CHAPTER XIII"Joyous we launch out on trackless seas carolling free, singing our songs."
"Joyous we launch out on trackless seas carolling free, singing our songs."
A week from that night Joan again eluded Sylvia. She did it by not going to the studio for dinner. She felt deceitful and mean, but there were heights—or were they depths?—that Sylvia could not reach, and intuitively Joan felt that Sylvia would disapprove of what she was now doing.
Patricia was not in when Joan reached her rooms—they were small, dim rooms and rather cluttered.
Sitting alone, waiting, Joan thought of Patricia more intimately than she often did. She recalled what Sylvia had told of her; remembered the warnings, and her eyes dimmed.
"Poor old Pat!" she mused, "she's like a pretty bird—just lighting on things, or"—and here Joan thought she had struck on something rather expressive—"or like a lovely, bright cloud casting a shadow. No matter what colour the cloud is, the shadow's dark. Dear old Pat! Well—I see the colour."
This was satisfying and brought up her feeling about Patricia, which had been depressed.
And just then Patricia tripped in, humming and rippling and stumbling over a rug as she felt her way in the gloom—Joan had not turned on the lights. Presently she stopped short and asked sharply:
"Who is here?"
Joan bubbled over and Patricia gave a relieved laugh.
"Lordy!" she gasped, "you gave me a bad minute. I thought——"
"What, Pat?" Joan touched the switch.
"I—I thought—it might be someone else. I haven't hada thing to eat since breakfast," Patricia announced, dropping on a couch and pulling the cushions into all the crevices surrounding her thin, weary little body.
"I'll get the nicest little meal for you in a jiffy!" Joan sprang to her feet. "Is there anythingtofix?" she added, quickly.
"There's always something"—Patricia closed her eyes—"eggs and milk and—and canned horrors." Then, with a radiant smile:
"I've been on the trail of your man, Joan, and it was some trail."
"Pat, darling," Joan hung over the couch, "you take a couple of winks. I'm going out to get—a steak."
"A what?" Patricia regarded Joan gravely. "A brand-new steak for me? Joan, you must be mad!"
"Pat, lie down and dream a minute or two. A steak, fried potatoes, a vegetable, and dessert with coffee, cheese, crackers—and—and——" Joan was putting on her hat while she spoke and Patricia was sniffing adorably.
A half hour later Joan crept noiselessly back, her arms full of bundles. Patricia lay fast asleep on the couch.
Sleep does revealing things, and in spite of her hurry, Joan stopped and looked at the girl lying in the full glare of the electric light.
She was like a weary child. All the hard lines on the thin face were obliterated; the soft hair fell in cunning curls about the neck and ears; the long lashes rested delicately on the fair skin.
All the world stains were covered by the sweet presence of Patricia's youth, which had stolen forth in slumber time.
Then it was that Joan discovered that she was crying. Big tears were rolling down her cheeks, and in her heart was growing a new, vital emotion—a selfless, nameless, urging tide of protection for something weak and helpless.
When the meal was prepared Joan kissed Patricia awake.
The girl sat up and gazed dazedly at the small table drawn to the couch, at the candles burning on it, at the covered dishes from which crept the most bewildering smells.
"The god of the famishing—bless you!" whispered Patricia and fell to the joy of the meal with the abandon of the starved.
She ate and drank and smoked. She let Joan wait upon her and dispose of the débris. She even directed Joan to the closet where her kimono and slippers were; she let Joan undress her and put them on.
"How thin you are, Pat lovey!" Here Joan kissed a white shoulder.
"A mere bag of bones, Joan lamb, but they are easy to carry around."
"And such ducks of feet, Pat, I never saw such cunning feet. They do not look big enough to be of use."
"They'll carry me as far as I have to go, Joan, and take it from me, I'm not keen for a prolonged trip. It's too much trouble to keep yourself alive to want to spin it out."
"Oh, Pat! Hasn't my dinner done you any good?" Joan smoothed the soft, fluffy curls tenderly.
"Why, you old darling," Patricia broke forth, "you've given me a glimpse of what would make it worth while—the trip, I mean. That's the trouble. I get the glimpse, acquire the taste, and then I wake up to—sawdust. Oh! good God, Joan."
Joan rose and turned off the lights; she left the candles burning and sat down on a stool by Patricia.
