the hearth and resumed her rubbing.</p> + +<p>So the inevitable was upon her! She must not flinch! She wondered if +this was the last dropped stitch she must take up?</p> + +<p>"Want me to go, too, Uncle David?" she asked, keeping her back rigid.</p> + +<p>"No," Martin was regarding the straight set shoulders and the pretty +cropped hair. "No! You have too shocking an effect upon young men. They +look as if they had seen you before! They must take you gradually." +Martin laughed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> and lighted a cigar. He was recalling Raymond's face the +night Joan had first appeared before him.</p> + +<p>Joan struggled to keep control of the situation—she suddenly smeared +her face with her sooty fingers and turned with a grimace.</p> + +<p>"Am I discovered even in this disguise?" she said. Then:</p> + +<p>"Uncle Davey, I believe you have your private opinion of me still."</p> + +<p>"I have. I'll tell you now what it is—your face needs washing."</p> + +<p>"I mean—really!" the smudges acted as a mask and diverted attention. "I +wager you think girls like me—the me that <i>was</i>, the working +girls—are, generally speaking, hounding young men on the matrimonial +trail."</p> + +<p>"Not necessarily <i>that</i> trail," Martin was teasing.</p> + +<p>"You're all wrong, Uncle Davey, as far as most of them are concerned. +They're young and love a good time and some of them have to learn a +lot—learn not to play on +<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'volcanos'">volcanoes.</ins> +But for downright, running-to-earth +methods, look to such girls as Nan. They have the tide with them. Men, +unless they're there to be caught, better watch out!"</p> + +<p>"Oh! come, child, don't be sinister."</p> + +<p>"I'm not, Uncle David," Joan's eyes shone; she was thinking of Patricia; +"but you, everybody, lose a lot if they do not really know the truth +about women—the real truth."</p> + +<p>"My dear," David was quite serious, "I'm no longer hard or misjudging—I +was frightened at your aunt's methods with you, but you're proving me +wrong every day."</p> + +<p>"You should have trusted her more, Uncle David."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you are right, in part. I should have trusted her less—in some +ways."</p> + +<p>"About me?"</p> + +<p>"No. About herself." Martin flecked the ashes from his cigar. "And now," +he said with a huge sigh that seemed to sweep all regrets before it, "go +and wash your face!"</p> + +<p>Joan ran away, and when she came back the room was empty and the +<i>honk-honk</i> of Martin's horn sounded down the river road.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then, as often happens when one stands in an empty room, Joan was +conscious of a supersensitiveness. She, quite naturally, attributed it +to the ordeal she was about to undergo—the meeting with Clive Cameron +and her late talk with Martin. Must she always be on the defensive? Must +she always feel that her volcano had blown her up when really she had +escaped by its light?</p> + +<p>While there was a certain amount of pleasurable excitement in the +meeting with Cameron, while it lacked all that her meeting with Raymond +had held, still her past experiences were of so uncommon a nature that +she could not contemplate them without nervous strain, and she wished +that she might have had a longer reprieve before Cameron came.</p> + +<p>"With nothing really to be ashamed of," she thought, "I feel like a +criminal dodging justice. I wish something so big would come that I +could lose myself in it."</p> + +<p>Then she walked to the window overlooking The Gap.</p> + +<p>"It's no easy matter, Joan my lamb!" almost it seemed as if it were +Patricia speaking, "to tie both ends of the rainbow together." Joan +smiled at her thought.</p> + +<p>"Dear, dear old Pat!" she spoke the words aloud. "The very thought of +you—braces me."</p> + +<p>Joan was still on the backward trail. She did not often tread it, but +when she did she always returned starry-eyed and brave-hearted. That was +her reward: the reward that she could share with no one—except as it +helped her to live.</p> + +<p>Presently she turned to her task of restoring the motto on the +fireboard. She worked vigorously, intently, and then leaned back to get +a better view.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, as if they were alive, the words emerged from the last sweep +of the cloth.</p> + +<p>"Aha, I am warm. I have seen the fire."</p> + +<p>The meaning broke like sunshine from the clouds. It made Joan laugh.</p> + +<p>"Well, of all the funny things," she said aloud, "and from the Bible, +too," for "Isaiah" was brought into evidence by another rub. "This house +is certainly haunted."</p> + +<p>Just then a sharp knock on the panels of the door, set wide<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> to the +sweet summer day, startled Joan and brought her to her feet, with that +quivering of the nerves that betokened an almost psychic state.</p> + +<p>A tall man stood in the doorway. His clothes—good ones, well +fashioned—were wrinkled and travel stained. They gave the impression of +having been slept in. The man was like his garments—the worse for wear +but, originally, of good material.