The Shield of Silence Part 32

"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 you _have_ a 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed:

"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.

"Who _is_?" Joan flung this out defiantly.

"You're daring a good deal--to taste life. You're testing your line; making it prove itself--_I_ haven'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 line that 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.