The Shield of Silence Part 21

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, _you_ ride 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 n.o.ble appeared.

He startled Doris as Uncle Jed had, by his persistence.

"They cannot be as old as they look," she concluded, and gladly entered into all the plans for carrying suns.h.i.+ne and joy into the deep places of the hills.

"Dear me, dear me!" explained Father n.o.ble, 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 n.o.ble'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 owners.h.i.+p.

"When you are gone," Father n.o.ble 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 sn.o.b, 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 tucked up 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 pa.s.sed from the room.

The moment, while Joan glanced at the letter, had power to grip Nancy's imagination and fill it with a vision.