It's very expensive learningnotto 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 notonmy shield, I hope, but with it in fairly good condition.
It's very expensive learningnotto 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 notonmy 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 wonderingwhy. 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.
CHAPTER XX"It Is Felicity on Her Wings."
"It Is Felicity on Her Wings."
The old New York house was once more opened and the fountain set free. Birds sang and flowers bloomed, but Joan was not there and for a blank but silent moment both Doris and Nancy wondered if the lack were to defeat them. The moment was appalling but it passed.
Felicity brooded over them and her wings did not droop.
Martin, with his sound common sense, came to the fore among the first. He was never more alert. His nephew, Clive Cameron, was entrenched in Martin's office and home—his name, alone, shone on the new sign.
"I've flung you in neck and crop, Bud, because I believe in you and have told my patients so. Sink or swim, but you've got clear water to do it in. I'll hang around—make my city headquarters with you; lend myself to you; but for the rest I'm going to do exactly what I want to do—for a time."
Cameron regarded his uncle as the young often do the older—yearningly, covetously, tenderly.
"I—I think I understand about Miss Fletcher, Uncle Dave," he said.
"I had hoped you did, boy. And remember this—it's only when a woman gets so into your system that she cannot be purged out, that you dare to be sure."
"But, Uncle Dave, the knowledge—what has it done for you?"
"You'll never be able to understand that, Bud, until you're past the age of asking the question."
And having settled that to his satisfaction, Martin turned resolutely to what threatened Doris and Nancy.
He meant to see fair play. Doris could be depended upon for a few strenuous months if her friends turned to and helped her as they should.
Nancy must no longer be sacrificed!
"If there is any sense in this tomfoolery about Joan," Martin mused, "it must apply to Nancy also."
Martin was extremely fond of Nancy. He often wished she would not lean so heavily, but then his spiritual ideal of a woman was after Nancy's design. Of Joan he disapproved, and Doris was a type apart.
"If we can marry Nancy off," plotted Martin—and he had his mind's eye on his nephew—"I'll bring Sister on from the West and get Doris to share Ridge House with us. Queer combination, but safe!"
And then he saw, as in a vision, the peaceful years on ahead. He would hold Doris's hand down the westering way. Hold it close and warm; never looking for more than the blessed companionship. And his sister, happy and content, would share the way with them and Nancy's children—would they be Clive's also?—would gladden all their hearts. And Joan?—well, Martin did not feel that Joan needed his architectural aid—she was chopping and hacking her own design.
At this point Martin sought Emily Tweksbury and bullied her into action.
Mrs. Tweksbury had not unpacked her trunks yet and was sorely depressed about Raymond.
"I wish I had stuck to Maine," she deplored, "and devoted myself to the boy. He looks like a fallen angel.
"Ken, what have you been doing to yourself?" she had asked.
"Just pegging away, Aunt Emily."
"Ken," Mrs. Tweksbury had an awful habit of felling the obvious by a blow of her common-sense hatchet; "Ken, you've got to be married. You're not the kind to float around town and enjoy it—and you are the kind that would enjoy the other."
"Oh! I'm having a bully time, Aunt Emily."
"That's not true, Ken. Life lacks salt; you look the need of it and I blame myself for going abroad."
"I'm glad you went!" fervently said Raymond.
"You are, eh? Well, I'm not going again until you're safely married."
At this Raymond found that he could laugh, and just then the hatchet fell, for Doctor Martin had entered the arena and Mrs. Tweksbury had agreed to help.
"Do you remember my speaking of that niece of Miss Fletcher's last spring?" she asked.
"Yes. I do recall it. Wasn't she to come here—or something like that?"
"Yes, she was, but she isn't. Doris Fletcher has brought her girl up to town herself and the old house is opened. I called there the other day. Ken, that girl is the loveliest thing I ever saw!"
"Is she?" Raymond was sitting on the edge of the table in Mrs. Tweksbury's dressing room. When she got through talking he was going to bed. He had to stifle a yawn.
"Yes, she is. She's not only the prettiest girl I've seen for many a year, but she'sthe girl."
"For what?" Raymond swung his lifted foot while he balanced with the other.
"For you, Ken!" The crash unsettled Raymond and he brought his free foot to the floor.
"Oh! come," he blurted; "don't begin that sort of rubbish, Aunt Emily. I thought you were above that."
"I'm not, Ken. I would go slow if I dared, but this girl will be snapped up before we get in touch with her, unless we act quick."
"Aunt Emily! For heaven's sake, is the girl hanging about open-mouthed for the first hook tossed to her?"
"No. But, Ken, she is the kind that men want—the kind they hold sacred in their souls and hardly dare hope ever to see in the flesh. The girl made me want to grab her. I remember as a child she was charming—she's a perfect, but very human, woman now."
With this Mrs. Tweksbury dilated upon what Doris had confided of Nancy's loyal and devoted life.
"You see, Ken," Mrs. Tweksbury ran on, "the girl is like a rare thing that you cannot debate much about, and once lost, the opportunity will never come again. I've gone off about her, Ken."
"I should say you had! Will you smoke, Aunt Emily?"
"Yes!"
To see Emily Tweksbury smoke was about as incongruous as to see an antique remodelled to bring it up to date; but the smoke calmed her.
"You will call with me upon her, won't you, Ken?"
"With pleasure."
Raymond felt that any compromise would be well to offer.
