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Title: Not Under the Law

Author: Grace Livingston Hill

Release date: May 3, 2022 [eBook #67977]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: J. B. Lippincott Company

Credits: Steve Mattern, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOT UNDER THE LAW ***

NOT UNDER THE LAW




_GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL’S_

_Charming and Wholesome Romances_

  The Story of a Whim
  Re-Creations
  Tomorrow About This Time
  The Tryst
  The City of Fire
  Cloudy Jewel
  Exit Betty
  The Search
  The Red Signal
  The Enchanted Barn
  The Finding of Jasper Holt
  The Obsession of Victoria Gracen
  Miranda
  The Best Man
  Lo, Michael!
  Marcia Schuyler
  Phoebe Deane
  Dawn of the Morning
  The Mystery of Mary
  The Girl from Montana
  The Big Blue Soldier




  NOT UNDER THE
  LAW

  BY
  GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL

  AUTHOR OF “MARCIA SCHUYLER”, “THE CITY OF FIRE”, ETC.

  [Illustration]

  PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
  J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
  1925




  COPYRIGHT, 1924 AND 1925, BY THE GOLDEN RULE COMPANY
  COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

  PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
  AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
  PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.




NOT UNDER THE LAW




CHAPTER I


The kitchen door stood open wide, and the breath from the meadow blew
freshly across Joyce Radway’s hot cheeks and forehead as she passed
hurriedly back and forth from the kitchen stove to the diningroom table
preparing the evening meal.

It had been a long, hard day and she was very tired. The tears seemed
to have been scorching her eyelids since early morning, and because
her spirit would not let them out they seemed to have been flowing
back into her heart till its beating was almost stopped by the deluge.
Somehow it had been the hardest day in all the two weeks since her aunt
died; the culmination of all the hard times since Aunt Mary had been
taken sick and her son Eugene Massey brought his wife and two children
home to live.

To begin with, at the breakfast table Eugene had snarled at Joyce
for keeping her light burning so long the night before. He told her
he couldn’t afford to pay electric bills for her to sit up and read
novels. This was most unjust since he knew that Joyce never had any
novels to read, but that she was studying for an examination which
would finish her last year of normal school work and fit her for a
teacher. But then her cousin was seldom just. He took especial delight
in tormenting her. Sometimes it seemed incredible that he could
possibly be Aunt Mary’s son, he was so utterly unlike her in every
way. But he resembled markedly the framed picture of his father Hiram
Massey, which hung in the parlor, whom Joyce could but dimly remember
as an uncle who never smiled at her.

She had controlled the tears then that sprang to her eyes and tried to
answer in a steady voice:

“I’m sorry, Gene, I was studying, I wasn’t reading a novel. You know
last night was the last chance I had to study. The examination is
today. Maybe when I get a school I’ll be able to pay those electric
light bills and some other things too.”

“Bosh!” said Eugene discourteously, “You’ll pay them a big lot, won’t
you? That’s all poppy-cock, your trying to get a school, after a whole
year out of school yourself. Much chance you’ll stand! And you may as
well understand right now that I’m not going to undertake the expense
of you lying around here idling and pretending to go to school for
another whole year, so you better begin to make other plans.”

Joyce swallowed hard and tried to smile:

“Well,” she said pleasantly, “Wait till after the examinations. I may
pass and then there won’t be any more trouble about it. The mathematics
test is this morning. If I pass that I’m not in the least afraid of the
rest. It is all clear sailing.”

“What’s that?” broke in Nannette’s voice sharply, “Are you expecting to
go off this morning? Because if you are you’ve missed your calculation.
I have an appointment with the dressmaker in town this morning and I
don’t intend to miss it. She’s promised to get my new dress done by
the day after tomorrow, and you’ll have to stay home and see that the
children get their lunch and get back to school. Besides, it’s time
the cellar was cleaned and you’d better get right at it. I thought I
heard a rat down there last night.”

Joyce looked up aghast:

“But Nan! You’ve known all along I must go to the school house this
morning early!”

“You needn’t ‘but-Nan’ me, young lady, you’re not in a position to
say ‘must’ to any one in this house. If mother chose to let you act
the independent lady that was her affair, but she’s not here now, and
you’re a dependent. It’s time you realized that. I say I’m going to
town this morning, and you’ll have to stay at home.”

Nannette had sailed off upstairs with the parting words and Eugene
went on reading his paper as if he had not heard the altercation. For
a moment Joyce contemplated an appeal to him but one glance at the
forbidding eyebrows over the top of the morning paper made her change
her mind. There was little hope to be had from an appeal to him. He
had never liked her and she had never liked him. It dated back to the
time when she caught him deceiving his mother and he dared her to tell
on him. She had not told, it had not seemed a matter that made it
necessary, but he hated her for knowing he was not all that his mother
thought him. Besides, he was much older than she, and had a bullying
nature. Her clear, young eyes annoyed him. She represented conscience
in the concrete, his personal part of which he had long ago throttled.
He did not like to be reminded of conscience, and too, he had always
been jealous of his mother’s love for Joyce.

