The Shield of Silence Part 65

Kenneth's words brought her back.

"Of course!"

"Well," Raymond dropped his eyes and flushed, "you really didn't care--not in the one, particular way, did you? It was only play; you meant that?"

"It was only play, Ken. The suffering came because we did not know what we were playing with. It's the not knowing that matters."

"Joan, you have seen the worst in me----?"

"Yes, and the best, Ken. It was like seeing you come back from h.e.l.l--unharmed."

"Do you think I should tell Nancy? Put her on her guard? There _is_ something in me----"

At this Joan leaned forward with a new light on her face--it was the maternal taking shape.

"No, Ken, you must _not_ tell Nan. With her it is the _not_ knowing that matters. She must be guarded; not put on guard. I know now that Nan will be safe with you; I wasn't sure before; but if you raised a doubt in her mind all would go wrong. She was always like that."

"But----" for a moment a beaten terror rose in Raymond's eyes.

Joan nodded bravely to him.

"You and I, Ken, must never give fear a chance. Once we know, we must not turn back."

She stood up, looking tall and commanding.

Raymond rose also and took her hands.

"You're great, Joan," he said, "simply great. You understand--though how you do, the Lord only knows.

"Joan!" Raymond flung out the question that was tormenting him. "Joan, why didn't we--care the other way?"

"I think," Joan looked ancient, but pathetically young, "I think men and women don't, when they understand too well. And the line in our hands explains that, perhaps," she smiled wanly. "You see, Miss Jones and Mr.

Black are--paying!"

"Joan, go now, dear. Others might not understand." Raymond at that moment grimly shut the door on his one playtime!

"And you--would hate to have them misunderstand about me--for Nancy's sake?"

"No, Joan, for your own. You're too big and fine--to have any more hurting things knock you. May I kiss--you good-night?"

For a moment something in Joan shrank, then she raised her face.

"Yes. Good-night--brother Ken."

For another moment they stood silent. Then:

"What was it that made you so hard at dinner, Joan, and makes you so sweet now?"

"Ken, I thought that you--had not tried to find out about me--after that night!"

"Did the mere going back really matter?"

"It meant everything, Ken."

"How?"

"Oh! can you not understand? If you had just--not cared I would have been afraid to-night for Nancy! Ken, I believe you went back to pay for all our folly--had I been willing to accept; had I--cared in the way--you suspected."

"Yes, Joan. I would have." Raymond said this solemnly. "That's what I went for."

"And you should not have paid! Girls--must not--let others pay more than is owed--I've learned that, Ken. But it was the going back that made it--right for you to--go on. Ken, for Nancy's dear sake I am glad it was--you and I!"

"For that I thank G.o.d!" Again Raymond bent his head. This time his lips fell on the open palms of the hands with those lines in them--lines like his own!

"Some day you are going to be happy, Joan."

"I am happy now. I was never happy, really, before. You see, I was always looking for myself in the past; now I think I have found myself--rather a dilapidated self, but mine own. It's going to be very interesting, this getting acquainted, and"--here Joan was thinking of the last day in the hospital and the rooms opening to the sweet singer--"and I'm going to touch and feel life instead of merely looking out through my own small door. And so--good-night."

She was gone as she had come--not stealthily, but noiselessly; not afraid, but cautious.

CHAPTER XXV

"_This shall be thy reward--the ideal shall be real to thee._"

Doris and Joan were in the living room of Ridge House trying to make things look "as usual" in the pathetic way people do after a loved one has gone forth never to return in quite the same relation.

Doris paused by Nancy's loom and touched gently the unfinished pattern.

"Dear little Nan," she said; "she used to make such dreadful tangles, but she learned to do beautiful work. This is quite perfect--as far as the child has gone."

Joan was on her knees polis.h.i.+ng away at the fireboard. The smoke-covered wood with its motto she meant to restore. She looked up brightly as Doris spoke. Joan was accepting many things besides Nancy's going away as Raymond's wife; accepting them without question, without explanation, but with perfect understanding. She understood fully about David Martin and Doris--her heart beat quick at Martin's lifelong devotion; at Doris's withholding. She understood, too, she believed, why the coming to the South had been necessary--the look in Doris's eyes was the same that had haunted Patricia's--the look that holds the unfailing message.

"Aunt Dorrie, Nancy is the belonging kind. No matter how many places and people share her she will always belong to us and the hills. She told me that before she went. She meant it, too. She'll finish the weaving quite naturally, soon--New York is not far."

Doris gave a soft laugh. Almost she resented the constant tone of comfort, Joan's att.i.tude of authority.

"No; it seems nearer and nearer all the time--since my strength has returned. We will have part of the winter in New York and Nan and Ken will be coming here, and there is your music, Joan!" Doris a.s.sumed authority and Joan submitted sweetly.

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you and I will scour these hills and get acquainted with our people and have trips abroad, perhaps. It is simply splendid--the stretch on ahead."

The sun-lighted room was still radiant with the decorations of Nancy's wedding. Tall jars of roses woodbine and "rhoderdeners," as old Jed called them, were everywhere. Nancy had only departed two days before.

"What a charming wedding it was!" Doris mused, patting the loom; "every time I think of it something new and unusual recurs."

Joan rubbed away and laughed gaily.