After a while Patricia reached for her cigarettes and spoke as if several big things had not occurred. She gurgled as a mischievous child might who had stolen jam and escaped detection.
"Your man, Joan," she began puffing away, "is named Kenneth Raymond. In tracking him I resorted first to Hannah Leland, society editor ofFroth. Hannah stores up items about the upper crust as a squirrel does nuts. Her articles always have background; she's let in everywhere because folks are afraid to shut her out. She can see more through keyholes than others do through barn doors, and her scent is—phenomenal!"
Joan hugged her knees and looked grave.
"I—I hate to snoop, Pat," she whispered.
"You don't have to—I got Hannah's snoops for you. They're innocent enough—really, they're the soundest of sound little nuts.
"Mrs. Tweksbury had a romance! Don't grin, Joan. She didn't always look like a squaw in front of a tobacco shop—they say she was rather a stunner. She married Tweksbury before she got the bit in her mouth—afterward she clutched it good and proper and trotted the course according to the rules.
"Then came Raymond—this man's father. He somehow got it over to Mrs. Tweksbury—the real thing, you know, and she reached and got it over tohim, that it was up to them to—keep it clean. Gee! Joan, her past sounds like a tract with all the sobs left out and a lot of iron put in.
"Raymond, in a year or two, married a woman who lived only long enough to produce this man upon whose trail we're scouting. This Kenneth was a measly little offspring and his mother's people undertook to give him a chance to live. He picked up and he and his father became pals—Hannah rooted out a picture of them riding horseback. Then the father was thrown from his horse and killed right before the eyes of the boy, and that put him back years—he barely escaped. I don't believe he would have, from accounts, if Mrs. Tweksbury hadn't butted in at that point and made it a matter of honour to the boy to—to—carry on!
"Well, once he mountedthathorse he rode it as he did all others—hard and grim. He never played in all his life. He's been making good. Society he loathes; women do not exist for him, outside of Mrs. Tweksbury. I bet he knowsherpast and is paying back for his dad—he's like that.
"Well, when I'd got everything Hannah had in her safe I had a burning desire to have a look at Mr. Kenneth Raymond myself. So this afternoon I went to his office——"
"Pat!" cried Joan. "Oh! Pat, how could you?"
"Easiest thing in the world, my lamb. You see, the chance of viewing a human being—with one fortune in his pocket and another coming to him when Mrs. Tweksbury letsgo—actually on a job holding it down like grim death—was a sight to gladden the heart of a tramp like me. I sallied down to Wall Street and had some fun.
"I found his building without a moment's delay and I casually asked the elevator boy where Mr. Raymond's office was, and the little chap grew effusive—either Mr. Raymond is lavish with tips, or the human touch, for his goings and comings are meat to that kid.
"He told me I had better hustle, for at four-thirty every day Mr. Raymond beat it! The boy was an artist in word-painting. He described my man as a real toff, none of your little yappers. He's going to haul in the pile and playing honest-to-God—fair, too!"
Joan burst out laughing. Patricia mimicked the ribald manner of the boy deliciously.
Patricia nodded her thanks and went on:
"Well, I hung around his corridor for ten minutes, Joan; and at four-thirty exactly his door opened and I had timed myself so perfectly that he tumbled over me and nearly knocked me down.
"He has better manners than you might expect from such a deadly prompt person. He steadied me and looked positively concerned when he realized what a pretty, helpless little thing I am!" Patricia gave a wicked wink and lighted her fifth cigarette.
"I told him I was looking for —— and I made up a preposterous name; and he puckered his lofty brow and said he couldn't recall any such name in the building, and then I told him I had about concluded that I had the wrong address, and he offered to look the name up for me, but I sighed and said that it was too late. My man always left his office at three-forty-five and that I would have to come again.
"We went down in the elevator together, the boy winking all the way down at me—and—that's all, Joan, except that you've got to go careful with Mr. Kenneth Raymond. You don't want to hurt that fairy godmother of his; she hasn't had many things of her own in life, and I do insist that while one is grabbing it's better to grab where there is a flock thanpick a ewe-lamb. Besides, this Kenneth Raymond hasn't begun to understand himself—he's been too busy understanding life. Have a heart, Joan!"
Joan looked up sedately.
"Isn't it queer, Pat, but now that I know him he doesn't seem interesting in the least. He's priggish and conceited; he's a poser, too. It is too bad, Pat, for you to tire yourself out and get such a—a dry stick for your pains."