"I'll do my best by her, too, Aunt Emily. I rather shy at perfect types; girls, at the best, make me skittish. They make me think of myself and then I get gawky."
"You'll forget yourself when you see Nancy Thornton."
"Nancy—queer old name for a modern girl!" The two puffed away like old cronies—Raymond had got into a chair now and Mrs. Tweksbury had relaxed, also.
"She isn't modern!"
"No? What then, Aunt Emily?"
"Ken, she's just woman. She appears just once so often, like a prophet or something, that keeps your faith alive. She's the kind that the Bible calls 'blessed,' and if she didn't reappear now and then I think the race would perish."
"Ugh!" grunted Raymond. Then added: "Calm down, Aunt Emily, go slow. When you lose your head you're apt to buck."
Mrs. Tweksbury laughed at this and helped herself to another cigarette.
It was a week later that Raymond met Nancy at his aunt's dinner table. He knew she was coming. At least he thought he knew—but when he saw her he felt that he had not expected her at all.
It was a small party: Doris Fletcher, Doctor Martin, young Doctor Cameron, and Nancy.
Nancy came into the dim old drawing room behind young Cameron. It was that fact that attracted Raymond first. He recalled what Mrs. Tweksbury had said about the type being the ideal of man—or something like that—and Cameron, whom he had just met a few weeks before, had apparently got into action.
After Nancy came Doctor Martin—it was as if the male element surrounded the girl.
She was rather breath-taking and radiant. She wore a coral-pink satin gown, very short and narrow. Her pretty feet were shod in pink stockings and satin slippers. Her dainty arms and neck were white and smooth, and her glorious fair hair was held in place by a string of coral beads.
There are a good many platitudes that are really staggering facts.
"Caught on the rebound," is one.
Raymond was more open to certain emotions than he had ever been in his life. He was sore and bruised; he had lost several beliefs in himself—and was completely ignorant of the big thing that had given him new strength.
He had had the vision of passion through the wrong lens; he had been blinded by the close range, but heknewwhat the vision was. In that he had the advantage of poor Joan.
His youth cried out for Youth; he wanted what he had all but lost the right to have. But he in no sense just then wanted Nancy; it was what she represented. She was what Mrs. Tweksbury had said, the kind of girl that men enshrine in their souls and never replace even when they gladly accept a substitute.
"If only——" and then Raymond's eyes looked queer. He was living over the black hour which he did not realize was the hour of his soul's birth. He'd never have that battle again, he inwardly swore, but that was poor comfort.
And then, while talking to Nancy, he grew very gay and light-hearted, like someone who had made a safe passage past the siren's rocks. Not that it mattered, except that one did not want to be shipwrecked. Of course, Raymond knew,he wouldn't forget while he lived, the other thing just past, but it had not wrecked him.
After that dinner nothing would have happened if all sorts of pressure had not been brought to bear. Raymond was affectionately inclined to be kind to Mrs. Tweksbury because he knew he had wronged her faith in him, though she would never know; so he accompanied her whenever she beckoned, and she beckoned frequently and always toward Nancy.
Then Clive Cameron happened, at the crucial moment, to be on the middle of the stage for the same reasons that Raymond was there. Cameron followed Martin's vigorous beckoning, although he was bored to the limit. He liked Nancy and thought her very beautiful, but Cameron had not enshrined any type of woman—a few men are like that. He knew, because he was young and vital and sane, that he had a shrine, or pedestal, in his make-up and if, at any time, he saw a girl that made him forget, for a moment, the profession that was absorbing him just then, he'd humbly implore her to fill the empty niche and after that he would do the glorifying. But if it pleased his uncle to trot him about, he went with charming grace; and because it did not affect him in the least, he played almost boisterously with Nancy and made her jollier than she had ever been in her life.
He made her forget things! Forget The Gap!
Cameron simply knocked unpleasant memories into limbo; he was like a fresh northwest wind—he revived everyone. He made Doris think of David Martin as she first knew him—and naturally Doris adored Cameron. She came near praying that Nancy might, after a fashion, pay her debts for her. But no! she would not influence Nancy—she must be respected in her beautiful freedom as Joan was in hers.
So Doris widened the field of Nancy's vision, and old friends came happily to the front.
It is not wholly ignoble, the marriage market. To understand the game of life is to be prepared, and women like Doris Fletcher were not entirely self-seeking when they presented their best to what they believed should be the best. Nancy was worthy, as Martin often said, to carry on the truestAmerican tradition of womanhood, so it became a reverent concern to help this matter personally, and nationally, on its course.
Young men swarmed about Nancy because, as Mrs. Tweksbury truly said, theidealwas in their hearts and they were stirred by it.
And Nancy was radiant and lovely. She blossomed and throbbed—she was happy and appreciative. She was charming to everyone, but ran to Cameron for safety and kept her sweet eyes on Raymond.
So secretly did she do this that no one but Cameron suspected it. The perfectly serene atmosphere that surrounded him and Nancy permitted him to understand the state of affairs.
When a girl uses a man as a buffer between her and others he does not confuse things.
For a short time Cameron debated as to which particular man Nancy wanted him to save her for while he was preserving her from the mass. It did not take him long to decide. He grinned at the truth when it struck him. He was surprised, as men usually are, at a woman's choice of males. Cameron liked Raymond; thought him a good sort, but herd-bound.