Joyce glanced with troubled eyes at the clock.

She was due at the school house at nine-thirty. Gene would take the
eight-nineteen train to town, and Nan would likely go with him. There
would be time after they left to put up a lunch for the children if
she hurried. Nan didn’t like them to take their lunch, but Nan would
have to stand it this time, for she meant to take that examination. She
shut her lips tightly and began to remove the breakfast things from the
table swiftly and quietly, leaving a plate for Junior who would be sure
to be down late.

Her mind was stinging with the insults that had been flung at her.
She had always known that she and her cousins were not compatible but
such open words of affront had never been given her before, although
the last few days since the funeral there had been glances and tones
of contempt that hurt her. She had tried to be patient, hoping soon
to be in a position where she would not longer be dependent upon her
relatives.

There was some wrangling between Junior and his sister before Nan
and Gene left for the train, and Joyce had been obliged to leave her
work to settle the dispute; and again after they were gone she had
to stop spreading the bread for the lunches and hunt for Junior’s
cap and Dorothea’s arithmetic. It was a breathless time at the end,
getting the lunches packed and the children off to school. She met
with no opposition from them about taking their lunches for they loved
to do it, but they insisted on two slices apiece of jelly roll which
so reduced the amount left in the cake box that Joyce added “jelly
roll” to the numerous things she must do when she got back from her
examination.

But at last she saw them run off together down the street and she
was free to rush to her room, smooth her hair, and slip into her dark
blue serge. It remained to be seen how much time there would be left
for the cellar when she got home. But whatever came she must get those
examinations done.

When she was half way downstairs she ran back and picked up a few
little treasured trinkets from her upper bureau drawer sweeping them
into her bag, some things that Aunt Mary had given her, a bit of real
lace, some Christmas handkerchiefs, one or two pieces of jewelry,
things that she prized and did not want handled over. Both Dorothea
and her mother seemed to consider they had a perfect right to rummage
in her bureau drawers and the day before Joyce had come upon Nan just
emerging from her clothespress door as if she had been looking things
over there.

It was not that the girl had anything of much value, but there were
a few little things that seemed sacred to her because of their
association, and she could not bear to have them handled over
contemptuously by her cousin. Nan might return sooner than she expected
and would be sure to come to her room to look for her. It would only
anger her if she found the door locked, and anyhow the spare room key
fitted her lock also. There was no privacy to be had in the house since
Aunt Mary’s death.

Joyce closed and locked the house carefully, placing the key in
its usual place of hiding at the top of the porch pillar under the
honeysuckle vine, and hurried down the street toward the school
building. She registered a deep hope that she might get home in time to
do a good deal of work in the cellar before Nan arrived but she meant
to try to forget cellar and Nan and everything till her examinations
were over.

At the school house she found to her dismay that the schedule had been
changed and that three of her tests came successively that day. There
would be no chance of getting through before half past three, perhaps
later. Nan would be angry, but it could not be helped for this once.
She would try and forget her until she was through and then hurry home.
She resolved not to answer back nor get angry that night if anything
mean was said to her, and perhaps things would calm down. So she put
her mind on logarithms, Latin conjugations and English poetry. These
examinations offered the only way she knew to independence and it must
be taken.

Late in the afternoon she hurried home, tired, faint, worried lest she
had not answered some of the questions aright, palpitating with anxiety
lest Nan had preceded her, or the children were running riot.

Breathlessly she came in sight of the house, and saw the front door
open wide and the doctor’s car standing in the drive. She ran up the
steps in fright and apprehension.

Nan was very much home indeed, and was furious! She met Joyce in the
hall and greeted her with a tirade. Junior had been hurt playing
baseball and had been brought home with a bandaged head and arm,
weeping loudly.

Dorothea lolled on the stairs blandly eating the remainder of the jelly
roll and eyeing her cousin with contempt and wicked exultation. She had
already lighted the fuse by saying that she and Junior hadn’t wanted to
take their lunch, but Cousin Joyce had insisted, and had given them
_all_ the jelly roll. The light in her mother’s eye had been such as to
make Dorothea linger near at the right time. Dorothea loved being on
the virtuous outside of a fight. If one showed signs of dying she knew
how to ask the right question or say the innocent word to revive it
once more. Dorothea contemplated Joyce now with deep satisfaction.

The doctor’s car was scarcely out of the gate and down the road before
the storm broke once more upon Joyce’s tired head.

Joyce did not wait to go upstairs to her room and change her dress. She
took off her hat on the way to the kitchen and put it and her bag and
books and papers on the little bench outside the kitchen door where
no one would be likely to notice them. She enveloped herself in a big
kitchen apron and went to work, preparing the vegetables for dinner and
getting out materials for jelly roll. Then Nan entered, blue blazes in
her eye.