Patricia regarded Joan for a full minute and then she remarked:
"You had better go home and get to bed, child. And look here—I give you this advice free: a fire lighted by an idiot can do as much damage as any other kind of a fire."
"Thanks, Pat. I'll remember that when I—play around dry sticks. Good-night, you old, funny Pat, and thank you."
Joan bent and kissed the top of Patricia's head.
After that evening with Patricia Joan clung to Sylvia with unusual tenacity. She also went to see a well-known teacher of music and got his opinion of her voice.
"Your voice needs nearly everything to be done for it that can be done to a voice," the professor frankly told her, "but youhavea voice, beyond doubt. You have feeling, too, almost too much of it; it is feeling uncontrolled, perhaps not understood.
"If you are willing to give years to it you will be a singer."
The man thought that he was killing hope in the girl before him, but to his surprise she raised her eyes seriously to him and said:
"I am a working girl, but I am saving for the chance of doing what you suggest. I will begin next winter. I think I know that I shall never be great, but I believe I will sing some day."
The man bowed her out with deep respect.
When Joan told of her interview Sylvia was delighted, and Patricia, who had happened in for a cup of tea, looked relieved.
"Of course you'll sing, Joan," she said, enthusiastically,"and if you don't turn your talent to account you'll bring the wrath of God down upon you. That Brier Bush is well enough to start you—but you're pretty well through with it, I fancy."
Patricia was arraigning herself with Sylvia for reasons best known to herself. She had the air of a very discreet young woman.
Long did Joan lie awake that night on her narrow bed. She had raised the shade, and the stars were splendid in the blue-black sky.
She was happier, sadder, than she had ever been in her life before—more confused.
She wanted Doris and Nancy and the shelter and care; she wanted her own broad path and the thrill that her own sense of power gave her. She wanted to cling close to Sylvia; she was afraid of Patricia but felt the girl's influence in her deepest depths.
In short, Joan was waking to the meaning of life, and it had taken very little to awaken her, for her time had come.
Three days later Kenneth Raymond ate his luncheon at the Brier Bush and spoke no word to Joan. The following day he nodded to her, and the day after that he said, in a low voice as she passed:
"I want to have you read my palm again."
"Once is enough," Joan replied.
"I have forgotten what you said," Raymond broke in; "besides, I have another reason. You've set me on a line of thought—you've got to clear the track."
"Oh, very well." And Joan sat down and took the broad hand in hers.
"I've read a lot of stuff since I saw you first," Raymond began. "There is something in this palmistry."
"I just take the words and play with them," Joan replied. "I truly do not know whether there is anything in it—or not. It is only fun here."
"Look at me!"
This Joan refused to do.
"There is that line in my hand like yours"—Raymond was in dead earnest—"what—does it mean?"
"I told you what it means," Joan faltered.
"Do you want me to read your palm?" Raymond bent farther across the table.
"Yes, if you can!" Joan was on her mettle. She instantly spread her hands to the bent gaze and prayed that no one would take the tables near by. It was late; the rush was over and Elspeth Gordon, for the moment, had left the room.
"You're not what you appear," Raymond began.
"Whois?" Joan flung this out defiantly.
"You're daring a good deal—to taste life. You're testing your line; making it prove itself—Ihaven't dared!"
Joan did not speak, and her small hands were as quiet as little dead hands in the strong ones which held them.
"Does it pay—the daring, the testing?" Raymond's eyes, dark and unfaltering, tried to pierce the veil.
"Yes—I think so."
"You make me want to try—do you dare me?"
"It does not interest me at all what you do." Joan was like ice now. "You evidently misunderstand our play here. Let go of my hands!"
"I haven't finished yet. You've got to hear me out."
"Let go of my hands!"
"All right—but will you stay here?"
"I'll stay until I want to go."
"Very well. I know I'm a good deal of a fool—but sometimes a slight thing turns the stream. I thought it was all rot—a play that you'd made up—this line business." Raymond spoke hurriedly. "Of course I'd heard of it, but I never gave it a thought. Just for sport, after that first day, I got bushels of books and I've been sitting up nights reading. There's something in it!"
Joan laughed. The man looked like an excited boy who had started a toy engine going.
"See here! They say your left hand is what you start with; your right hand what you have made of yourself—that linethat you have and I have is in my right hand—is yours in both?"
Joan tried not to look—but ended in looking.