"But Nancy's got the brand mark, too," he reflected. "They're both headed in the same direction, only Raymond doesn't know it—a woman always finds things out first, and it's up to me, I guess, to lasso Raymond for her."
So Cameron took up the "big brother" burden and steered the unsuspecting Raymond to his fate.
Cameron did this in a masterly way. He blinded everyone except Nancy.
Doris sighed with content, and Martin lifted his eyes in praise and gratitude. Mrs. Tweksbury, like a war-horse smelling powder, saw danger to her plans and quickened Raymond to what was going on.
At first Raymond was relieved—he wished Cameron good luck. Having done that, he began to wonder if he really did?
There was something unutterably sweet about Nancy: shewas so purely the kind of woman that made life a success. Why should he play straight into Cameron's hand? If Nancy really preferred Cameron, why, then—but did she?
This was interesting. He took to watching; presently he concluded that Cameron was a conceited ass.
After a short time Raymond began to feel the pressure of Nancy's little body in his arms—when their dance was over. He began to resent other arms about her. Her eyes were lovely—so blue and sympathetic. She never set a man guessing. Raymond had had enough of guessing!
About that time Mrs. Tweksbury added an urge to her heart's desire that she little suspected.
"Ken," she remarked one morning, "I dropped into the Brier Tea Room yesterday." It was thebrierthat signified the meaning of the place to the old lady.
"Do you remember?"
Raymond nodded. Did henotremember!
"The place is quite ordinary now—but the food is still superior. Miss Gordon has come to her senses."
"Has she?" Raymond asked, lamely.
"Yes. And that girl—do you remember her, Ken?"
Raymond nodded again.
"Just as one might expect," Mrs. Tweksbury rattled on, keeping to her one-tracked idea of things, "the minx ran off with a man, never considering Miss Gordon at all."
"I doubt if Miss Gordon could see any one's side but her own," ventured Raymond.
"Ken, that's unjust. The girl was a little fraud, and I think Miss Gordon is heartily ashamed of herself for having resorted to such cheap methods to get trade. She has young Scotch girls helping her now. No more tricks, says Miss Gordon."
There was a pause.
"I thought for a time, Ken, that that girl was one of our kind—risking far too much. I'm not usually mistaken in blood, but—the creature was a good counterfeit; I'm glad she's gone. Say what you will, we older women know the young man needs protection as well as the young women."
"Oh! Aunt Emily, cut it out!"
Raymond got up and stalked about. This added to Mrs. Tweksbury's uneasiness.
For days after that talk Raymond had his uncomfortable hours. He wished he knew about the girl of the tea room. It was "the girl" now. If she were only unscathed the future would be safer for everyone.
But how could he—Raymond was getting into the meshes—how could he run to safety and happiness and forget, if he had really harmed, in any way, a girl who might have cared? The difference between playing with fire and being burned by fire was clear now.
Had that hour, when the beast in him rampaged, killed forever the ideal she had had? Was she saved by his madness? Or had she been driven on the rocks? If he only knew!
Raymond still had moments when he believed that the girl would materialize in his own safeguarded world. He had seen a resemblance now and then that turned him cold, but when all was said and done there was no reason, no unforgivable reason, for him to exile himself from life.
And when he was in this state of mind, Cameron was like vinegar on a raw wound to him. Cameron's joyousness, born of indifference, passed for assurance based, as Raymond believed, on hisasinineconceit.
"He takes Nancy for granted," Raymond grumbled, "and he need not be too sure—why, only last night——"
Then Raymond recalled the look in Nancy's eyes.
As a matter of fact, while Raymond was no better nor worse than the average young man visiting the marriage market, Nancy had selected him for worship and glorification. He loomed high and then, suddenly, he loomed alone!
There is that in woman which selects for its own. It is not merely the instinct of mating, it is choice, in the main, and makes either for success or failure—but it always has its compensations in that vague, groping sense that calls for its own. The world may look on wondering or dismayed, but the woman, under the crude exterior, clings to the ideal she sought.
With Nancy and Raymond conditions favoured the moment. Nancy had a wide choice and she was radiantly happy. Doris saw to it that the girl should see and hear the best of everything and be free to live her days unfettered.
Raymond had inherited the purest desires for family and home—he had never seen them gratified in his parents' life, so they still lay dormant in his heart. Nancy presently awakened them and Cameron's mistaken attitude drove them into action.
Raymond counted Nancy's charms. Her devotion to her aunt, her unselfish service while her twin sister followed her own devices, Doctor Martin's very pronounced admiration, and Mrs. Tweksbury's ardent affection all carried him along like favouring winds. And presently the constant appearance of Cameron with Nancy lashed Raymond to the amazing conviction that he was in love!
He grew pale and abstracted; the revealment was pouring like light and sun into the depths of his nature. He wished that he was a better man; he thanked whatever god he reverenced that he was not a worse one. He recalled the one foolish episode of his youth with contempt for his weakness and gratitude for the escape—not only for himself but for the unknown girl.
As a proof of the sincerity of his present change of heart he wished above everything that he might find the girl and confess to her, for he felt, beyond doubt, that it would give her joy.
He believed this, not because he wanted to believe it, but because he felt the truth of it, and presently it gave him courage.
But there was Cameron!
Finally Raymond discovered that his business was suffering. He grew indifferent to the exact hour of leaving his office; took no pride in his well-regulated habits. He began to dislike Cameron and he dreamed of Nancy. Day and night he saw her as the safe and sweet solution of all that was best in him. She held sacred what his inheritance reverenced; she was human and divine; she was his salvation—or Cameron's.