Nan had not taken off her hat yet and around her neck she was wearing
Joyce’s pretty gray fox neckpiece, Aunt Mary’s last Christmas gift,
which Joyce had supposed was safely put away in camphor on her closet
shelf. Joyce had not noticed it in the darkness of the hall, but now
the indignity struck her in the face like a blow as Nan stood out in
the open doorway smartly gowned and powdered and rouged just a bit, her
face angry and haughty, her air imperious:

“You ungrateful, wicked girl!” broke forth Nan. “You might just as well
have been a murderer! Suppose Junior had been brought home dying and
no one to open the house?”

“I’m sorry, Nan,” began Joyce, “I did not expect to be gone so long. I
was told there would be only one examination today.”

“Examinations! Don’t talk to me about examinations! That’s all you care
about! It’s nothing to you that the little child who has lived under
the same roof with you for three years is seriously hurt. It’s nothing
to you even if he had been killed. And he might have been killed,
_easily_! Yes, he might, you wicked girl! It was at noon he was playing
ball when he got hit, and you knew I didn’t want him to stay at school
at noontime just for that reason. The bad boys tried to hurt him,” so
she raved on, “It was your fault. Entirely your fault!”

There was absolutely no use in trying to say anything in reply.
Nannette would not let her. Whenever she opened her lips to say she was
sorry her cousin screamed the louder, till Joyce finally closed her
lips and went about her work with white, set face, wishing somehow she
might get away from this awful earth for a little while, wondering what
would be the outcome of all this when Gene got home. Gene was not very
careful himself about Junior. He spoiled him horribly, but he was very
keen about defending him always. As she went about her kitchen work she
tried to think what she could say or do that would still the tempest.
It seemed to her that her heart was bursting with the trouble. Maybe
she ought to have given up the examination after all. Maybe she should
have stayed at home. But that would have meant everlasting dependence
upon those to whom she was not closely bound. And Junior had already
recovered sufficiently to be out in his bandages swinging on the gate.
He could not be seriously injured. Oh, why could she not have died
instead of Aunt Mary! Why did people have to bring children into the
world and then leave them to fend for themselves where they were not
wanted? What was life all for anyway?

Dorothea hovered around like a hissing wasp, filching the apples as
they were peeled and quartered for the apple sauce, sticking a much
soiled finger into the cake batter, licking it, and applying it again
to the batter several times, in spite of Joyce’s protests. She seemed
to know that her mother would not reprove her for anything she did to
annoy Joyce tonight.

Gene came in while Joyce was taking up the dinner, and Joyce could hear
his wife telling in a high suppressed key all the wrongs of the day,
with her own garbled account of Junior’s accident and Joyce’s disregard
of orders. So the tears stung into her eyes and her hot cheeks flushed
warmer and the only thing in the world that gave her any comfort was
the sweet spring breath from the meadow coming in the kitchen door
as she passed and repassed, carrying dishes of potatoes and cabbage
and fried pork chops. Their mingled hot odors smothered her as they
steamed up into her face, and then would come that sweet, cool breeze,
blowing them aside, laying a cool hand on her wet brow like the hand
of a gentle mother. How she longed to fly away into the coolness and
sweetness and leave it all behind. How many times during the last two
hard weeks had she looked out that kitchen door across the meadows
and longed to be walking across them into the world away from it all
forever.

Gene came into the diningroom just as she set the hot coffee-pot down
on the table, and he looked at her with his cold blue eyes, a look that
was like a long, thin blade of steel piercing to her very soul. She
thought she had never before seen such a look of contempt and hate. She
felt as if it were something tangible that he had inserted into her
soul which she would never be able to get out again.

“Well, you’re a pretty one, aren’t you? Mother was always boasting
about how dependable you were, I wonder what she would think of
you now! I always knew you had it in you. You’re just like your
contemptible father! Get an idea in your head and have to carry it
out. Bull-headed. That’s what you are. That’s what he was. I remember
hearing all about it. He wanted to study up some germ and make himself
famous. Had to go and get into some awful disease, subject himself to
danger, and finally got the disease and died. Pretended he was doing a
great thing for humanity at large, but left his wife and child for her
poor sister to support and saddled us all with a girl just like him to
house and feed and clothe. Now, young lady, I want you to understand
from this time forth that we’re done with nonsense and whether you pass
or whether you don’t pass, your place is _right here in this house
doing the work_ and _taking the orders from my wife_! I’ve got you to
look after and I’ll do it, but I don’t intend to stand any more of your
monkey-shines. Do you hear? _I won’t have_ anybody in my house _that
doesn’t obey me_!”

Joyce looked at him in a kind of tired wonder. She knew there were
things being said that were dissecting her very soul, and that by
and by when she moved she would bleed, perhaps her soul might bleed
to death with the sharpness of it all, but just now she had not the
strength to resent, to say anything to refute the awful half-truths
he was speaking, to shout out as she felt she ought, that he had no
right to speak that way about her dear, dead father whom she had not
known much, could scarcely remember, but had been taught by both mother
and aunt to love dearly. She could only stand and stare at him as he
talked. She was growing white to the lips. Her knees were shaking under
her, and the children stared at her curiously, even Nannette eyed her
strangely. She was summoning all her strength for an effort:

“Cousin Eugene,” she said clearly as if she were talking to some one
away off, and her voice steadied as she went on. “You know I don’t have
to stay here if you feel this way. I will go!”