"No," she replied. "I reckon it only comes in the right hand with anybody."
"No, it doesn't; the lady I was with the other day hadn't it in either hand!"
"Isn't she lucky?" Joan laughed.
"No, she isn't!" Raymond spoke solemnly. "Only the people who have it—are."
"I'm going now." Joan got up; and so did Raymond.
"See here," he said, bluntly. "I've never had a bit of adventure in my life—I'm a stick. I don't know what you will think of me; I don't care much; but you've started something in me; it's nothing I'm ashamed of, either, and you needn't be afraid. But won't you talk to me some time—about—well, this stunt and some other things?"
"Certainly not!" Joan drew back and added: "and I am not in the least afraid."
CHAPTER XIV"But after it comes our lives are changed."
"But after it comes our lives are changed."
And just when winter was turning to spring in the southern hills something happened to Nancy.
The winter at Ridge House had revealed many things. It had been lonely, and it had brought conviction about Joan's absence. The girl was not coming back to them, that must be an accepted fact. She would, undoubtedly, when she became adjusted, return on visits—but they must not expect her as a fixture, for she was succeeding! This realization had caused Doris many silent hours of thought, but never once had she known bitterness or a sense of injustice. Joan had as much right as any other human soul to her own development. Doris was glad that Joan had never known what Nancy knew about the need for coming to The Gap. The knowing would have held Joan back. With Nancy it was different. Nancy was not held from anything she wanted.
David Martin spent as much time as he could at Ridge House. He came to the hard conclusion, at length, that Doris, in her new environment, had reached her high-water mark. Detached from strain and care, living quietly, and largely in the open, she had responded almost at once—to her limit, and there she remained. How long this improved state would hold was the main thing to be considered; nothing more comforting could be looked for.
"Then, what next?" thought David, and his jaw grew grim.
And Nancy, with a winter far too quiet and uneventful even for her, had contrived to do some thinking for herself. Not for the world would the girl have accepted Joan's choice. The safe and sheltered life was wholly to her taste, but shewanted others to fall into line. Like many another, she was not content to hold her own views, she was unhappy unless she was approved and imitated. She wanted the spice and thrill of Joan in her life; Joan was part of it all—the rightful part. With this Nancy took to self-pity in order to establish her claim.
"Why should I be taken for granted and be obliged to give up all the fun and brightness while Joan does as she pleases?"
Doctor Martin, even Doris, expected Nancy to come when she was called and go to bed when the clock struck ten, while Joan could follow her own sweet will.
At this point Nancy re-read Joan's letters—all letters from Joan were common property. If ever there was innocent jugglery Joan's letters were. They were vivid and interesting; they carried one along on a stream as clear as crystal, but they arrived at nothing.
The studio was left to the imagination of the reader. Doris saw it as a safe and artistic home for earnest young girlhood; Nancy saw it as an open sesame to fun, rather wilder than school bats, but with the same delicious tang. Doctor Martin viewed the place as most dangerous, and those young people gathered there as perilous offsprings of a much-deplored departure from conservative youth.
"Fancy Joan helping in a restaurant!" groaned Nancy when Joan had particularized about her "job." "Joan, of all people!"
"It will be good practice," Doris remarked in reply. "When Joan marries, she will have had some experience."
"Marry?" David Martin broke in—he was on one of his flying visits. "If anything could unfit a girl for marriage, the thing Joan is doing is that."
"Very well," Doris said, quietly; "marriage isn't everything, David."
Doris was beginning to defend Joan, and it hurt her to be obliged to do so. She did not regret the relinquishing of the girl, but she had hoped, in her deepest love, that the experiment might either prove a failure or that it might carry Joan to a peak—not a dead level. It was beginning to seem thatthe sacrifice on her part meant simply separating Joan from her—not giving Joan to anything worth while.
There were moments, rather vague, elusive ones, to be sure, when Doris turned from Joan and contemplated Nancy.
"The child is perfectly content and happy," she thought; "but ought she to be so—at her age? Nancy should marry—she will, of course, some day.——" Then Doris wondered whom Nancy could marry.
"Next winter I may be able to go to New York," she comforted herself; "or I'll send Nancy to Emily Tweksbury; the child shall have her life chance."