At this point Mrs. Tweksbury gave him an unlooked-for stab.
"Well!" she remarked with a groan—she never sighed, "I guess Clive Cameron has got in at the death!"
She looked gruesome and defeated. Raymond grew hot and cold.
"What do you mean?" he asked, and glared shamelessly.
"I mean," Mrs. Tweksbury confronted Raymond as if repudiating him forever, "I mean that you've let the chance of your life slip through your fingers and fall into the gaping mouth of that Clive Cameron. It's disgusting, nothing less!"
"Aunt Emily! What in thunder do you mean? Nancy Thornton has only been here a month; if she's so easily gobbled"—the discussion waxed crude—"I'm sure I could not prevent it—I'm not a gobbler."
"No—you're a fool!"
"Come, come, Aunt Emily." Raymond flushed and Mrs. Tweksbury grew mahogany-tinted.
"Oh! I know"—two tears—they were like solid balls—rolled down the deep red cheeks. Almost it seemed that they would make a noise when they landed on the expansive bosom.—"I sound brutal, but I'm the female of the species and it hurts to know defeat the—the second time."
"The—second—time?" gasped Raymond.
"Yes—your father! I could—oh! Ken, it is no shame to say it to you—but I could have made him happy, but it came, the chance, too late. Then when you came I pledged my soul that I would try to secure your happiness. I know what you want, need, and deserve, and here is this perfect child—the one woman for you, snatched from under your nose by Clive Cameron who will—" Emily Tweksbury sought for a figure of speech—"who will, without doubt, end in dissecting her!"
"Good Lord!" gasped Raymond. The dramatic choice of words was unnerving him.
"Oh! you men," spluttered Mrs. Tweksbury. "You make me weary—disgusted; you're no more fit to manage your affairs than babies, and your monumental conceit drives sensiblewomen crazy. We ought to ask you to marry us. We ought not wait to see you ruin yourselves and us, too."
"But, Aunt Emily, why in thunder do you think Nancy Thornton cares for me? If she wants Cameron, why shouldn't she have him?"
At this Emily Tweksbury flung her head back and regarded Raymond with flaming eyes.
"You—well!—just what are you? Can't you see? Could you possibly believe any girl would take Cameron if she had you to choose?"
At this Raymond laughed. He laughed with abandon, going the gamut of emotions like a scale. But presently he became quiet, and a rare tenderness overspread his face. He went over to Mrs. Tweksbury and bent to kiss her.
"I never knew before, Aunt Emily," he said, "just what a mother meant. I'm sorry, dear. Upon my word, I'm deadly sorry, but I'm made slow and cautious and mechanical—I'm afraid of making mistakes—and if I have lost because of my weakness, why, you and I must cling the closer."
"Oh! Ken. When you talk like that I feel that I must go and have it out with Nancy!"
"Aunt Emily, hands off!"
Raymond was suddenly stern, and Mrs. Tweksbury bowed before the tone.
But Raymond meant to make sure before he accepted defeat. He spurred himself to the test with the name of Emily Tweksbury on his lips. That name seemed to hold all his responsibilities and hopes—his long-ago past; the only claim upon the future except—— And in this Raymond was sincere. His own honest love for the girl who had entered his life so soon after his doubt of himself had had birth made him fear to put his feet upon the broad highway.
But he braced himself for effort and on a stormy, sleety January afternoon he telephoned to Nancy and asked her if she were to be free that evening.
She was. And—to his shame Raymond heard it gleefully—she had a "sniffy little cold" that made going out impossible.
"Are you afraid of sniffy colds?" asked Nancy, "they say they are catching!"
"I particularly like them," Raymond returned.
"We'll have a big fire in the sunken room and," here Nancy gurgled over the telephone, "we'll toast marshmallows."
Raymond presented himself as early as he dared and was told by the maid to go to the sunken room. Believing that Nancy was there awaiting him, he approached with a beaming countenance.
Cameron stood with his back to the roaring fire.
"Hello, Ken!" he blurted, cheerfully. "You look like a gargoyle."
"Thanks!" All the light and joy fled at the sight of the big fellow by the hearth. Dispiritedly, Raymond sat down and resigned himself to what he believed was the inevitable.
Cameron regarded him critically as he might have a puzzling case. Then, having made a diagnosis, he prescribed:
"Sorry to see me here, old chap?"
"Why in thunder should I be?" Raymond glared.
"No reason—but then reason isn't everything. Nancy's a bit off—I'd hate to have her confront that mug of yours, Ken, if I can soften it up any. I came to bring some medicine from Uncle David—he's worried about colds these days. Nancy told me you were coming, she went upstairs to take her dose in private—she told me to stay and give you the glad hand and explain. Somehow you don't look exactly appreciative."
"Sorry!" Raymond found himself relaxing. "Want me to kiss you?"
"Try it! I'd like to have a fling at you. What's up, anyway, Ken? See here, old man, you know there might be any one of twenty fellows here to-night—you ought to be on your knees thanking heaven that it's I—not one of the twenty."
"What the devil do you mean?" Raymond got up, tried to feel resentment but could not.
"Nothing, only I'm going and—well, Ken, don't be an ass. It don't pay."
Raymond tried to think of something to say, but before the right thing occurred he heard Cameron's cheerful whistle cut off by the closing of the heavy front door.