And then, like a bird that suddenly sees an opening in its cage and
sets its wings swiftly, she turned and walked out of the room, across
the kitchen, and out the kitchen door into the evening sunlight and the
sweet meadow breath.

On the bench beside the door lay her hat covering her little worn
handbag and books and papers. She swept them all up as she passed, and
held them in front of her as she walked steadily on down the pebbled
path among the new grass toward the garage, the blinding tears now
coming and blurring every thing before her.

“Let her alone!” she heard Gene sneer loudly, “She’ll go out to the
garage and boo-hoo awhile and then she’ll come back and behave herself.
Dishes? I should say not! Don’t you do a dish! Let her do ’em when she
gets over her fit. It’ll do her good. She’ll be of some use to you
after this.”

Joyce swept away the tears with a quick hand and lifted her head. Why
should she weep when she was walking away from this? She had wanted to
go, had wondered and wished for an opening, and now it had come, why
be sad? She was walking away into the beauty of the sunset. Smell the
air! She drew a deep breath and went straight on past the garage, down
through the garden to the fence, and stooping slipped between the bars
and into the meadow.

There were violets blooming among the grass here, blue as the sky, and
nodding to her, dazzling in their blueness. There was a dandelion.
How bright its gold! The world was before her. The examination was
not over. But what of that? She could not go back to take her diploma
anyway, but she was free, and God would take care of her somewhere,
somehow.

A sense of buoyancy bore her up. Her feet touched the grass of the
meadow as if it had been full of springs. She lost the consciousness
of her great weariness. Her soul had found wings. She was walking into
a crimson path of the sunset, and April was in her lungs. How good to
be away from the smell of pork chops and hot cabbage, the steam of
potatoes and Gene Massey’s voice. Never, never would she go back. Not
for all the things she had left behind. They were few. She was glad
she had her few little trinkets. They were all that mattered anyway.
Except the fur neckpiece. It went hard to lose that. The last thing
Aunt Mary bought her. Of course it would have been wiser to wait to
pack. There were her two good gingham dresses, and two others that
were faded, but she would need things to work in, and there was the
little pink Georgette that Aunt Mary bought her last summer! She hated
to lose that. But Aunt Mary, if she could see would quite understand,
and if she could not see it could all be explained in heaven some
day. There would be no use sending to Nannette or Gene for anything.
They would never send her a rag that belonged to her. There would be
inconveniences of course, her hair-brush, her tooth brush--but what
were they?

And then, quite suddenly as she climbed the fence, and stood in a long,
white road winding away over a hill, the sun which had been slipping,
slipping down lower and lower, went out of sight and left only a ruby
light behind, and all about the world looked gray. The sweet smells
were there, and the wonderful cool air to touch her brow lightly like
that hand of her mother so long ago, just as it touched and called her
in the kitchen a few minutes before, but the bright world was growing
quiet at the approaching night, and suddenly Joyce began to wonder
where she was going.

Automobiles were coming and going hurriedly as if the people in them
were going home to dinner, and they smiled and talked joyously as they
passed her, and looked at her casually, a girl walking alone in the
twilight with her hat in her hand.

Joyce came to herself and put on her hat, she put her papers together
in a book, and the books under her arm, and slipped the strap of her
handbag over her wrist. She went on walking down the road toward the
pink and gold of the sunset and wondered where she was going, and then,
as she lifted her eyes she saw a star slip faintly out in the clear
space between the ruby and rose, as if to remind her that One above was
watching and had not forgotten her.




CHAPTER II


Back in the kitchen she had left silence reigned, and all the pans and
kettles and bowls which had been used in preparing the hurried evening
meal seemed to fill the place with desolation. It was not a room that
Nannette cared to contemplate as she came out to get the coffee-pot for
Eugene’s second cup which he insisted be kept hot. She frowned at the
jelly roll all powdered with sugar and lying neatly on a small platter
awaiting dessert time. It was incredible that Joyce had managed to
make it in so short a time with all the rest she had to do, but she
needn’t think she could make up for negligence and disobedience by her
smartness.

“Gene, I think you better go down to the garage and talk to her,” said
Nannette coming back with coffee, “The kitchen’s in an awful mess and
she ought to get at it at once. I certainly don’t feel like doing her
work for her when I’ve been in the city all day, and then this shock
about Junior on top of it all.”

“Let her good and alone,” said Gene sourly, “She’s nothing to kick
about. If I go out there and pet her up she’ll expect it every time.
That’s the way mother spoiled her, let her do every thing she took a
notion to, and she has to learn at the start that things are different.
What made her mad anyhow? She’s never had a habit of flying up. I
didn’t think she had the nerve to walk off like that, she’s always been
so meek and self-righteous.”