But with Doris the inevitable was happening: she was sliding gracefully down the inclined plane which others had arranged for her. She was making no effort, because none was required of her. The peace and comfort of the old house in restoring comparative health had placed its mark upon her. It was wonderful to lie on the porch and watch the beauty of The Gap change from season to season. The sound of the river was always in her ears, and there was a dramatic appeal in kneeling at the altar in the tiny chapel to pray for them whom she loved so tenderly.
And Nancy was so sweet and companionable! Poor little Nancy! She was playing Doris's minor accompaniment as once she had played Joan's more vivid one. But the youth in her was surging and rebelling—not against love and service, but inequality.
"Joan should bear half, anyway!"
Just what it was that Joan should share Nancy could not have told, she simply knew that she wanted Joan—wanted what Joan represented.
With the passing of winter and the early coming of spring Nancy and Doris reacted to the charm of The Gap. The shut-in days were past. Almost before one could hope for it, the dogwood and laurel and azalea burst into bloom and the windows and doors were flung back in welcome to spring.
The grounds around Ridge House needed much attention, and Doris contrived to make Uncle Jed believe that he wasthe gardener. Nancy, surrounded by dogs, no longer pups, wandered on the Little Road and timidly took to the trails. It was quite exciting to go a little farther each day into the mysterious gloom that was pierced by the golden sunlight. Gradually the girl felt the joy of the mountaineer; vaguely the emotion took shape.
What lay just around the curve ahead? What could one see from that mysterious top? Was there a "top"? If one went on, overcoming obstacles, what might there not be? These ambitions were quite outside the by-paths once or twice taken with Father Noble.
Doris was glad to see the light and colour in Nancy's pretty face; she was grateful, but inclined to be anxious when Nancy wandered far.
"Is it quite safe?" she questioned Jed.
"Dat chile is as safe as she is with Gawd," Jed reverently replied—and perhaps she was, for God's ways are often like the trails of the high places—hidden until one treads them.
Nancy, by May, had lost all fear of the solitude, and with seeking eyes she wandered farther and higher day by day. She brought back wonderful flowers and ferns to Ridge House; she grew eloquent about the "lost cabins" as she called them, secreted from any gaze but that which, like hers, sought them out. She took gifts to the old people and timid children.
"It's such fun, Aunt Dorrie," she explained, "to win the baby things. At first they are so frightened. They run and hide—they never cry or scream, and bye and bye they come to meet me; they bring me little treasures, the darlings! One gave me a tiny chicken just hatched."
But beyond the last cabin that Nancy conquered was a hard, rocky trail that led, apparently, to the sharp crest called by Uncle Jed Thunder Peak.
"Does any one live on Thunder Peak?" asked Nancy of Jed.
The old man wrinkled his brow. He had not thought of Becky Adams for years; at best the woman had been but a landmark, and landmarks had a habit of disappearing.
"No, there ain't no reason for folks to live on Thunder Peak. It's a right sorry place for living."
Jed found comfort, now he came to think of it, in knowing that Becky had departed.
"Whar?" he asked himself, when Nancy, followed by two of her dogs, went away; "whar dat old Aunt Becky disappeared to?" Then he pulled himself together and went to deliver the message Nancy had confided to him.
"Tell Aunt Doris I'm going for a long walk and not to worry if I'm not home for luncheon."
Jed repeated this message over and over aloud. He fumbled it, corrected it, and then finally gripped it long enough to speak the words automatically to Doris and Doctor Martin.
"That old fellow," Martin said, looking keenly after him, "is going to go all to pieces some day like the one-hoss shay. He looks about a hundred. I wonder how old he is?"
Doris smiled.
"I imagine," she said, "that he is not as old as he looks. He told me that his grandfather was married in short trousers and never lived to get in long ones. They begin life so early and just shuffle through it."
"You find that thing in the South more than anywhere else." Martin was nodding understandingly. "It's like a dream—more like looking at life than living it. I suppose when they die they wake up and stretch and have a laugh at what they feared and passed through in their sleep."
"We will all do that, more or less, Davey."
"More or less—yes!" Then suddenly:
"Doris, I think you can plan on three months in New York next winter. My boy is coming on from the West. I'm going to take my shingle down and hang his up."
"Really, David? Take yoursdown?" Doris looked dubious.
"Yes. I'll stay around with him, but I'm going to put my shack on the map right under Blowing Rock. I've brought the plans to show you."
Martin took them from his pocket and sat down besideDoris, and while they became absorbed, Nancy was climbing her way up Thunder Trail.
