CHAPTER VIII"One is assured that there is a Power that fights with us against the confusion and evil of the world."
"One is assured that there is a Power that fights with us against the confusion and evil of the world."
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.
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.
They were eager to go forward but were half afraid.
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.
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.
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 tograce 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.
"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."
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.
"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."
"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!"
"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."
"Nan," here Joan pointed her finger, "do you know a blessed thing about your father? I don't!"
Nancy flushed, but made no reply.
"There's where the secret lies—I feel it in my blood!" Joan shuddered and Nancy laughed. "It didn't seem to matter untilnow, but, Nan, we're women at last!"
"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."
"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."
"You have no right to call me a snob, Joan!" Nancy's fair face flushed.
"Did I call you a snob, Nan, dear?"
"Yes, you did. It's not being a snob to be true to oneself." Nancy put up her defences.
"I should say not," Joan agreed, but she laughed.
"Just think of all that Aunt Dorrie represents!" Nancy went on. "She's all that her father and her grandfather——"
"And her grandmothers," Joan broke in, "made her! Just think of it! And you and I must carry on the tradition—at leastyoumust—I'm afraid I'll have to be a quitter. It makes me too hot."
"You'll never be a quitter, you splendid Joan!" Nancy turned her face to Joan—— the old love had grown with the years, "Youaresplendid, Joan—everyone adores you."
But Joan did not seem to hear. Suddenly she said:
"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."
"Begin what, Joan?"
"Begin to live."
"You funny Joan, what have you been doing since you were born?"
"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."
A sense of danger filled Nancy—she often felt afraid of Joan, orforJoan, she was not sure which it was.
"I think you'll do nothing that will trouble and disappoint Aunt Dorrie," she said, using the weapon of the weak.
"I think Aunt Dorrie would want me to—to live my life," Joan returned.
"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.
Joan made no reply. She looked very young with thesunlight 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.
"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.
"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.
"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 Iknow. Having a rich somebody behind you is—is—the limit!" she flung out, defiantly.
"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.
"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."
"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.
"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."
"You're silly, Joan."
"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 heisrich—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,and my making believe. I feel so powerful sometimes and then again—I am weak as—as a shadow!"
"Oh! Joan do be careful—you'll fall over the wall."
Nancy flung her arms about Joan, who had tilted backward as she portrayed her state of weakness.
"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!"
"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."
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.
She danced on Class Day a wonderful dance that she had originated herself.
Nancy played her accompaniment, keeping her fascinated gaze upon Joan while her fingers touched the keys in accord with every movement.
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.
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.
But it was when she sang on Commencement Day that she achieved her triumph.
Martin was watching Doris closely. She had had no return of her March illness; she never spoke of it, nor did he, butfor 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.
It was when Joan had finished her song that Martin took Doris from the hall.
It happened this way:
The flower-banked platform was empty until the accompanist—it was a young professor, this time, not Nancy—came on.
The audience waited politely; the rows of girlish faces were turned expectantly, and then Joan entered!
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.
She stood at ease while the first notes were played—she appeared suddenly detached, and then she sang.
It was an old English ballad, quaint and rollicking:
"I'll sail upon the Dog-star,I'll sail upon the Dog-star,And then pursue the morningAnd then pursue, and then pursue the morning."I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,But I'll make her leave her horning."I'll climb the frosty mountain,I'll climb the frosty mountain,And there I'll coin the weather."I'll tear the rainbow from the skyAnd tie both ends together."
The ringing girlish voice rose high and true and clear.
"Bravo!" cried a man's voice and then:
"And she'll do it, too!"
It was at this point that Martin took Doris from the room.
In the quiet of the deserted piazza Doris looked up at Martin through tears.
"Joan is feeling her oats." Martin walked to and fro; he had been more moved by the song than he cared to confess.
"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."
Martin came close and sat down.
"Go easy, Doris," he cautioned, then asked: "And how about Nancy?"
"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?"
"Some of them, Doris. The best of them. I'm glad to see you game."
"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."
Martin saw that Doris was still trembling, she was excited, too, in her controlled way. He was anxious.
"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."