“Well, I suppose she didn’t like it because I wore that precious fox
scarf of hers to the city. She’s terribly afraid her things will get
hurt, and she pretends to think a lot of it because mother gave it to
her last Christmas.”

“Did you wear her fur?”

“Why, certainly. Why shouldn’t I? It’s no kind of a thing for a young
girl like her to have, especially in her position. She ought to be glad
she has something I can use that will make up for what we do for her.”

“Better let her things alone, Nan. It might make trouble for us if she
gets up the nerve to fight. You can’t tell how mother left things you
know, till Judge Peterson gets well and we hear the will read.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t your mother leave everything to you, I should
like to know?”

“Well, I can’t be sure about it yet. I suppose she did, but it’s just
as well to know where we stand exactly before we make any offensive
moves. You know mother said something that last night about Joyce
always having a right to stay here, that it was her home. I didn’t
think much of it at the time of course, and told her we would consider
it our duty to look out for Joyce till she got married of course, but
I’ve been thinking since, you can’t just tell, mother might have been
trying to prepare me for some surprise the will is going to spring on
us. You know mother had an overdeveloped conscience, and there was
something about a trifling sum of money that Joyce’s father left that
mother put into this house to make a small payment I think. I can’t
just remember what it was but that would be just enough to make mother
think she ought to give everything she owned to Joyce. I sha’n’t be
surprised at almost anything after the way she made a fool of that
girl. But anyhow, you let her alone till she gets good and ready to
come in. She won’t dare stay out all night.”

“She might go to the neighbors and make a lot of talk about us,”
suggested Nan, “She knows she’d have us in a hole if she did that.”

“She wouldn’t go to the neighbors, not if I know her at all. She
wouldn’t think it was right. She has that kind of a conscience too.
It’s lucky for us.”

“Well, suppose she doesn’t come in and wash the dishes tonight?”

“Let ’em go then till tomorrow. You’ve got dishes enough for breakfast
haven’t you? Well, just leave everything where it is. Don’t even clear
off the table. Just let her see that she’ll have it all to do when she
gets over her tantrums, and you won’t find her cutting up again very
soon.”

“I suppose she’ll have to come back tonight,” speculated Nan. “She has
another examination tomorrow morning I think, and it would take an
earthquake or something like that to keep her away from that.”

“Well, we’ll order an earthquake then. I don’t mean to have her
finish that examination. If she happens to pass--and she likely
would for those Radways have brains they say, that’s the trouble with
them--she’ll make us all kinds of trouble wanting to teach instead of
doing the work for you, and then we’d be up against it right away.
It costs like the dickens to get a servant these days and there’s no
sense in having an outsider around stealing your food and wearing your
clothes. Don’t you worry about Joyce. Let her alone till she comes in.
Lock the kitchen door so she’ll have to knock. Then I’ll let her in
and give her such a dressing down as she’ll remember for a few years.
Come on. Let’s turn out this diningroom light and go into the living
room. Then she’ll know we’re not going to wash those dishes, and she’ll
come in all the sooner.”

Nannette slapped Dorothea for breaking off another piece from the jelly
roll, and turned out the light quickly. It occurred to her that there
would be nobody to make another jelly roll when this one was gone
unless Joyce came speedily back. She hated cooking.

But although she intentionally neglected to lock the kitchen door,
hoping the girl would slip in quietly when they were gone from the
diningroom and get the work done, Joyce did not return. Dorothea and
Junior were allowed to sit up far beyond their usual bedtime, and
after they were at last quiet upstairs, Eugene and Nannette continued
to sit and read, loth to leave until their young victim should return
repentant and they could tell her just what they thought of her for her
base ingratitude. When you know you have done wrong yourself there is
nothing so soothing as to be able to scold some one else.

When Nannette finally went upstairs to bed she took the borrowed fox
fur and flung it across Joyce’s bed, with its tail dragging on the
floor.

“I’m sure I don’t know why we can’t have that will read without waiting
for that old mummy to get well,” she said discontentedly. “It’s awfully
awkward waiting this way and not knowing what is ours. Why can’t some
one else read it if Judge Peterson isn’t able to?”

“Why, no one knows just where it is. His valuable papers are all
locked in his safe, and the doctor won’t let him be asked a thing about
business till he gets able to be around. He says it might throw him all
back to have to think about anything now. Of course it’s all nonsense,
but I don’t see what we can do.”

“Suppose he should die?”

“Why, then of course, they would open his safe and examine all his
papers, but his wife won’t hear to anything being touched till he gets
out of danger, so we just have to wait.”

“Well, I’m not going to worry about it,” said Nannette with a toss of
her head. “If the will isn’t right we’ll just break it, that’s all. I’m
not going to let that girl get in the way of my happiness. There’s more
than one way of going about things, and, as you say, she has that kind
of a conscience. If that’s her weak point we’ll work her through that.
If she thinks her beloved Aunt Mary is going to be proved in court as
not of sound mind, she’ll give up the hair on her head. I know her.
Smug-faced little fanatic! How on earth did she ever get wished on your
mother for life anyway? You’ve never told me.”