Then he sat down by the fire and did some thinking. It was the kind of concentrated thought that separates the chaff and wheat; foregoes the glitter of romance and reaches out for the guiding, unfailing light of reality.
How long he sat alone Raymond never realized. It seemed like years, then like a moment—but it brought him to Nancy as she stood at the top of the flight of steps leading to the warm, fire-lighted room while the fountain splashed cheerfully and a restless, curious little bird twittered in its cage.
Nancy wore the faintest of blue gowns; a cloudlike scarf fell from her shoulders; her eyes held the full confession of her love as they met the groping in Raymond's.
He opened his arms.
"My darling!" he said, "will you come?"
Slowly, radiantly, Nancy stepped down.
"It seems as if I'd always been coming," she was saying. "I—I don't want to hurry now that I—I see you."
"I—I think I've always been coming, too," Raymond would not take a step, "but I was walking in the dark."
"And I——" but Nancy did not finish her sentence—she had found her heart's desire.
"I'm not worthy," murmured Raymond, pressing the light hair with his lips.
"Neither am I. We'll grow worthy together. It's like finding a beautiful thing we both were seeking. It isn't you or I—alone—it is something outside us that we are going to make—ours."
Spiritually Raymond got upon his knees, humanly he pressed the girl close.
"It's—you—the Thing is—you" he whispered, and at that moment knew the last, definite difference between what he now felt and—all that had gone before.
CHAPTER XXI"To suffer sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. This is a great truth that has to be learned in the fire."
"To suffer sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. This is a great truth that has to be learned in the fire."
It was all so exactly as it should be—the love affair of Nancy and Raymond—that it lacked excitement. There was a moment when Doris and David Martin looked into each other's eyes and sadly smiled; but that was past as it came.
"It's all right, Davey!"
"Of course, Doris, and Bud wasn't in it after all. It was our desire—not his. He seems to feel he ought to be cheered for whooping the thing on; making Raymond jealous, you know."
"Dear boy!"
"Thanks, Doris. He is something worth while."
Mrs. Tweksbury was so expansive in her happiness that she embarrassed Nancy. She fairly bounded over the fragrant garden of new love and scanned the wide pastures beyond.
"Ken, if I can see children in this old house, I'll thank God and depart in peace. Say that you will come here, boy. You know I'm always scuttling overseas. I won't be in the way—but it is the one desire of my shrivelled old heart."
"Aunt Emily, go slow and don't be ridiculous. The idea of your being in the way in your own house!"
"Ken, make Nancy love me. I know I'm gnarled and crusty, but I need what she has to give all the more because of that. I have no pride—I want that girl's love so—that I'd—I'd humble myself."
Raymond kissed her.
"Has she told you of her—her sister—yet?" Mrs. Tweksbury asked.
"Yes. Nancy says that until Joan, that's the name I believe, comes home she cannot leave Miss Fletcher. Nancy must not sacrifice herself."
Raymond was quickly assuming the charms of ownership.
"She always has been," snapped Mrs. Tweksbury, "an unconscious offering. Where is her gad-about sister?"
"I forget—out West somewhere, I believe."
"What is she doing?"
"The Lord knows. I got a very disagreeable impression of her. I didn't do much questioning—Nancy was on the defensive. She adores her sister."
"Bless the child! I have an unpleasant remembrance of the girl, too." Mrs. Tweksbury smiled grimly. "She was always a pert chit, and I believe she is like her disreputable father—you know about him, Ken?"
"Yes—something. Miss Fletcher mentioned him—she says she wants to have a talk later on. But what do I care, Aunt Emily?"
"I should rather like to know, myself." Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scandal. "I never have been sure about him, but I know he was socially above reproach. If he personally went wrong it is deplorable, but, Ken, if he had his roots in good soil instead of mud, it isn't fatal."
"Bosh! Aunt Emily."
"Bosh! all you want to, boy. It's easy to bosh when you're on the safe side—but neither you nor I can afford to ignore the difference."
"Nancy speaks for herself, Aunt Emily."
"Yes, thank God, and redeems her father. Wait until you see the sister. She was a lovely, distracting imp—but with a queer twist. I shouldn't be surprised a bit if she needs a deal of explaining and excusing."
But when Nancy's wonderful news reached Joan in the tiny Chicago home it made her very tender and wistful.
"Think, Pat, of dear little Nan—going to be married. Married!"
Patricia, who shared all Joan's letters, lighted a cigaretteand puffed for a moment, looking into the glowing grate, then she quoted eloquently:
"There was a little woman,So I've heard tell,Who went to market,Her eggs for to sell!"
Joan stared.
"My lamb, for this cause came Nancy and her kind into the world."
"I don't understand, Pat." Joan's eyes were shining and misty.
"Well, what on earth would you do with Nancy if you didn't marry her off? If she were homely she'd have to fill in chinks in other people's lives, but with her nice little basket of eggs, good looks, money, not too much wit, and a desire to please, she just naturally is put up for sale and off she goes!"
"Pat, you are vulgar! Nancy is the finest, sweetest of girls. She would only marry for love."
"Sure thing, my lamb. And she could make love out of—anything."
Joan was thinking of Nancy's capacity for making truth.
"Dear, little, sweet Nan," she whispered.
"Just the right stuff out of which to make successful marriages. Who is the collector, Joan?"