Doris smiled and shook her head. Then she said suddenly:
"David, the old spectre stalks! It seems as if I ought to know, as if the knowledge were right here, to-day."
"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——"
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.
"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——"
And Doris was looking, holding with all her strength to the man's words.
"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?"
Doris drew a long breath and sat up. She was seeking to hold to what she could not see.
"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."
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.
"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."
"Hear them." Doris dropped back. "They are still applauding Joan."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.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!
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.
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.
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:
"Is our father still alive?"
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.
"We've often talked of it, Nan and I," Joan proceeded; "it did not seem very vital one way or the other until now."
"As far as I know," Doris was surprised at her own calmness, "he is still alive."
"I'm glad of that," Joan remarked, and there was a glint in her eyes. "I'd hate to have him dead—just now."
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.
Then Nancy spoke:
"I never want to hear his name again," she said, firmly, relentlessly.
Doris looked at her in amazement. Later she confided to Joan her surprise.
"I did not know the child had such sternness."
Joan shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
"Nan is like a rock underneath, Aunt Dorrie," she said. "I suppose it is—what shall I say?—blood! It is concentratedin Nan. She's like you. Disgrace, or what seemed like disgrace, would kill her—it would make me fight!"
And after that conversation all inclination to confide further in the girls as to their relationship or lack of it deserted Doris.
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.
"When they marry, of course, it must be told."
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.
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.
Their appearance there was marked by two incidents that Doris alone heeded.
First was the effect Nancy had upon Jed.
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.
The second incident was Mary.
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.
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 Maryhad 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.
What she knew lay buried in her stern reserve, and she saw a great deal.
She saw at once what had occurred since she left her years of service. Mary no longer served—she ruled.
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!
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.
And she bided her time.
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.
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.
"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."
"Why?" The sharp word startled Nancy—was Mary disapproving?
"Aunt Dorrie and Uncle David think best, Mary."
Mary touched upon the hidden hardness in Nancy's softness and retreated.
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.
It was all delightfully restful and beautiful and not a care in the world!
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!"
CHAPTER IX"I count life just a stuff to try the Soul's strength on. Learn, nor count the pang; dare, never grudge the throe."
"I count life just a stuff to try the Soul's strength on. Learn, nor count the pang; dare, never grudge the throe."
No one but Mary, apparently, saw what was to happen. It was the old nursery problem re-acted.
Joan had tired of her game, had used all the material at hand, and was burning to be on the adventurous trail.
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.
And Nancy, looking mutely in Mary's eyes, seemed to say:
"It will all be so lonely; so terrible with Joan gone!"
That was it. The old fear of, or for, Joan had materialized—it was Life with Joan left out!
"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!"
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——
Mary drew her breath sharp; her thin, flat bosom heaved and her fingers clutched her gown.
David Martin had so far classified his perplexity concerning Doris as to name it "Southern fever."
"Hookworm?" Joan broke in gleefully.
Martin frowned but did not reply.
"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.
"Yes, David." Doris smiled up at him.
"I want you to promise me that you will take more exercise!" Martin said.
"Why, certainly, David, but I thought you wanted me to—to rest."
"I do—but you are rested. I do not want you to enjoy resting. It's dangerous."
"Oh! bully for you, Uncle David," Joan broke in, delightedly, "Aunt Dorrie is just plain flopping and Nan and Mary are abetting her."
For some reason Martin turned to Joan, not Nancy who was standing patiently by.
"Joan, get your aunt on horseback—lead up to it, of course—and go slow."
"But—Uncle David——" Nancy drew near. Her kingdom was threatened.
"My dear," Martin always melted to Nancy, "after Joan gets her on horseback,youride with her."
And so Doris got off her couch, rather dazedly, as one thinking his legs have been shot off finds them still attached to him.
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!
It was December when Martin started for the West and Joan's restlessness gained power.
Christmas rather eased the situation, for with it Father Noble appeared.
He startled Doris as Uncle Jed had, by his persistence.
"They cannot be as old as they look," she concluded, andgladly entered into all the plans for carrying sunshine and joy into the deep places of the hills.
"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."
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."
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.
"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."
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.
Nancy was weaving at the window—Mary had taught her, and she gave the impression, sitting there, of having looms in her blood.
