"_It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy
in solitude to live after our own._"
The trouble with the Sun Road is this: one is apt to be blinded by the
glare.
In their solitude, the solitude of a big city, Raymond and Joan trod the
shining way with high courage.
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.
"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."
Joan nodded.
The sun and the dust of the pleasant highway had blinded her completely
by the end of a week.
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.
She never explained her absences nor her private affairs to Joan. When
she did appear at Sylvia's studio she was quiet and nervous.
"It's the heat," she explained. "I'm not hot, but I cannot get enough
air to breathe."
Meanwhile, Sylvia was basking in success and cool breezes on the
Massachusetts coast. Her letters had the tang of the sea.
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.
"Gee!" he said, after their first dance; "I wonder what you are, anyway?
Do you do everything--to perfection?"
Joan twinkled.
"Every man must decide that for himself," she replied with a charming
turn of her head.
"Every--man?" Raymond's face fell.
"Certainly. You don't think you are the only man, do you?"
"Well, the only one left in town."
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.
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.
Joan always met these empty spaces in her days with a keen sense of loss
which she hid completely from Raymond.
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.
And the weather became hotter and moister and the moral and physical
fibre of the city-bound became limper.
After a week of not seeing each other Joan and Raymond made up for lost
time by galloping instead of trotting along.
"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----"
"If--they had the line in their hands," Joan broke in; "but they
haven't, you know!"
"Exactly."
Just then Raymond made a bad break. He asked Joan if she did not trust
him well enough to give him her telephone number.
"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."
"I am sorry," Joan replied, "but that would spoil everything."
Raymond flushed. It was just such plunges as this that made him recoil.
"I understand," he replied, coolly; "I had hoped that you could trust
me."
"It is not a matter of trust. It's keeping to the bargain."
There was nothing more to say. But, quite naturally, several days
elapsed before they saw each other again.
Fierce, broiling days without even the debilitating moisture to ease the
suffering citizens.
Joan, alone in the dark, hot studio, thought of Doris and Nancy and
wondered!
"Of course, what I am doing would be horrid if I didn't know all about
_him_," 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.
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.
"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."
"_But if she--isn't?_" demanded the shadowy self.
"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?"
"_They can!_" thundered the Other Self, "_but this isn't innocent--at
least it is dangerous_."
"Oh! be hanged!" Raymond flung back and the Shadow sank into oblivion.
Left to himself--one of his selves--Raymond resorted to sentiment.
"Of course we both know--under what might be--what _is_. She's like
Kipling's girl in the Brushwood Boy."
But that did not take in the Other Self in the least. It laughed.
When July came the heat settled down in earnest on the panting city.
"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.
"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."
"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."
"Well, does it make any difference?" Joan asked.
"You bet it does! It makes me free to stay in town."
"I'm afraid you'll wilt," Joan twinkled.
"We must take precautions against that." Raymond looked deadly in
earnest.
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. 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.
"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."
"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!"
"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?"
"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.
"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."
"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."
"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.
"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.
"I wonder just how brave and free a little girl it is?"
Joan screwed up her lips.
"Limitless," she whispered, daringly.
"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."
"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 _can_ make things come true."
"Where you belong?" Raymond gripped his hands close. "Just where do you
belong? _Are_ you Miss Jones or are you the sweet nameless thing that I
am looking at?"
"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."
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.
"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."
"I think it would be heavenly!" Joan saw, already, cool woods and felt
the refreshing air on her face.
Raymond was taken aback. He had expected protest.
But the car materialized and so did the picnics and the cool breezes on
young, unafraid faces.
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.
Just at this time Sylvia came to town radiating success and happiness.
The result was disastrous. There are times when one cannot endure the
prosperity of his friends! Had Sylvia 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.
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.
"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."
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.
"I suppose," Patricia burst in, "that this means the end?"
"End?" Sylvia looked puzzled.
"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?"
Sylvia looked serious.
"Joan is to study music next winter," she said; "haven't you told Pat,
Joan?"
Joan shook her head. She had almost forgotten it herself.
"And live with her people," Sylvia went on and then, noticing Patricia's
pale little face, she burst forth:
"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."
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.
"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!"
"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."
But Patricia lighted a cigarette, and while the smoke issued from her
pretty little nose she sighed.
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.
"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!"
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:
Had to get cool somewhere. I'm not responsible for losing my
breath. Take care of yourself.
"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.
"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.
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?
"I only want a decent amount of fun," she cried, turning her pillow
over, "and I will not have strings tied to all my fun, either."
This struck her as funny even in her misery. She sat up in bed and
counted her losses--what were they?
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.
"And I will succeed!" Even in that hard hour Joan rose up in arms.
"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 _am_ sure of myself as dear Nancy never could
be--because I have proved myself in ways that girls like Nancy never
can."
Toward morning Joan fell asleep. When she awoke it was nearly noon time
and half the desert of Sunday was passed.
Then Joan, refreshed and comforted, planned a wholesome afternoon and
evening.
"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."
Joan carried out her programme, and it was five o'clock when she
returned, at peace with the whole world.
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.
"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!
"I wonder--" here Joan looked serious as if a thought wave had struck
her--"I wonder where Pat is?"
This seemed a futile conjecture. Patricia was too elusive to be
followed, even mentally.
As a matter of fact, Patricia was, at that hour, confronting the biggest
question of her life.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Then Patricia's angel had a word to say.
"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?"
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.
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.
"That Look!" Full well Patricia knew that the Look would no longer be
hers to command if she held to her course!
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!
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.
"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!