"Pat, you make me angry!" Joan really was hurt.
"She doesn't tell me his name. She says——" here Joan referred to the letter; "'I am going to try and keep him until you come and see him. Joan, he is worth a trip from Chicago.'"
"You are—going?" asked Patricia.
"Pat—I am. Only for a visit, but suddenly I find myself crazy hungry for them all.
"I'll be back in a couple of weeks; I'll only lose three lessons and surely, Pat, you'll forgive me if I desert you for that one glimpse of my darling Nan and her man?"
"I suppose so. But, Joan, don't stay long. I know how the reformed drunkard feels when he's left to his lonesome. He doubts his reformation."
"Pat!" Joan felt the tug of responsibility.
The next night Patricia came home with a bedraggled little dog in her arms.
"Where did you find that, Pat?" Joan paused in her task of getting dinner and fondled the absurd creature.
"Oh! he wasbrowsingalong like a lost soul, sniffing to find—not a scent, I wager he never had one of his own, but a possible one. Out of all the mob, Joan, he chose me! He came up, nosed around my feet, and then whined delightedly—the old fraud! I picked him up and looked in his eyes—I know the look, Joan. He might be my never-had-brother, there is a family resemblance."
"Pat, how silly."
"No joking, lamb. I couldn't ignore the appeal—besides, he'll keep me straight while you are away."
"Pat—come with me!" Joan bent over the dog, who already showed his preference for Patricia.
"I cannot, Joan. The trade is growing—I am planning an exhibition. I'm ashamed to say it, but the business is getting into my gray matter. No—go to your duty, lamb—the pup and I will get acquainted and make up for lost time."
And while Joan made preparations to go to New York, and while Doris and Nancy planned to make her visit a success, something occurred that changed all their lives. It was the epidemic of influenza. The shrouded and menacing Thing approached like the plague that it was to prove itself. It was no discerner of people; its area was limitless, it harvested whence it would and, while it was named, it was not understood.
David Martin ordered Doris and Nancy out of town at once.
"You may not escape," he said, "but your best chance is in the open. Besides, you'll leave us freer here."
"But Joan—David!"
"Joan be hanged! Can't she get to Ridge House?"
"Of course. But I wanted to have her here to—to justify herself. Emily Tweksbury is trying to make a tragedy of Joan. I'm afraid Ken suspects her—his awful silences are insulting—I wanted to—to show her off."
"Nonsense, Doris! But this is no time for squibbling. Scoot!"
"But—you, David!"
"I? Oh! I'm all right. Remember I have Bud. Why, the chap is pulling up his sleeves and baring his breast to the foe. I'm going to stand close by him."
Martin's eyes shone.
"David, if anything should happen to you——" Doris paused.
"I'll run down now and then," Martin took the thin, delicate hands in his. "I'll come—when I feel tired."
"You promise, David?"
"I—swear it."
So Doris took Nancy away. A tearful, woe-begone Nancy who clung to Raymond with the tenacity of a love that faces a desperate situation.
"Beloved," whispered Raymond, "I'm going to get Aunt Emily out of the danger zone and then I'll come to you. If this Joan of yours has arrived—we'll be married, you and I, at once. We don't care for the society fizz. This epidemic makes you think about—taking joy while you can."
"Yes, Ken—if—if Joan will stay with Aunt Dorrie."
"Well, by heaven! She'll have to stay. I'm not going to let them cheat me!"
To this Nancy gave a look that thrilled Raymond as he had never been thrilled before—it was supreme surrender.
And presently in the stricken city gaiety and laughter seemed to die away in the black, swooping shadow.
"When you use up all you know," Clive Cameron said one night to David, "you still keep hunting about for something else, don't you?"
Martin nodded. Both men were worn and haggard. They were fighting in the front ranks with the men of their profession—fightingan unknown foe, but bravely gaining confidence.
"The death rate is lower to-day, Bud. Hang to that!"
"I do, Uncle Dave. If it still goes down, will you take a vacation?"
"You are willing to go it alone, boy?"
"Yes!" grimly. "I know I must."
The two men relaxed and smoked peacefully, their feet stretched out to the fire. Their long day warranted this pause. They were strangely alike; strangely unlike. Occasionally their eyes met and then their lips smiled.
They were friends. The blood tie was incidental.
"You ought to be married, Clive."
"Why, especially?"
"A man should; a doctor especially. A wife and children are better to come home to than a pipe—and a housekeeper."
"You managed to buck along, Uncle Dave."
"Yes—buck along! I couldn't make up my mind to——"
"I understand, Uncle Dave. Miss Fletcher is great stuff—she makes other women look cheap."
"Bud, some women are like that."
"I suppose so."
Both men shook the ashes from their pipes—there was a night's work ahead.
Martin stared at the young face opposite. It was a strong, kind face—a face waiting for the high waves to strike it. Martin seemed never to have known the boy, really, before.
"Bud, suppose you never find your woman?" he asked, huskily.
"All right, then I'll peg along with that much lacking. Oh! I know what you are thinking of, Uncle Dave. I've been through it—and turned it down! Ever since I can remember I've kept a grip on myself by remembering you!"
"Good God, boy!" Martin choked; "I'm a poor model. At the best I've been—neutral."
"Like hell you have!" irreverently ejaculated Cameron, pleasantly. "Why, Uncle Dave, you've got muscle all over you from fighting the demon in you, but you have no uglyscars. We can look each other in the eyes as we couldn't—if there were scars. It's all right, Uncle Dave. We'll get Mother here before long and have a bully time."
