"_Ours, if we be strong._"
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.
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!
Joan felt the tears falling down her cheeks while she sang on--and
suddenly it was Patricia who seemed closest to her.
"I will not desert Pat," she actually sang the words into her song
fiercely, resolutely. "Patricia must come into safety with me."
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.
She kicked off her sandals and began to dance about the studio, lightly,
joyfully.
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!
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.
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.
And then came a knock on the door!
The whirling figure paused on the tips of its toes; the brooding face
broke into smiles.
"It's Pat! Come!"
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.
"Why!" gasped Joan, and in her excitement almost spoke Raymond's name.
"How--did you find your way here? How did you know?"
"Forgive me; I had to come. I telephoned to the Brier Bush--they gave me
your number."
Raymond closed the door behind him and came to the centre of the big
room, and there he stood smiling at Joan.
"So your name is Sylvia?" he said.
Then Joan understood--Elspeth had respected her wish to be unknown
outside her business, she had given Sylvia's name, had made Sylvia
responsible.
"I tried to get you earlier by telephone."
"I was not home." Joan was thinking hard and fast. Something was very
wrong, but she could not make out what it was.
"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."
Joan grew more and more perplexed. The anger she felt was less than the
sense of unreality about it all. Raymond was a stranger; he repelled
her; in a way, shocked her.
"I'm through dancing," she said. "Since you are here, sit down. I will
turn on the lights."
"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."
Joan kept her eyes on Raymond's face. She was trying to overcome the
growing aversion which alarmed her.
"No, I was not calling to you," she said. "I was bidding you
good-bye--really, though I did not know it myself."
"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."
"I--I wish you wouldn't talk like that." Joan frowned. "And I know it
will sound rude--but I--wish you would go."
"You are--surly!" Raymond laughed again, and just then a deep, rumbling
note of thunder followed a vivid flash.
"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."
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.
"What's up, really?" he asked, "you're not going to spoil everything by
a silly tantrum, are you?"
Joan hadn't the slightest appearance of temper--she was quite at ease,
apparently, though her heart almost choked her by its beating.
"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 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."
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.
She summoned a latent power to deal with the new conditions.
"You pretty little thing!" Raymond whispered, and touched Joan's
shoulder. She got up quickly and moved across the room.
"I always want light when there is a storm," she said, and touched the
switch.
Raymond, in the glare, looked flushed and impatient. A crash of thunder
shook the old house.
"Will you dance for me?" he said.
Joan stiffened--she was dealing with the strange personality, not the
man who was part of the happy past.
"No," she said, evenly. "And you have no right to be here. I wish you
would go at once."
"Out in this storm, you little pagan?"
"You could go downstairs and wait in the hall."
"You are afraid of me?"
"Not in the least."
"Afraid of yourself, then?"
"Certainly not. Why should I be afraid of myself?"
"Afraid _for_ yourself, then?"
Raymond was enjoying himself hugely.
"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.
"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 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?"
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.
"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."
Tears dimmed Joan's eyes and she tried to smile.
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.
"You're a--damned good little actress!" Raymond gave a hard, loud laugh
so unlike his own wholesome laugh that Joan started back.
"I want you to go away at once!" her eyes flashed. "I think you must be
mad."
"But--the storm." Raymond walked across the room.
"I do not care--about the storm. I want you to go!" and now Joan
retreated and unconsciously took her stand behind a chair.
A sudden, blinding flash, a deafening crash and--the lights went out!
In the terrifying blackness Joan felt Raymond's arms about her.
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!
She sprang away, dashing against the furniture and then, as suddenly as
they had failed, the lights were blazing and in the revealment Joan
faced the man across the room.
Her face was flaming, but his was as white as if death had marked it.
"You--coward!" she flung out.
The words stung and hurt.
Raymond did not move bodily, but his eyes seemed to be coming nearer the
girl.
"If you do not go at once," Joan said, slowly, "I will call for help."
"Oh! no, you won't, and I am not going to-night."
The beast in Raymond had never risen before, had never been suspected,
never been trained: it was the more dangerous because of that.
"What?" Joan stared at him aghast.
"I said that I am not going to-night."
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.
"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.
"Well! Suppose I have? It has made me live. Set me free. I wonder if you
have ever lived?"