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.
"Where is Aunt Dorrie?" asked Joan, poising herself on the arm of a deep chair.
"In the chapel," Nancy replied, bent over the snarl she had made of woof and warp.
"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!"
Nancy did not answer but set the treadle to its duty. The clacking noise emphasized Joan's nervousness.
"Aunt Dorrie doesn't know what to do here—that's why she takes to the chapel. That's why everyone takes to chapels."
Nancy broke her thread and Joan laughed.
"I wonder why Aunt Dorrie came here like a dear, silly old pioneer?" The laugh still persisted in the mocking words.
"It's—it's quite the thing," Nancy said, fatuously, "to have country places. I think it's wonderful."
"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.
"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?"
"Please don't, Joan, dear. Please don't talk and act so." Nancy's eyes were blinded by tears.
"Very well, then, I will be good." Joan flung herself in a chair and presently asked curiously:
"Nan, what are you going to do when you've done all the things down here millions of times?"
"There will always be new duties," Nancy ventured.
"Duties! Oh! Nan, surely you're too young to play with duties—you'll hurt yourself." The mockery again entered in.
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.
When he went out Joan seemed to follow him. She spoke musingly as if voicing her thoughts:
"It's terrible for anything as old as that to be running around," she said. "It isn't decent. He ought to be tuckedup in his nice little grave. He looks as if he'd been forgotten."
"Joan, you are wicked—you make me afraid!" Nancy came from the loom and crouched by Joan.
"Snow-child, again forgive me!" Joan bent and drew Nancy's fair head to her knee. "But oh! I am so—so utterly lost."
"Joan, what is it? What is the matter?"
"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?"
There was desperation in the words, the desperation of helpless youth. No perspective, no light or shade, but terrible vision.
"Joan, darling, why can you not wait until you see the way?" Nancy was prepared now for battle.
"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!"
Joan flung her head back as if she were choking.
And just then Mary came into the room.
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.
"I met the postman," she announced, "as I came along. He give me this!"
Mary held a letter out to Joan and passed from the room.
The moment, while Joan glanced at the letter, had power to grip Nancy's imagination and fill it with a vision.
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.
"Whom is the letter from?" she faltered, and Joan tore open the envelope while her eyes drank in the words.
"It is from Sylvia Reed, Nan. Her dream has come true. She has her studio—she wants me!"
"Joan, you will not go—you must not!" All that Nancy dared to put in her plea she put in it then.
"Why not?" asked Joan impressed. "Why not, Nan?"
"Aunt Dorrie——" Nancy's words ended in a sob.
"Aunt Dorrie shall decide."
And with that Joan, her face radiant, her breath coming quick, walked from the room and on, on to the little chapel upstairs.
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.
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!
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.
"Aunt Dorrie, I have a letter from Sylvia Reed."
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 hadgeniuswhere 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.
"She wants me, Aunt Dorrie. She wants me to come to her. She has a studio in New York; not down in that partof 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 therealthing is!"
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.
"Why, Aunt Dorrie, Sylvia has two orders for book covers, already, besides twelve hundred a year!"
The letter had been packed with ammunition and Joan was using it recklessly.
"Just listen, Aunt Dorrie."
And Joan spread the letter on her knee; her hands were trembling as she patted it open.
"This is what Sylvia says:
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.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.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.I bet your aunt will see the squareness of this offer if you put it right. Come!
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.
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.
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.
I bet your aunt will see the squareness of this offer if you put it right. Come!
The light broadened outside—the little chapel was flooded with the golden glow.
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 insteadof holding her back, and at the same time she was striving to clutch her as she went her way.
Yes, that was it. Joan was already started; nothing could hold her back—but still the battle waged, while Doris smiled tremblingly.
"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."
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.
"I'll try to be worthy of your faith in me, darling. Go on." Doris spoke quietly.
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.
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.
Presently she heard herself speaking as if a third person were in the room:
"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?"
"Yes, Aunt Dorrie."
"You know, darling, that it would be easier for me to lavish everything on you?"
"Yes, Aunt Dorrie."
"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?"
"Oh! yes, Aunt Dorrie, I do understand that."
"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?"
"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."
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.