Martin could not speak for a moment; he was looking ahead to the time when he'd have only this boy and his mother!
"Well, what's up, Uncle Dave?"
"Bud, have you suspected anything about Miss Fletcher? Her health, I mean?"
"Yes. I've studied about her, too."
"And kept quiet, eh?"
"Sure! But, Uncle Davie, if we—" Martin blessed him for that "we"—"if we could get her outside of herself, it would do a lot for her. I've a hunch that you have let her get on the shelf. I wouldn't if I were you! I know it may be necessary to keep her to rules, but she thinks too much about the rules; they cramp her. When Nancy marries—what then?"
"The Lord knows!"
"Where's that other girl—Joan?"
Martin's face hardened.
"Living her life.Herlife," he said.
"Anything—dirty about it?" Cameron asked.
"No. So far as I can find out, she's just taking what she callsher own."
"Well, why shouldn't she, Uncle Dave? By all that's holy why shouldn't a woman have her own as well as a fellow? Just because she was born to petticoats doesn't mean that she's born to all the jobs men don't want."
"There are certain things the world exacts of a woman, Bud."
"What, for instance, Uncle Dave?"
Martin considered. He was a just man, but he was prejudiced.
"Self-sacrifice, for one thing!"
"Who says so? Who benefits most by her self-sacrifice?" Cameron flushed as he rambled on. "We may split on this rock, Uncle," he blurted. "Think of my mother—I sortof resent it, because Iama man, that we idealize virtues and plaster them on women when we know jolly well, if we lathered them on ourselves, we'd cave in under them. It's up to the woman! That's what I say. Let her select her own little virtues and see to it that she squares it with her soul and then men—well, men keep to the right and keep moving!"
Having flared forth, Cameron laughed at his own fireworks.
"Joan is selfish, Nancy quite the reverse." Martin's brows drew together. "Don't be an ass, Bud!"
"What's this Joan doing?"
"Thinking she's gifted," snapped Martin.
"How is she to find out if she doesn't try? Is Miss Fletcher paying for the racket?"
"No. That's the rub. The girl's paying for it herself. Smudging herself doing it, too. A woman can't escape the smudge."
"Oh! well"—Cameron was tiring of it all—"it's when the smudge sticks that counts. If it is only skin deep, it doesn't matter."
"But—a woman, Bud—well, skin matters in a woman."
"Who says so? Oh! chuck it, Uncle Dave. Which shall it be—bed for an hour or a rarebit at Tumbles and then—on to the fight?"
"What time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty."
"Bud, let us have another look at our salvage before we choose; if we find them sleeping, we'll take the rarebit as a recompense for a night's sleep."
And together they went out into the night. Two tired men who had done a stiff day's work—but felt that they must make sure before they sought rest for themselves.
And Joan and Patricia faced the epidemic as so many of the young did—nothing reallycouldhappen to them, they believed—and Chicago was not paying so heavy a toll.
"We'll take a little extra care with food and sleep and wetfeet," Joan cautioned, "and I'll put off my visit, Pat, for awhile."
"And, Joan," Patricia said, laughingly, "keep your mouth shut in the street!"
The four little rooms were sunshiny and warm; Joan sang hour by hour; worked at her music and "made the home," while Patricia kept to her rigid hours and designed marvellous things in which other women revelled.
Since Nancy had gone South and her beloved was absent, Joan felt that her duty was to Patricia. Without being able to classify her feeling she clung to Patricia with a nameless anxiety.
She taught the little dog to fetch Patricia's slippers to the living-room fire; she always had dinner ready when, tired and frail, Patricia appeared with that glad light in her eyes.
"You act as if I, not you, were going away, my lamb," Patricia often said; "but you are a blessing! And Cuff"—she leaned down and gathered the small, quivering dog in her arms—"and Cuff runs you a close second."
Cuff wagged his stubby tail excitedly. He was a proud creature, a proof of what could be done with a bad job, and he had all the snobbishness that is acquired, not bred in the bone. He slept on the foot of Patricia's bed and forgot back alleys. He selected tidbits with the air of one who knew not garbage cans, but he redeemed all shortcomings by his faithful love to her who had rescued him. The melting brown eyes found their highest joy in Patricia's approval, and a harsh word from her brought his diminutive tail between his legs for an hour.
It was April when Patricia came up the stairs, one night, laggingly. Cuff was on the landing with his token of devotion. The girl picked him up, kissed his smooth body and went on, more slowly. Joan had the table set for the dainty dinner by the broad western window. She turned when Patricia entered.
"What's the matter, Pat?" she asked.
"Nothing, only Cuff is growing heavy."
"Are you tired?"
"Not a bit. What a wonder you are, Joan! That table is a dream with those daffodils in the green bowl. Old Syl was right—you put the punch in home!"
"There's chicken to-night, Pat. I plunged on the strength of what my Professor said to-day."
There were times when Joan wondered if Patricia was not insisting upon home more for her sake than her own.
"What did she say, Joan?"
"That next winter I might—sing!"
"Bully! But you sing now—like several kinds of seraphs. Warble while I make ready for dinner, Joan."
So Joan sang as she flitted from kitchen to dining room.
"I'll take the high road and you take the low roadAnd I'll get to Scotland before you——"
she rippled, and Patricia joined in:
"I'll get to Scotland before you!"