</p> + +<p>Joan recognized that at once—after she got over the surprise of finding +that he was not Clive Cameron.</p> + +<p>"Good morning," she said, quietly, while a familiarity about the +stranger puzzled her. "Come in and sit down, please."</p> + +<p>The man came in, walking stiffly, his eyes fixed upon Joan in a way that +confused her. She felt that she ought to remember him, but could not.</p> + +<p>"I've tied my horse down by the road," the stranger said, sitting down +by the long table, "I got the beast at the station. The distance was +longer than I imagined and the roads are—to say the least—not oiled." +He laughed and flecked the dust from his coat—still keeping his eyes on +Joan.</p> + +<p>"Is your aunt at home?" he continued. So then, the man should be +recognized—but he still eluded Joan's memory.</p> + +<p>"No, she is not. She will not be back for some time. I am sorry that I +cannot recall you—I am sure I have seen you—but——"</p> + +<p>"You'd have a remarkable memory if you did recall me," there was a sneer +in the laugh that followed the words; "you were very young when you saw +me before. Perhaps I can help you—you are—Joan, are you not?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." Joan sat down opposite the man—her hands were clasped close.</p> + +<p>"I'm George Thornton, formerly of the Philippines, later of South +Africa, more recently of New York, where I stayed long enough to learn +my way here. Incidentally, I am your father."</p> + +<p>Had Joan been standing she would have fallen. As it was, she quickly +overcame the dizziness that made the speaker<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> seem to dance about and, +by gripping her hands closer, she steadied herself.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you have never heard of me before?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! yes!" Joan listened to her own voice critically; "Aunt Doris told +Nancy and me all about you."</p> + +<p>"All, eh?" Thornton could barely keep the surprise and relief from his +voice. This simplified matters and he could talk freely.</p> + +<p>"What do you want?" The question as Joan spoke it sounded brutal. "I do +not suppose you have come here, after all these years, for nothing."</p> + +<p>Thornton flushed angrily, and his resentment of old flamed into speech.</p> + +<p>"I've come to make your aunt—pay. When I saw you before—you and your +supposed sister—your aunt had all the cards in her hands, but I told +her then that murder would out—and by God! it has—and now it is pay +day." The years had coarsened Thornton.</p> + +<p>Joan stared at the man across the table as if he had suddenly gone mad +before her eyes. She was frightened; she heard distant voices—the cook +speaking to Jed—she wanted to call out; meant to—but instead she asked +dully:</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by—my supposed sister?"</p> + +<p>Thornton shifted his position and leaned forward over the table.</p> + +<p>"So—eh? She didn't tell you all? I see. She confined the story to—me. +And—you've believed all your life—that—that the girl, Nancy, was your +sister? Well—by heaven! Doris has taken a chance."</p> + +<p>"You have got to tell me what you mean!"</p> + +<p>Joan was no longer filled with personal fear—it was wider, deeper than +that.</p> + +<p>"And you must not lie," she added, fiercely—anger was giving her +strength. Thornton regarded her through half-closed eyes.</p> + +<p>"Lying isn't my big line," he said, roughly, "if it had seen, I might +have escaped the infernal mess that I hatched<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> by—telling the truth in +the first place. Since your aunt has neglected her duty—I will tell you +the truth!"</p> + +<p>Thornton took small heed of the stricken girl near him. Hate and revenge +for the moment swayed him, but not for an instant did Joan disbelieve +what was burning into her consciousness. Truth rang in every word of the +almost unbelievable story. And while she listened and shrank back she +was conscious of inanimate things taking on human attributes that +pleaded with her. The chair by the hearth where Doris had but recently +sat smiling so happily because her ideals had been real to her! Nancy +and she, Joan seemed to know, were the ideals—Nancy and she! For them +Doris had done the one, big, daring thing in her life. The loom by the +window suddenly cried out, too, as if Nancy were bending over +it—working on her unfinished but perfect pattern.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" The word escaped Joan and found its way to Thornton's sympathy at +last. He paused as he watched the suffering his words were causing.</p> + +<p>"It's a damned ugly thing she did to you," he said, "a damned ugly one. +I warned her about the time when you would have to know. I've travelled +a long distance to set you straight. She'll pay—now!"</p> + +<p>Joan tried to speak—failed—then tried again.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do?" she asked, huskily, at last.</p> + +<p>Thornton regarded her with a dark frown.</p> + +<p>"Do?" he repeated, "claim my own—and let her pay."</p> + +<p>"What good—would that do—now?"</p> + +<p>Thornton stared. Where had he heard words like those before? Why should +they seem to defy him? defeat him?