Before she realized that she had come so far, she was in the open, the sunlight almost blinding her. She started back and screwed her eyes to make sure that she saw aright. Not only was she out of the woods but she was on the edge of a trim garden plot; there was a dilapidated cabin just beyond it, and an ancient creature standing in the doorway.
At first Nancy could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. She had never seen any one so old, and the eyes in the shrunken face were like burning holes—caverns with fire in them!
Nancy was too stunned to move or speak. Her knowledge of the hills forbade the usual fear, but a supernatural terror seized her and she waited for the old woman—she decided it was a woman—to make the first advance. This the woman presently did. She turned, and with trembling haste took up a rusty spade by the door; she shuffled toward a corner of the opening and began to dig at a mound that was covered with loose earth. Weakly, fearfully, the claw-like hands worked while Nancy stood fascinated and bewildered. Finally the old woman came toward her and there was a tragic pathos on the wrinkled face that tended to quiet the girl's rising fear. The cracked voice was pleading:
"How did yo' get out?" The words came anxiously and with difficulty, like the words of a deaf mute that had been taught to speak mechanically.
Nancy smiled weakly and looked silently at the speaker.
"Been tryin' to find hit?" the strained voice went on. "Yo' better lie still, Zalie—yo' larned enough, chile!"
And then, because the rigid girl did not speak, the old woman drew nearer.
Nancy, believing herself in the presence of a harmlessly insane creature, rallied her courage and sought to soothe, not excite, the woman.
"I'm lost," she faltered. "I am sorry to have disturbed you; I am going now."
She half turned, keeping her eyes on her companion.
"Come—set a bit," pleaded the crackling voice; "come warm yo'self before I tuck yo' up again. How cold yo' little hands are! Po' little Zalie, jes' naturally—tryin' to find hit."
There are limits of fear beyond which, for self-preservation, a kind of calm strength lies that suggests ways of safety. Nancy did not run or cry out, she did not withdraw her icy hands from the brown, claw-like fingers that held them; she even smiled a faint, ghastly smile that reassured the old woman. Her eyes softened; her voice almost crooned.
"Us-all is safe—no one comes nigh—it's comfortin' ter tech yo', Zalie, an' hit is well placed. Through all the years I done wanted to tell yo'; I've said it by yo' grave many's the time, chile——" Becky waited a moment. She looked cautiously about the sun-lighted place and peered into the gloom of the forest-edge, then she looked again at Nancy, while her thin hand pointed to the mound under the tree across the bit of open. Nancy shuddered.
"What is—that?" she gasped.
"Yo' little grave, Zalie—yo' little bed. I 'tend it loving and proper; I take a look-in onct so often—but yo' is cute, like yo' was when yo' stole out in the moonshine to larn. You done got out yo' grave when I wasn't watching. Come, now, let me put yo' back!"
The old woman turned, and in that instant Nancy fled like a spirit. Noiselessly, swiftly she disappeared. She heard the crackling voice behind her:
"Jes' creep back by yourself, eh, Zalie?" And then came the sound of metal patting down the loose earth on the mound by the solemn trees.
Nancy could never tell what occurred on her descent from Thunder Peak. When she reached The Gap, she found that her dogs had strayed from her: they had either dropped behind or run before. She was not exhausted. She felt strong and calm. The adventure was assuming a thrilling proportion now she was at a safe distance. But she had no intention of telling Doris. Oddly enough, she felt the need of keeping it secret. She shivered as she recalled the touch of the claw-fingers and the sound of the dry, hard voice.She had a growing sense of uncleanness, now that the shock was wearing off. It almost seemed that a poison had been left upon her that was eating its way into depths of her being. She was afraid that someone would know; she trembled when old Jed remarked:
"Dis yere little ole pup don slink back like he seed a hant and he had burrs stickin' to his sorry-lookin' hide—seems he was off the scent. No 'count!"
Jed gave the hound a push with his foot, but he had set Nancy's nerves tingling.
"I lost the scent myself," she said, striving for calmness. And then relying upon the old man's simplicity she asked, pointing across The Gap:
"What did you say was the name of that peak, Uncle Jed?" She wanted to make very sure!
The old man raised his bleary eyes and looked troubled. He was conscious of something stirring in the dark of his mind.
