"_Queer--to think no day is like to a day that is past._"
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.
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.
But he might _come_; he might telegraph!
"My God!" Patricia exclaimed at noon time, "I cannot stand this, Joan,
we must vacate."
Joan was quivering with excitement, too--she was wild-eyed and shook
with terror at every step on the stairs.
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 _woman_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
"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?"
Patricia sighed.
"Has it ever struck you, my lamb," she said, "that our dear Syl is a
selfish pig?"
Joan started in surprise.
"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, pleasure, art, and John. For the rest--'poof!'" Patricia spoke
the last sound like a knife cutting through something crisp and hard.
Joan continued to stare. Unformed impressions were taking shape--she
felt disloyal, but she was not deceived.
"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 _he_ 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.
"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."
"Oh, Pat!" It was all that Joan could think of saying.
Patricia was rushing on.
"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!"
"Yes, yes, Pat!"
"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!"
Suddenly Joan got up and threw her hands over her head.
"Thank heaven!" was what she cried aloud.
There was much rush and flurry after that, and in the excitement the
nervous tension relaxed.
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:
Something has happened--I'm going at once to Chicago with Pat.
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.
"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."
Miss Gordon had contempt instead of passion, but her resentment was none
the less.
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.
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.
But now things were changed and by Joan's own bad behaviour.
Raymond looked sadly in need of tea and every other comfort
available--he was positively haggard.
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.
"Your little sibyl--she is not here? On a vacation, I suppose?"
This was futile and cheap and Raymond felt that he flushed.
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.
"My assistant," she said, "has left without giving the usual notice. She
has left me in a most embarrassing position but I suppose she felt her
own personal affairs were paramount.
"I--I think she has made a hasty marriage." On the whole, this seemed
more kind than Joan deserved.
"A--what?" Raymond almost forgot himself. "A--what--did you say?"
"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."
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.
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.
Miss Gordon was relieved--but disappointed.
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.
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.
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.
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 when, had he kept his head, it might
have passed as it came--a thing undefiled; a beautiful, tender memory.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
To seek her further would be the greatest of folly and then, 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!
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!
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.
The first step was to get away. That was inevitable.
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!
In the meantime, Patricia and Joan worked madly to get away and still
secure Sylvia's interests.
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.
"I'll run back and see to things," she wrote; "I'm making a lot of
money."
And then Patricia tucked Joan, so to speak, under her frail wing and
took to flight.
Chicago was new territory to both the girls but Patricia, from the
necessity, as she told Joan, of grubbing, had become an adept at finding
shelter.
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.
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.
And the venture had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions to Patricia.
She feverishly desired it to be a success.
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.
"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!
"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."
"Pat! Of all things--you are crying!" Joan looked frightened.
"Well, let me cry!" sniveled Patricia. "I've never given myself that
luxury, either."
For a moment there was silence broken only by Patricia's sniffs. Then:
"What do your folks say about it, Joan?"
"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."
"Whew!" ejaculated Patricia. "You certainly run your career
free-handed."
"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."
"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."
"Blame you, Pat? Why, how could she?"
"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!"
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.
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?
Her reply to Joan, however, was much what Martin's would have been to
his nephew.
She accepted and took on faith what Joan had explained--or failed to
explain.
She laid emphasis on plans for the coming winter and referred to Joan's
promise to give herself seriously to her music.
"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."
This letter put Joan on her mettle.
"Pat, I'm going to begin as soon as we've settled," she declared, and
her wet eyes shone. "Aunt Dorrie is quite right."
The girls finally secured four pretty, sunny rooms overlooking the lake,
and reverently selected the furniture for them.
"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."
But as the days passed it looked as if the venture were turning out
better than one could have hoped. Joan had 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.
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.
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:
It's very expensive learning _not_ 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.
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 _on_ my shield, I hope, but with it in
fairly good condition.
"I think you ought to make her keep her promise about this winter,"
Nancy quivered; "she is always upsetting things."
"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.
"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."
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.
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.
With care and comfort old Becky was more alert; more suspicious. She was
wondering _why_. 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.
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.
There was The Peak--and with winter to complicate her duties, it loomed
ominously.
"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.
"A strange woman is Mary," Doris confided to Nancy; "nothing seems to
make any impression upon her."
Nancy opened her lovely blue eyes wide at this.
"Why, Aunt Dorrie," she replied, "Mary would die for us--and never
mention it. She's made that still, faithful way."
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.