</p> + +<p>"I'm going to have the truth known at last or——"</p> + +<p>"Or—what?"</p> + +<p>Shame held Thornton silent for a moment, but life had him at close +grip—he was beaten unless help were given.</p> + +<p>"You think they will enjoy—the Tweksbury crowd—I mean—to know the +parentage or—lack of it—of—the girl just palmed off on them as a +Thornton? I may not be all that could be desired, but such as I am—I'm +the saving clause." Thornton's coarseness was more and more evident.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> "I +wonder if you can justify this mess?" he asked, suddenly, with a new +interest.</p> + +<p>Joan was not trying to justify it—she was seeing it only as the +beautiful thing Doris had accomplished by that power of hers to make +real her ideal. It had been, still was, her one hold on life.</p> + +<p>"It's too late to talk about that now," she answered, slowly, and +thinking fast and far, far ahead.</p> + +<p>"I imagine it will be expensive not to think of it; but she'll pay!" +Thornton was braced for definite action. The girl opposite confused him. +She looked so young; so agonized—so brave. She was so like—— At this +Thornton turned away his eyes. Only by so doing could he hold to his +course.</p> + +<p>Slowly, like one dragging a heavy load, Joan was reaching a place of +clear understanding. Flashed upon her aching brain were blinding +pictures.</p> + +<p>"One child was a forsaken waif of these hills——" Thornton had said. +"<i>Thunder Peak! The old woman! Mary's silent and secret mission!</i>" rang +the echo. Joan's eyes widened; her breath caught in her throat while she +compelled herself to weigh and consider—though she did it in the dark. +Then suddenly Mary became a tower of strength. Mary!</p> + +<p>Then Nancy's loveliness and charm gave their convincing evidence against +Joan's own characteristics. At this she shuddered.</p> + +<p>"Doris said she never knew which child was mine," Thornton's words still +echoed.</p> + +<p>"But she must have known!" Joan bowed her head, and all the loneliness +of her life gathered in this moment of supreme acceptance. She knew, +now, why she was, as she was; she knew why they could all cling +together. There was something that could hold them together; something +stronger than Doris could command. There <i>was</i> a pay day! It had come!</p> + +<p>"I do not see," Joan spoke at last, and her voice was heavy and even, +"why you should think you can harm Nancy. If what you have told is—I +mean, <i>because</i> what you have told is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> true—Nancy cannot be hurt—Nancy +is—is yours! You would never doubt that if you saw her. I suppose you +think"—here Joan's eyes flamed—"you can get more by attacking Nancy."</p> + +<p>At this Thornton startled Joan by throwing his head back and laughing +aloud, fearlessly, roughly.</p> + +<p>She was alarmed. The servants—what would they think? Mary—suppose Mary +should appear? But above all else Joan wanted to get this hideous thing +over before Doris returned. Never for an instant did she falter there.</p> + +<p>But the laugh continued, less noisy but more reckless.</p> + +<p>"Well, by heaven, you are game!" Thornton managed to form the words, and +in his eyes there was a glint of admiration. His old sporting spirit +awakened—he knew the genuine ring of metal.</p> + +<p>"Why, see here, my girl," he drew from his pocket a gold locket and an +old daguerreotype; "you don't suppose I came without evidence, do you?"</p> + +<p>Mechanically Joan reached across the table and took the articles—her +fingers were stiff and cold, but she managed to unclasp the cases. +Thornton was watching her; he had stopped laughing.</p> + +<p>In the locket were two miniatures—one of Meredith Fletcher, one of +Thornton painted just after their marriage—Doris had the duplicate of +Meredith's.</p> + +<p>"That," Thornton spoke deliberately, as Joan turned to the other, "is my +mother! She and I were very like."</p> + +<p>Joan drew her breath in sharp.</p> + +<p>Once, back in the Dondale days, she had sung some of her old English +ballads in costume—a quaint picture of her had been taken at the time +and, for an instant, she thought this was it—she vaguely wondered how +Thornton had got it—she could not think clearly—her brain was growing +cloudy. Then she turned the old case over in her hand and looked at it +mutely.</p> + +<p>"They discounted your resemblance to my side of the house." There was +something almost pathetic underlying the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> sneer in Thornton's voice. "I +did not know myself until I came in the door—but when I saw you, it was +as if my mother stood here."</p> + +<p>Joan could not speak, but, as a change of wind turned the mists in The +Gap <i>to</i> the east instead of <i>from</i> the east, so her clouds were +drifting; drifting, and a flood of light was blinding her. She looked +up—her eyes were shining with tears that did not fall; her lips +twitched nervously, but she was happy; happy. The sensation brought +strength and purpose. She did not seem alone—she was close, close to +them who, unseen, but vital, were pressing near; waiting for her +decision—now that she understood! What had her unconscious preparation +done for her?