Then she said, from the bedroom beyond:
"I know what it is in your singing that gets us, Joan. It's the whole lot more than words can express."
"Of course! That's high art, Pat! Come on, dearie-thing, you must carve."
"Now, Scotland"—Patricia issued forth in a lovely gown and Joan dropped her long apron and appeared a happy reflection of Patricia's magnificence—"Scotland stands for everything your soul wants when you sing. Not a place—but—everything."
"Yes. That's what I feel," Joan replied, quite seriously.
Patricia did not eat much that evening, but she gave the impression that she was doing so.
The girls always disposed of the dishes, after dinner, in a wizard-like manner. They disappeared until morning—and no questions were asked!
Then, when the meal was over this night, Patricia flungherself on the couch, clasped Cuff in her arms, and asked Joan to sing her to sleep.
"Youaretired, Pat. Was it a hard day?"
Joan came wistfully to the couch.
"No, not hard, only bracing. They're going to raise me in the summer, Joan. We'll be fat and lazy next winter—and just think: the summer in The Gap lies between!" For that was what Joan's deferred visit had resolved itself into.
"Pat, your cheeks are—red!"
"Joan, don't be silly. I touched them up. I never could see the difference between rouge and dyes and powder and false teeth! They're all aimed at the same thing—and it isn't mastication, either. It's how you handle the aids to beauty."
"Dear, funny, pretty old Pat!"
"Joan, go and sing!"
That night Cuff was dreaming the old haunting dream about waking up in the gutter when something startled him. It was a very soft call.
"Come up here, Cuff, I want you—close!"
Cuff needed no second invitation! But the closer he got the more nervous he became.
"Cuff, look at me!"
Cuff looked.
"Cuff—once—you wouldn't have looked!"
Cuff denied this by a vigorous whack of his stumpy tail.
There were a few minutes more during which Patricia said some very remarkable things about being glad that children and dogs could look at her; and that Joan felt happy with her, and that love had something to say for itself if you didn't wrong it, and then Cuff voluntarily jumped from the bed and scampered into Joan's room. Joan was sleeping and Cuff had to tug rather savagely at her sleeve before he attracted her attention. But when Joan was awake every sense was alert.
"What's the matter?" she asked, but while she was speaking she was on her way to Patricia's room.
Patricia was tossing about and laughing gently; she was insisting that she was going up the Climbing Way and thatthe travelling was hard and the weather hot! For a moment Joan stood still. All her strength deserted her, but in that instant she knew the worst, as people do at times—when the end is near!
It was only three days for Patricia and she never realized the truth for herself. A nurse, a weary but faithful doctor, and Joan kept her company on the Climbing Way which got easier toward the top.
"You take the high road and I'll take the low roadBut I'll get to Scotland before you——"
It was Patricia who sang, not Joan, and then she laughed gaily.
"I bet I will beat you out, Joan—but it wasn't—Scotland, you know it—was—home!"
Just before the top was reached Patricia grew quiet and grave. She clung to Joan with one hand and patted Cuff with the other.
"I think," she whispered, "that when dogs and little children can look you in the eye, God can!"
She did not speak much after that—but she sang in fragments, hummed when very tired, and murmured—"Nice little old Joan and Cuff," just before she reached—home!
It was all so crushingly sudden that Joan was dazed and could not feel at all. Fortunately, the nurse arranged to stay with her for a week, and the doctor acted, through all his burdened days, as if an extra load was really a comfort to him. He asked Joan what steps he should take about Patricia, and Joan stared at him.
"You see, Pat just belonged to me," she explained; "and—and well! must I decide anything just now?"
"I think we must—about the body—you know!" The doctor felt his heart beat quicker as he gazed into the wide, tearless eyes.
"The—the body? Oh! I see what you mean. I—I was going to take Pat home next summer; this summer—but——"
"Perhaps we can arrange to have the body remain here in Chicago until you make plans."
"Oh! if you only could." Joan looked her gratitude.
And so Patricia Leigh was laid to rest in the vault of strangers until the girl who had loved her could realize the thing that had overtaken her.
In the lonely rooms the empty stillness acted like a drug upon Joan. She mechanically performed the small services she used to perform so gladly for Patricia. She held Cuff in her arms as she repeated:
"It cannot be, Cuff, dear, it cannot! Such a terrible thing couldn't happen—not without warning. Shewillcome back; she will, Cuff—please don't look so sad!"
It was three weeks after Patricia went that Cuff met Joan as she entered the room—with Patricia's slippers which he had found where Joan had hidden them! The sight of the pathetic little figure touched something in Joan and it sprang to hurting, suffering life.
For hours the girl wept in the dark rooms. She begged for death; anything to dull forever the pain that she could not understand. But the grief saved her and she began to think for herself, since no one was there to think for her. The city was full of sickness and death. Those who could, must do for themselves. Joan had not written home; she wondered what she had done in all the ages since Pat went.
All Patricia's small affairs were in order. Her money and Joan's were banked under both names, and the dreary little home was but an empty shell.
"I've failed—utterly," the girl sobbed over Cuff in her arms; "I told Aunt Dorrie when I found that out—I would go to her."
So Joan sold the furniture and sublet the rooms; she paid her small debts and promised her music teacher that she would continue her work in New York. Then she turned wearily, aimlessly—homeward, with Cuff in her arms.