"Thunder," he replied, then he laughed, and the gold in his few remaining teeth glistened. Cackling and shuffling along beside Nancy, he muttered—his mind again on old Becky:
"Her—as was—or her as is! Maybe she ain't awas—'pears like she can't be anis." Then he grew calmer and faced Nancy. "Stay away from Thunder, chile. 'Tain't safe, Thunder ain't—only fer hants."
"I'll stay away, Uncle Jed," Nancy promised fervently, and tried to laugh off the foolish, superstitious fear that the old man's words had aroused.
Jed went off muttering—he was strangely disturbed.
As the first impression of her adventure wore off Nancy was surprised to find that a new fear and restlessness oppressed her. It was like the after effects of a blow that had stunned her.
She slept badly—a terrific electric storm swept through The Gap and there seemed, to the frightened girl in the west chamber, noises never heard before. Creaking steps in the hall; calls in the wind and sharp summons as the branchesof the trees lashed the windows and the blazing lightning shattered the darkness with blinding flashes.
Nancy crept downstairs the next morning pale and shaken. She rallied, however, when she saw Doris.
Doris was greatly affected by electric storms and was lying on a couch by the hearth. Doctor Martin was sitting beside her, and the little breakfast tray, laid for the three, was drawn close.
They ate the meal quietly, and then Martin took up a book to read aloud while Nancy went to her loom.
She huddled over it—there was no other word to describe her crouching, lax attitude; her face was drawn and haggard. Doris watched her; she was not listening to Martin. Suddenly she felt a kind of shock as she realized that she was thinking of Nancy as an old woman!
As the spring holds all the promise of autumn in its delicate shading, so youth often depicts the time on ahead when line and colour will take on the aspect of age.
It was startling. Doris almost cried aloud. Nancy old! Nancy lean and shrivelled with her pretty back bent to—the burden of life!
Then Doris laughed nervously, and Martin started. The book he was reading from was no laughing matter.
"Forgive me, David—I was not listening; I was—planning. You know how agile a mind can be after—a bad headache?" This was not convincing to Martin and he scowled.
"What were you planning?" he asked, and Nancy at her wheel turned her head.
"Nancy's winter in town. She must have loads of pretty things, and I will open the old house—perhaps we can lure Joan also, and have the time of our lives. How would you like that Nan, girl?"
The tone was pleading, almost imploring. Doris had a sense of having wronged the girl, somehow.
"Oh, Aunt Dorrie, I should love it!" Nancy came across the room, all suggestion of age gone. "That is—if it will not harm you, dear."
"I think it would do you both good," Martin spoke earnestly; "I begin to realize what you once said, Doris. One has to have the country in his blood to be of the country. You must have change and"—turning to Nancy—"give this child a chance to—to show off."
He reached out and pinched Nancy's pale cheek.
"Run out," he commanded, suddenly; "run out into the sunshine and forget the storm. You're exactly like your aunt—conquer it, conquer it, child, while conquering is part of the programme."
Nancy managed a smile, leaned and kissed Doris, waved a salute to Martin, and fled from the room.
"David, somehow I've hurt that girl." Doris spoke wearily.
"How?" Martin questioned.
Doris looked up and shook her head.
"How have I, Davey? I cannot tell."
"She's not hurt—but she's in line to be sacrificed if we don't look out. I'm the guilty one—I thought only of you."
And then the two planned for the winter.
Nancy took her dogs and went for a walk—a safe and near walk. The colour crept into her pale face, but her eyes had a furtive look and every noise in the bushes set her trembling. She had a conscious feeling of wanting to get away—far, far away. The Gap frightened her; she remembered old stories about it. Suddenly she looked up at The Rock and her breath almost stopped.
Fascinated, she stared; her eyes seemed to be following an invisible finger—The Ship was on The Rock!
Try as she might, Nancy could eat but little lunch. The small table was on the porch. Doris had recovered from her headache and was particularly gay—the planning for Nancy had done more for her than it had for Nancy herself.
"You had better go to your room and lie down," Martin suggested, eyeing the girl.
"Yes, I will, Uncle David."
But once in the dim quiet of the west wing chamber fresh memories assailed her.
This was the room, she recalled, into which Mary had seen—how absurd it was!—the dolls turned to babies. Suchfoolish, childish memories to cling and grip! How much better to be like Joan and laugh away the idle tales! Joan had always laughed—she was laughing now somewhere, looking her gayest and forgetting troubling things.