</p> + +<p>Oh! she would not fail them. She was almost ready to prove herself. In a +moment she could master her emotions and be worthy.</p> + +<p>Then she looked at Thornton and throbbed with hate; but as she looked +her mood again changed—she felt such pity as she had never known in her +life before.</p> + +<p>It repelled; it did not attract—but it was pity that called forth a +desire to help. Clasping the silent witnesses of the truth in her cold +hands Joan spoke:</p> + +<p>"No! Aunt Doris and Nancy shall not pay," she said, quietly.</p> + +<p>"Who—then?" Thornton felt the ground slipping from under him. The young +creature opposite looked so old and hard that she impressed him in spite +of himself.</p> + +<p>"You and I—will pay!"</p> + +<p>By those words Joan took her stand with Thornton, not against him. He +winced.</p> + +<p>"Think—think what all this means," she faltered.</p> + +<p>Thornton did think. He thought back of the girl confronting him with his +mother's eyes. The backward path was black and wreck-strewn; it +led—where?</p> + +<p>"Aunt Doris has told me of—of my mother! You and I owe my mother——" +here Joan choked and Thornton burst in:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But is it right and decent—that this imposition should be put upon +innocent people? That girl—may turn out to be——"</p> + +<p>But Joan was not heeding. She paused and looked at the unfinished but +perfect work upon the loom!</p> + +<p>"It is too late now to consider that," she whispered, brokenly. Then: +"Aunt Doris has saved Nancy. You need have no fear.</p> + +<p>"Oh! can you not see what a chance you have to—to help this wonderful +thing Aunt Doris did?"</p> + +<p>"Help? How?" Thornton sunk back in his chair. He was crushed—but in the +depths of his soul something was stirring; something that he believed +had died when he heard of the birth of the girl across the table who was +pleading with him for those who had made her what she was!</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"Why—by simply—going away!"</p> + +<p>Thornton almost broke again into that maddening laugh, but caught +himself in time.</p> + +<p>"That sounds—devilish easy!" he said, furiously, but the flare of +passion died at birth, for Joan was saying:</p> + +<p>"I have some money of my own—I will send it all to you. I will get +money for you—as long as you need it—but after a time you will—not +need it! And then"—here Joan stretched out her clasped hands—"I know +it sounds almost impossible—but it can be made true—you can come back +to us all; help us keep the secret, and—watch with us. You and I owe +this—to Aunt Doris; to my mother! It may be your—your—recompense."</p> + +<p>Thornton got upon his feet. He held to the table to steady himself, and +a subtle dignity grew upon him.</p> + +<p>"I am going away," he said, slowly, "until I can think over this +infernal business by myself. The time to act hasn't come yet—that's +certain. I don't want—your money; not now. If I do, I'll send for it. +If I ever come again it will be to—" he paused, flung his head up—"to +see you; to look on at the working out of the damned mess."</p> + +<p>He reached out for the locket and case.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Good-bye," he said, gruffly. "You need not be afraid—not now."</p> + +<p>"I am not afraid." Joan rose weakly. "I shall wait for you. I am sure +you will come.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye; good-bye!"</p> + +<p>Outside Thornton stumbled against old Jed.</p> + +<p>"The Ship's sailing!" the quavering, foolish words startled Thornton; +"you best get aboard, sir, anchor's lifting!" Jed staggered away, +grinning and muttering.</p> + +<p>Thornton stared after the swaying figure. Then he thought of the +Philippines, his old battle ground—he would go back! The idea caught +and held him.</p> + +<p>On the river road his horse stood nibbling the grass; a woman was beside +it—a lean, stooping woman with a home-spun shawl clutched over her +sunken breasts by one hand, in the other was a massive, rusty gun!</p> + +<p>She turned and confronted Thornton. She knew him at once, but he merely +frowned at her as he eyed the weapon uneasily.</p> + +<p>"Who are you?" he asked. The place, the experience were getting to be +too much for his shaken nerves.</p> + +<p>"That don't matter," Mary raised her deep eyes, they were burning with +superstitious intentness; "but I have a message for you—you best heed +it. We don't stand for strangers hanging around here. See there!" Mary +pointed to The Rock—Thornton's excited fancy caught the wavering +outlines of The Ship.</p> + +<p>"All that's wise—goes with that." Mary turned away. "You best heed!" +she muttered as Jed had, and slunk off.</p> + +<p>Thornton shivered. He had not eaten for many hours; he was weary and +beaten.</p> + +<p>"My God!" he muttered as he mounted the horse; "what—a conspiracy! What +a hole to get away from. She thinks I'm looking for stills. Stills!" he +gave a weak laugh.</p> + +<p>Joan stood until she heard the sound of the horse's hoofs on the road, +then she turned to the freshly brushed but empty hearth and knelt, +shivering.