"_And they planted their feet on the 'Sun Road'._"
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:
"Certainly not! And I am not afraid."
Both statements were sincere and should have brought her peace and
satisfaction. They did neither.
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.
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.
"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 _talk_ my pictures all along the walls of his big,
sunny room it will be another matter.
"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 _to_ the door. Can't you see it,
Joan?"
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?
"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."
And off Sylvia went with her heavy bag and her light heart, and Joan
called Patricia up on the telephone.
"All right," Patricia responded, "but if I get homesick for these rooms,
I must be free to come."
"Of course," Joan agreed.
Patricia was in a dangerous mood and Joan was vividly alive to
impressions.
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.
"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."
"Is Mrs. Burke there?"
Sylvia had a terrible way of stepping on toes when she was making her
point.
"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."
Patricia looked so high-minded just then that everyone laughed at
Sylvia's expense.
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 she remembered the sound of his voice--and she
wanted to see him again!
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!
Raymond had suggested this to Joan. He fancied, from his conservative
limitations, that the Brier Bush was rather a dubious pool!
"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.
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!
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.
"My boy!" Emily Tweksbury urged, "come up to Maine with me for the
summer, you look peaked."
Raymond laughed.
"How about business?" he said.
"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 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 _team_. I never
cared for too much of any one thing. Ken?"
"Yes, Aunt Emily."
"I want you to marry and have--a place."
"A place, Aunt Emily?" Raymond looked puzzled.
"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!"
"Yes, Aunt Emily--I've thanked God for that, too, in what stands for
_my_ closet."
"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."
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.
"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."
"Ken, I don't believe you're in good form. You'd much better come up to
Maine!"
Emily Tweksbury looked as if she wanted to cry; her expression was so
comical that Raymond laughed aloud.
"I'll come in August," he said at last. "I'll take the whole month and
frivol with you."
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.
"What's on your mind, Aunt Emily?"
Raymond had turned the tables--he smiled down upon the old lady with the
masterful tenderness of youth.
"Let's have it, dear."
Mrs. Tweksbury resorted to subterfuge.
"Well, having you off my hands," she said, smiling as if she really
meant what she said, "I am thinking of Doris Fletcher!"
"Do I know her?" Raymond tried to think.
"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."
"Bad business." Raymond shook his head.
"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."
This was trite and did not get anywhere, so Mrs. Tweksbury plunged a
trifle.
"Doris Fletcher is going to bring her niece out next winter; wants me to
help launch her."
Raymond made no response to this. He was not apt to be suspicious, but
he waited.
"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 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."
Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scornfully and Raymond laughed. He wasn't
interested.
Mrs. Tweksbury saw she was losing ground and made a third attempt.
"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----!"
"Yes'm!" Raymond was looking at his watch.
"I wish you'd lend a hand next winter with this Nancy Thornton."
Raymond gave a guffaw and came around to Mrs. Tweksbury.
"You're about as opaque," he said, "as crystal. Of course I'll lend a
hand, Aunt Emily--_lend_ 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."
"Oh! Ken, can't you forget?"
"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."
He bent and kissed her.
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.
Mrs. Tweksbury, with two servants, started by motor for Maine.
"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."
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----
"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 _is_ a rough in every
fellow--maybe it's sand and maybe it's plain dirt."
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.
"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.
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!
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.
It was five-forty-five when Joan came down the steps.
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.
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.
"Good afternoon!" he blurted into Joan's astonished ears; "where are you
going?"
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.
"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?"
At this Joan laughed.
"I am afraid the heat has affected you," was what she said, gently.
"Well, anyway, you're not afraid of me!" Raymond saw that her eyes had
grown steady.
"Oh! no. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not often afraid of anything."
"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.
"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."
Joan felt quite proud of her small sting, but Raymond broke in joyously:
"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----?"
"But it isn't!" Joan broke in, hotly.
"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 understand."
"You're not doing it very well." Joan was sweetly composed.
"Now suppose you and I were introduced--you with your veil off--that
would be all right, wouldn't it?"
Raymond was collecting his scattered wits.
"Presumably. Yes--it would," Joan returned.
"And then we could have all the talks we wanted to, couldn't we?"
"Within proper limitations," Joan nodded, comically prim under the
circumstances.
"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----"
"I don't want them!" Joan's voice shook. Poor, lonely little thing, she
wanted exactly that!
"I bet that's not true!" ventured Raymond. Then suddenly:
"Why do you laugh as you do?"
"What's the matter with my laugh?"
"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!"
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.
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.
"You haven't told me where you are going," Raymond said, presently.
"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.
"Are you?" Raymond asked, lamely. One had to say something or turn back.
Joan felt like crying. Then suddenly Raymond said:
"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_ 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?"
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:
"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 _do_ 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."
Raymond promised, and so they set out on the Sun Road.