“Oh, her mother was mother’s youngest sister, and idol. Mother was
perfectly insane about her. Then she married this Radway, and everybody
said it was a great match, brilliant young doctor and all that. But
the brilliant young doctor showed he hadn’t a grain of sense in his
head. He discovered some new germ or other and then he went to work
experimenting on it, and two or three times was saved from death just
by the skin of his teeth. Finally he let them inoculate him with the
thing, just to observe its workings. He knew he was running a great
risk when he did it, and yet he was ass enough to go ahead. When he
died they sold the house and a good deal of the furnishings. Mother
had some of the things up in the attic a long time. I don’t know what
became of them. Sold I suppose, perhaps to get that fox fur. Mother was
just daffy on that girl. She always wanted a daughter you know. And
after Aunt Helen died,--she didn’t live many months after her husband,
just faded away you know--why mother did everything for Joyce.”

“Well, I think she did more than she had any right to do for just a
niece,” said Nannette scornfully. “It’s time you had your innings.
I think your mother should have thought of her own son and her
grandchildren, and not lavished fox furs on a mere relation. She just
spoiled Joyce. She thinks she has to live in luxury, and it’s going to
be very hard to break her in to working for her living.”

The clock was striking twelve before Nannette began to undress, and now
and then she would cast an anxious eye out of the window and wonder how
long the erring girl’s nerve would hold out, or whether she had really
dared go to some neighbor’s and stay all night. If she had what could
they do?

Finally Gene got up from his reading chair and went downstairs to see
if all the doors were locked, he said; but in reality he went softly
out the kitchen door and walked down to the garage with slow, careful
tread, stopping to listen, every minute or two. But no sound reached
his ear save the dreamy notes of a tree toad. The little gray clouds
drifting through the sky were hiding the moon and making the back yard
quite dark. Somehow a vision of his mother’s face came to him, that
last day when she had called him to the bed side and reminded him that
she left Joyce as a sacred trust to his care. She told him that of
course he would understand the home was always hers and something like
reproach came and stood before his self-centred, satisfied soul and
gave him strange uneasiness.

He stepped quietly into the garage and looked around in the darkness.
There was no car as yet, but he meant to purchase one the minute the
estate was settled up. He felt sure there would be plenty of money to
do a number of the things to the house that he had already planned. It
was not really a garage, though he had called it that ever since he
came home to live with his mother, it was only the old barn with a new
door.

But there was no sign of any Joyce inside the old barn, though he
searched every corner and even opened the door of what used to be the
harness closet.

He closed the door and went outside, puzzled, a trifle anxious, not for
the safety of the girl whom he had driven from the only home she had
by his unsympathetic words, but for the possibility of what she might
have said to some neighbor with whom she might have taken refuge for
the night. And yet he could not bring himself to believe, that Joyce
would be so disloyal to his mother’s family as to let others know of a
rupture between them.

He went outside and walked around, but there was no sign of any one,
and the dew glistened evenly on the new grass in the sudden light as
the moon swept out from behind a cloud and poured down a moment’s
radiance. There were no marks of footprints on the tender grass
anywhere near the building.

Standing in the shadow of the big maple half way to the house he
called: “Joyce!” once, sharply, curtly, in a tone that startled himself
and shocked the tree toads into sudden brief silence, but the echo of
the meadow came in sweet drifts of violet breath as his only answer.
His voice sounded gruff even to himself and he realized that she would
not come to a call like that. If she had strength of purpose enough to
go at his harsh words she would not come at such a call. He tried again:

“Joyce!” and Joyce would have been astonished could she have heard
his voice. He had never spoken to her with as much kindliness of tone
in all his life, not even when he wanted to borrow money of her. Yes,
he had really descended to asking her who had but a small allowance
from the bounty of his mother, to loan it to him. And she had always
been ready to lend graciously if it was not already promised for some
necessity. He would soon have kept her in bankruptcy had not his mother
discovered it and forbidden Joyce to lend any more, telling her son to
come to her in any need.

He stood there sometime calling into the darkness trying various tones
and wondering at himself, growing more indignant with the girl for not
answering, calling her stubborn, and finally growing alarmed, although
he would not own it really to himself.

But at last he gave it up and went in, putting it aside carelessly as
if it were but a trifle after all. The girl was stubborn but she would
have to come back pretty soon, and the lesson would only do her good.
As for the neighbors, they must prepare a story that would offset
anything she might tell them. And what did the neighbors matter anyway?
This wasn’t the only place in the world. They could sell the house
and move where Joyce had no friends, then there would be no trouble.
Joyce would have to stick to them, for she had no way of earning
money anywhere else. The idea of teaching school was fool nonsense. He
wouldn’t think of allowing it. She would always be taking on airs even
if she paid board, and then they would get no work out of her, and she
would not be pleasant to have around.