</p> + +<p>"Aha, I am warm. I have seen the fire." Her eyes clung<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> to the words as +if they were living flames. She was not conscious of thought, but she +seemed to <i>know</i> that she had only <i>seen</i> the fire before but that now +she was to feel it. A glow was stirring within her—a bright, flaming +thing that lighted her way, on before—the long, long splendid way on +which responsibility rested like a halo.</p> + +<p>She held within her soul all that had gone into her making—she +belonged, in a great and demanding significance, to—Doris and Doris's +people. Doris's and her own! Her own! She must prove herself—behind the +shield; she must make the <i>real</i> her ideal. She must not be afraid. Fear +was the only thing that mattered.</p> + +<p>Her whole life had been but an outline up to now; she must fill it in! +She must not be afraid to set sail.</p> + +<p>Who had said that to her?</p> + +<p>"Set sail. Bids—you set sail!"</p> + +<p>So engrossed was Joan in the flooding tide of thought, so entirely was +she abandoning herself to it, that it was only when she heard Doris +speak that she turned.</p> + +<p>"Joan, we've brought Clive! We met him on the way."</p> + +<p>Joan did not rise. With hands clasped in her lap she faced the little +group in the doorway.</p> + +<p>Her eyes were filled with the golden light of day—she waited; all her +life, she knew, she had been preparing for this moment. She saw +Cameron's start of surprise; his wonder and doubt. Then she saw him +gathering strength as for the last lap of a hard race.</p> + +<p>"So I have found you!" he said, and pushing past Martin and Doris he +came across the room with outstretched hands.</p> + +<p>Something was calling in the tone which words could not convey, and Joan +could not answer. It was like hearing a voice where before there had +been but echoes.</p> + +<p>"I always knew that I would find you!"</p> + +<p>Cameron had reached the girl on the floor; he bent and drew her to her +feet. His eyes were laughing; he saw her effort to answer him; her +seeking to—understand what <i>he</i> had already learned.</p> + +<p>"It's—all right now," he comforted.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes—of course!"</p> + +<p>How futile were the words, but they opened the way for truth to flood +in.</p> + +<p>Joan, her hands still in Cameron's, her eyes clinging to his, murmured +again, "Yes; of course—now!"</p> + +<p>Then she turned to the two silent, amazed people in the doorway and, by +some magic, they were making her realize that she was facing her Big +Chance. Hers!</p> + +<p>She must not be afraid. Fear was the only thing that could harm.</p> + +<p>Where they had been weak, she must be strong; where they had been +blinded, she must—see!</p> + +<p>Why, that was what her life and Cameron's meant, and the two, standing +apart, together—but alone—had made it possible.</p> + +<p>She, like Nancy, must "carry on," not mistakenly, not held on leash, but +with a freedom born of choice and understanding; of failures, and the +learning of the true from the false.</p> + +<p>To her—and again Joan turned to Cameron—and to him, was given the +glorious opportunity of making the <i>real</i>, ideal.</p> + +<p>It was then that Joan threw her head back and laughed that laugh of hers +that meant but one thing: An acceptance of life; a faith in its freedom; +a conviction that it could be lived gladly and without fear.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top:2em; margin-bottom: 10em;">THE END</p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS</h2> +<hr style="width: 75%" /> +<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: smaller">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> +<hr class="major" /> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">SEVENTEEN.</span> Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.</p> + +<p>No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young +people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the +time when the reader was Seventeen.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">PENROD.</span> Illustrated by Gordon Grant.</p> + +<p>This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a +finished, exquisite work.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">PENROD</span> AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.</p> + +<p>Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases +of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness +that have ever been written.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE TURMOIL.</span> Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.</p> + +<p>Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his +father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a +fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA.</span> Frontispiece.</p> + +<p>A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of a country +editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love +interest.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE FLIRT.</span> Illustrated by Clarence P. Underwood.