Then Nancy cried, not bitterly or enviously, but because she was tired of playing Joan's accompaniment!
Presently she got up and bathed.
"I'm going to Mary's!" she suddenly thought, and then felt as if she had been getting ready to go all day. She felt deceitful, sly, in spite of her constant reiteration that it had just occurred to her.
She left the house unseen; she hid behind a bush when she saw the hounds raise their heads from the sunny porch—she wanted to go alone to the cabin across the river.
It was three o'clock when she reached it, and she had hurried along the short trail, too. Mary was not in sight, but the living-room door was open and Nancy stood looking in with a baffling sense of unreality; the place looked different; almost as if she had never seen it before. She mentally took note of the furniture as though checking the pieces off.
The big bed, gay with patchwork quilts—Nancy knew all the patterns: Sunrise on the Peaks; Drunkard's Path; the Rainbow—Mary was making up for all that her forebears had neglected to do. Early and late she spun and wrought—she piled her bed high with the results of her labours; she covered the floor with marvellous rugs; she filled her chest of drawers with linen—Nancy glanced at the chest and fancied that she smelt the lavender that was spread on the folded treasures.
How the candlesticks shone; how sweet and clean it was, how safe!
Nancy stepped inside and sat down. The logs were laid ready for the lighting on the cracked but dustless hearth.
And then, quite unconsciously, the girl began to croon an old song, swaying back and forth, her arms folded and her eyes peaceful and waiting.
Mary, returning from her garden planting, stood by the door, unnoticed, and grimly took in the scene.
What it was that disturbed and angered her she could not have told, but she could not see Nancy sitting so—and—and—looking as she looked!
Mary strode across the room, causing Nancy to start nervously.
"What ails yo'?" Mary asked, "you look powerful sorry."
"I'm—I'm frightened, Mary."
Oddly enough, it was easy to speak frankly to the stern, plain woman across the hearth. And it was easy for Mary, after her first glance, to be ready with anything that could comfort the girl near her.
"What frightened yo'—the storm? I thought 'bout you."
"Yes—the storm, but—Mary, who lives on Thunder Peak?"
Some people are unnerved by surprise; Mary was always steadied.
"There ain't any one," she said, quietly, and leaned over to light the fire; the afternoon was growing chilly.
"Who used to live there, Mary? There is a cabin there."
Mary did not flinch, but she was feeling her way, always a little ahead of Nancy.
"There was an old woman lived there—long ago; she died."
"Are you sure, Mary?"
"I'm right certain. She plumb broke down when she was ninety, and that was years back."
"Mary, there's a grave there!"
"Yes; when folks die they just naturally have a grave." A cold, icy light flickered in Mary's eyes; she reached and took up another log and carefully placed it.
"Mary, I went to Thunder Peak, I was following the trail. I came suddenly into the open and I saw an old woman. She touched me"—here Nancy shuddered. "She—she seemed to—to think she knew me. She called me a queer name. I cannot remember it. I was terribly frightened. Are youquite, quite sure the old woman died, Mary?"
"She died, she surely died. Old women ain't such precious sights among the hills. Like as not it was someone from Huckleberry Bald, t'other side of Thunder, as has taken over the deserted cabin and just wants to frighten folks, like you, off. They are mighty cute, those old women on Bald. They want their own place, and—and they sometimes shoot at any one that comes nigh."
The voice and words were cool and even. Nancy drew a long breath.
"Oh, Mary," she said, "you just take all the fear away. I kept feeling that old hand on my arm as if it were dragging me; the feeling is gone now. Jed said"—here Nancy wavered—"he said the place was haunted."
"Jed was a born fool and yo' can't do much with that kind. They grows more fool-like at the end."
Nancy laughed.
"I'm just a silly myself," she said rising and stretching her pretty arms over her head as if awakening from sleep. Then:
"Mary, I'm going to New York next winter. Going to have—a wonderful time."
And now Mary looked up and her eyes brightened.
"At last," she muttered; "you're to have your chance!"
"My—chance, Mary?"
"Your chance—same as Miss Joan."
And a moment later Mary was watching Nancy as she went singing down the river road.
"Gawd!" she muttered, and her yellowish skin paled. "Gawd! What has she come back for?—what?" and Mary's eyes lifted to Thunder Peak. Later she made ready for a long walk—she knew the trail to Thunder Peak would be hard after the storm.