With this reflection he fell asleep, convinced that Joyce would be
found safe and sound and sane on the doorstep in the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

About this time the new young superintendent of the high school who was
taking the place of the regular superintendent while he was abroad for
six months studying, settled down in his one comfortable chair in his
boarding house room with a bundle of examination papers to look over.
This was not his work, but the two teachers who would ordinarily have
done it were both temporarily disabled, one down with the grip and the
other away at a funeral, and since the averages must be ready before
commencement he had volunteered to mark these papers.

It was late and he was tired, for there had been a special meeting of
the school board to deal with a matter connected with the new addition
to the school building, and also to arrange to supply the place of a
teacher who had suddenly decided to get married instead of continuing
to teach. There had been much discussion about both matters and he had
been greatly annoyed at the prospect of one young woman who had been
suggested to fill the vacancy. She was of the so-called flapper variety
and seemed to him to have no idea of serious work. She had been in
his classes for the last six weeks, and he became more disgusted with
her every time he saw her. The idea of her as a colleague was not
pleasant. He settled to his papers with a frown that portended no good
to the poor victims whose fate he was settling by the marks of his blue
pencil.

He marched through the papers, paragraph after paragraph, question
after question, marking them ruthlessly. Misspelled words, how they
got on his nerves! He drew sharp blue lines like little swords through
them, and wrote caustic foot-notes on the corners of the pages. The
young aspirants for graduation who received them in the morning would
quiver when they read them and gather in groups to cast anathemas at
him.

But suddenly he came to a paper written in a clear, firm hand as
if the owner knew what she was talking about and thought it really
worth writing down. The first sentence caught his interest because of
the original way in which the statement was made. Here was a young
philosopher who had really thought about life, and was taking the
examination as something of interest in itself, rather than a terrible
ordeal that must be gone through with for future advantage. As he read
a vision of a clear smooth brow, calm eyes lifted now and then to the
blackboard, gradually came back to his memory. He was sure this was the
quiet young woman with the beautiful, sincere, unselfish face that he
had noticed as he passed through the study hall that morning. There had
been half a dozen strangers in from neighboring towns for examination.
Only this one had attracted him. He had paused in the doorway watching
her a moment while he waited for a book which the attending teacher
was finding for him, and had marked the quiet grace of her demeanor,
the earnest expression of her face, the pure regular features, the
soft outline of the brown waves of hair, the sweet, old-fashionedness
of her, and wondered who she was. He had not been long in the town and
did not know all the village maidens, yet it seemed as if she must
be from another place, for certainly he could not have been in the
same town with this girl and not have marked her sooner somewhere in
either church or shop or street? The busy day had surged in and he had
forgotten the face and thought no more of the girl. But now it all came
back with conviction as he read on. He turned to the end of the paper
for the name “Joyce Radway.” Somehow it seemed to fit her, and he read
on with new interest, noting how she gave interest to the hackneyed
themes that had become monotonous through reading over and over the
crude, young answers to the same questions. How was it that this young
girl was able to give a turn to her sentences that seemed to make any
subject a thrilling, throbbing, vital thing? And she did not skim over
the answers with the least possible information. She wrote as if she
liked to tell what she knew, as if her soul were _en rapport_ with her
work, and as if she were writing it for the mere joy of imparting the
fact and its thrill to another.

“Now, there’s a girl that would make a teacher all right,” he said
aloud to himself as he finished the paper writing a clear blue
“Excellent” upon it with his finest flourish, “I wonder who she is? If
she’s the one I saw I’ll vote for her. I must inquire the first thing
in the morning. Joyce Radway. What a good name. It fits. She’s the
assistant I’d like if I have my way, unless I’m very much mistaken in a
human face.”




CHAPTER III


Joyce had walked a long way on a long gray ribbon of road before it
wound up hill and she began to realize where her steps were turning. Up
there on the top was the dark outline of the old Hill Church, its spire
a black dart against the luminous night sky. A fitful moon gleamed
palely and showed it for a moment, still and gray like a little lone
dove asleep, and about it clustered the white stones of the graveyard
on the side of the hill sloping down toward the valley. One tall shaft
showed where lay the dust of the rich, old, good man who gave the
land and built the church, and others less pretentious flocked close
at hand, a little social clique of the select dead who had clung to
the old church through the years of their life, who there had been
christened, married and buried.

With a catch in her breath like a sob Joyce hurried on, realizing that
it was here her heart was longing to go, where she had left all that
was mortal of her precious Aunt Mary.

It was not that she had any feeling that the spirit she loved was
lingering there near its worn out earthly habitation, it was only that
the earth seemed so alien and she so alone that it did her good to
creep away to the quiet mound that some kind neighbor had already made
velvety with close shaved turf.

She felt her way to the place, close beside the mound where her mother
had been laid. They had always kept it neat and carefully tended when
her aunt was alive, and now she sank down between the two graves with
her hands spread broodingly, anguishingly over the tender grass, and
her face dropped down on its coolness. How long she lay there she did
not know. The hot tears flowed relievingly down her cheeks and fell
into the cool grass, and overhead the quiet sky, with the single star
in a clearing among the floating clouds, and now and then the serene,
busy moon above it all, quite as if the world was going as it should
even though hearts were being broken.