</p> + +<p>The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another +to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising +suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="center"><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></p> +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="smcapc">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES</h2> +<hr style="width: 75%" /> +<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: smaller">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> +<hr class="major" /> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">SISTERS.</span> Frontispiece by Frank Street.</p> + +<p>The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful story +of sisterly devotion and sacrifice.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY.</span> Frontispiece by George Gibbs.</p> + +<p>A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and +"The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in moving pictures.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">JOSSELYN'S WIFE.</span> Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.</p> + +<p>The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happiness +and love.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED.</span> Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers.</p> + +<p>The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE HEART OF RACHAEL.</span> Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.</p> + +<p>An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a second +marriage.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE.</span> Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.</p> + +<p>A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of <i>a</i> normal girl, obscure and +lonely, for the happiness of life.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">SATURDAY'S CHILD.</span> Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.</p> + +<p>Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheer +determination to the better things for which her soul hungered?</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">MOTHER.</span> Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.</p> + +<p>A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of every +girl's life, and some dreams which came true.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="center"><i>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></p> +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="smcapc">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELS</h2> +<hr style="width: 75%" /> +<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: smaller">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> +<hr class="major" /> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER</span></p> + +<p>A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost her +lover, enters a convent. He returns, and interesting developments +follow.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE UPAS TREE</span></p> + +<p>A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and his +wife.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE</span></p> + +<p>The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages +vanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration of +abiding love.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE ROSARY</span></p> + +<p>The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all else +in the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life's +greatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two real people +superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE</span></p> + +<p>The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a +husband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who is +ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. When +he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE BROKEN HALO</span></p> + +<p>The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in +childhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years older +than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR</span></p> + +<p>The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa, marries +wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of her +uncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and are +reunited after experiences that soften and purify.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="smcapc">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS</h2> +<hr style="width: 75%" /> +<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: smaller">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> +<hr class="major" /> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE LAMP IN THE DESERT</span></p> + +<p>The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lamp +of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to +final happiness.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">GREATHEART</span></p> + +<p>The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE</span></p> + +<p>A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance."</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE SWINDLER</span></p> + +<p>The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE TIDAL WAVE</span></p> + +<p>Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE SAFETY CURTAIN</span></p> + +<p>A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other +long stories of equal interest.