"I am afraid not." Joan could not repress the sob that rose in her
throat.
"We can live, I bet." Raymond gave his ugly laugh. "That line in our
hands gives us the right."
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.
Somehow, she had wronged him. She must find out just how, and then he
might once more be as she had known him.
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.
Raymond was crossing the room. He laughed, and insanity flashed in his
eyes.
"What shall I call you from now on?" he said: "Sylvia?--or shall we make
up another name?"
"My name is not Sylvia. And there is to be no time ahead for us."
"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."
Raymond reached his hand toward her and said pleadingly:
"Don't be afraid. I hate to see you flinch."
"You must not touch me." Joan's eyes flashed.
"I see. You've raised the devil in me--and you do not want to pay?" The
brute was rearing dangerously.
"I do not want to pay more than I owe."
"What do you mean by that?"
"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."
"Whatever ideals I may have had," Raymond broke in, "you have destroyed.
Perhaps you think men have no ideals? Some women do."
"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.
But Raymond gave a sneering laugh.
"You trusted so much," he said, "that you hid behind a veil and would
not tell your name."
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.
"What's one night in a life?" he asked, as if it were being dragged from
him.
Again his voice startled him. He looked around, hoping he might discover
who it was that spoke.
It was Joan now who was speaking:
"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----"
"Before what?" Raymond asked.
"Before I--anyway--was left to go free! It is the _knowing_ 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."
Raymond gripped his hands together and his face was ghastly.
"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.
Outside, the storm was dying down--it sounded tired and defeated.
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.
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.
Presently Raymond spoke. His hands dropped from his haggard face and his
eyes were filled with shame and remorse.
"Will you listen to me?" he said.
"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:
"Yes."
"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."
"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."
"I will always think of women as I see you now." Raymond spoke
reverently.
"You must not. Some women do not have to learn--I did. I think the best
women know."
"You must not say that."
"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."
Raymond looked at her and pity filled his eyes, for she looked so
touchingly young.
"I think," he said, "that I shall see all girls for ever as I see you at
this minute."
"Oh, you must not." Joan gave a sob. "They are not like me, really."
There was an awkward silence. Then:
"Will you tell me your name? Will you try to trust me--just a little? It
would prove it, if you only would."
"I do not want you to know my name. You must promise to keep from
knowing. It is all I ask."
"Will you let me tell you--mine?"
"No! no!" Joan put up her hands as if to ward off something tangible.
"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."
"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!"
"What!"
"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?"
"I will get them back, yes! I only lost them when the devil in me drove
me mad."
"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."
"Will you--take my hand?" Raymond stretched his own forth.
"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!"
"And--and we are--to see each other some day?" This came hopefully.
"Some day--as we left ourselves--back before this?"
"Some day--some day? Perhaps. If we do--we will understand better than
we did then."
"Yes. We'll understand some things."
Raymond bent and touched Joan's hand with his lips and went quickly from
the room.
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.
A moment later Joan raised her head from the pillow on which she was
weeping the weakest--and the strongest--tears of her life.
"Oh! Pat," she sobbed. "Oh! Pat."
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.
She drew wrong and bitter conclusions now--but she dealt with them
divinely.
"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.
"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 _me_ anything. We'll
begin anew. You'll have your music--I'll have my work--and we'll have a
dinner every night."
Patricia was shivering in her wet clothing.
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.
"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?"
"No, I don't. It isn't their fault. They are not made for trust--they're
made to do things."
"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."
"I saw him--on the stairs," gasped Patricia.
"Suppose you did?"
"Joan, do you know what time it is?"
"No. I do not care. It takes time to have the world tumble about your
ears."
"You--you--do not--love him, do you?"
Joan paused and considered this as if it were a startlingly new idea.
"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?"
The two young faces confronted each other blankly.
"I don't know," Patricia said.
"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."
Then Joan took hold of Patricia and exclaimed:
"Pat, you are dripping wet. Come to bed." While helping Patricia to
undress she talked excitedly of going away.
"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. Some day we would want to get out
and we could not. I am going to be free, Pat--not smudgy."
Patricia paused in the act of getting into bed and remarked demurely:
"My God! Out of the mouths of babes and pet lambs---- Come, child, shut
your eyes. You make me crawl."