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</span></p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="smcapc">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS</h2> +<hr style="width: 75%" /> +<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: smaller">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> +<hr class="major" /> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">JUST DAVID</span></p> + +<p>The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the hearts +of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING</span></p> + +<p>A compelling romance of love and marriage.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">OH, MONEY! MONEY!</span></p> + +<p>Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of his +relatives, sends them each a check for $100,000, and then as plain John +Smith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">SIX STAR RANCH</span></p> + +<p>A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on Six Star +Ranch.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">DAWN</span></p> + +<p>The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf of +despair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to the +service of blind soldiers.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">ACROSS THE YEARS</span></p> + +<p>Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some of +the best writing Mrs. Porter has done.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE TANGLED THREADS</span></p> + +<p>In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of all +her other books.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE TIE THAT BINDS</span></p> + +<p>Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful talent for +warm and vivid character drawing.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="smcapc">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2><span style="font-size: smaller">STORIES OF RARE CHARM</span><br />BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER</h2> +<hr style="width: 75%" /> +<p style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: smaller">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</p> +<hr class="major" /> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">MICHAEL O'HALLORAN.</span> Illustrated by Frances Rogers.</p> + +<p>Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and +onward.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">LADDIE.</span> Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.</p> + +<p>This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story +is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it +is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs +of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and +the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood +and about whose family there hangs a mystery.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE HARVESTER.</span> Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.</p> + +<p>"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had +nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. +But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance +of the rarest idyllic quality.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">FRECKLES.</span> Illustrated.</p> + +<p>Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he +takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great +Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to +the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The +Angel" are full of real sentiment.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.</span> Illustrated.</p> + +<p>The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of +the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness +towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of +her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and +unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.</span> Illustrations in colors.</p> + +<p>The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The +story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. +The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and +its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.</p> + +<p><span style="text-decoration: underline">THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL.</span> Profusely illustrated.</p> + +<p>A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and +humor.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<p class="smcapc">Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York</p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<div class="tnote"> +<h3>Transcriber’s Notes</h3> +<p>Punctuation has been made regular and consistent with contemporary standards.</p> +<p>Corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. +Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text +will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Shield of Silence, by Harriet T. Comstock + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHIELD OF SILENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 18225-h.htm or 18225-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/2/18225/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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