A sense of peace stole gradually upon her, and the ache drifted out of
her weary limbs, and out of her lonely heart. It was almost as if some
comfort had stolen upon her from the quiet grass, and the busy, serene
heaven above. She did not feel afraid. She had no sense of the presence
of her aunt, only a deep, sweet understanding that this little spot was
sacred and here she might think entirely unmolested.

It might be that she slept for a space, for she was very weary and the
day had been so hard, but she was not sure. Rather it was as if she
were just resting, as she used to rest in her mother’s arms and be
rocked, long ago, the first thing she could remember. The sense of her
troubles, and her terrible situation had slipped away from her. She was
just resting, not thinking. When suddenly the sound of voices--voices
quite near, broke upon her, as if they had suddenly rounded the hill
and were close at hand, coming on. Cautious voices, albeit, with a
carrying sibilant, and something familiar about one of them. She could
not tell why they struck terror to her soul, nor at what instant she
realized that they were not just foot travellers going on by, but were
coming toward her. She found herself trembling from head to foot.

“Look out there, Kid,” said the familiar voice, “Don’t skid over that
poor stiff. Those headstones aren’t easy to play with and we can’t
afford to lose any of this catch. Its worth it’s weight in gold you
know, rare antique! We ought to make about four hundred bucks apiece
out of this lot if we place it wisely.”

The footsteps came on, and suddenly as the moon swept out from the
clouds for an instant she saw four dark figures silhouetted against
the lighter darkness of the road, stealing slowly into the cemetery
among the graves carrying burdens between them, heavy, bulky, shrouded
burdens. The hurrying clouds obliterated everything again, but she
could hear the soft thud of their feet, as they slowly felt their way.
An occasional dart of light from a pocket flash flickered fitfully on a
headstone here and there as she watched with bated breath. They seemed
to be coming straight toward her, and for an instant she thought of
trying to flee, but a great weakness overcame her, so that she could
hardly breathe, and it seemed impossible to rise. Then the flashlight
jabbed into her very eyes, and she crouched against the sod and wished
there were some way to get down beneath it out of sight.

“What was that, Kid?” the voice whispered. The tiny flash fluttered
here and there on the grass all about her as she crouched. In a moment
they would be upon her. It seemed the culmination of all the terrible
day. Her heart throbbed painfully, while she waited a long minute,
hearing distinctly the oncoming feet swishing softly in the grass, the
labored breathing of those who carried the heavy burden, the cautious
whispers, and then, could it be? They were only two graves away. They
were passing by. They were going toward the back part of the cemetery.

She lay absolutely motionless listening for what seemed hours. The soft
thud of burdens laid down was followed by the sound of a spade plunged
deep in the earth, and the ring of metal as it was drawn forth and hit
against a stone.

By and by she gained courage to open her eyes and then to lift her head
cautiously and glance about. Her frightened heart almost stifled her
with its wild beating. The sky was luminous off to the east and against
it the five dark figures were darkly visible, three with shovels, and
one with a pick, the fifth watching, directing, occasionally flashing
a spot of light on a particular place. On the ground a long line of
something dark like a box or boxes. Had they murdered some one and come
to bury him in the night, or were they grave robbers? She found herself
shuddering in the darkness, and when she put a trembling hand to her
brow it was cold and wet with perspiration.

She began to wonder if she dared to try and get away, and measured the
distance with her eye. The men seemed so close when she considered
making a move, especially the one with the flashlight! Its merciless
eye would be sure to search her out if she attempted flight. Perhaps
it would be safer to lie still till they went away and trust that they
would go out by the same path they had entered and not discover her.
Yet when she tried to relax and wait she was trembling so that it
seemed as if the very cords that held her being together were loosed
and she was slowly becoming useless like Dorothea’s big bisque doll
that lay on a trunk in the attic with its head and arms lolling at the
end of emaciated rubber cords. She had a frightened feeling that if she
lay still very long she would become unable ever to move again, the
sensation that comes in nightmare.

Then into her frenzied mind came the thought of Eugene and Nannette
and how triumphant they would be if they knew she was going through
this agony. They would say it was good punishment for her behavior, a
just reward for her headstrong actions. Had she been wrong in going
away as she did? Had they been right to insist on her giving up the
examinations? Somehow her conscience, hard pressed as she was, could
not see that they had a right to keep her from the only way she knew
of earning her living. Somehow she could not feel that any law,
either physical or moral laid any obligation upon her to stay with
the children when the mother had known for three weeks of her coming
examinations, and when she often of her own accord let them take their
lunch to school if it happened to suit her own convenience. Junior
might have been hurt playing ball at recess as well as at noon, and
he always played ball at recess. No, her conscience was clear on that
score. She had a perfect right to put herself in the way of not being
dependent upon them financially, and the school teaching was the only
way she knew to do it. Still, of course it was all over now. She had
gone away from any chance that might have come to her through those
examinations, gone out into space alone without any goal or any plan.
She might have done that in the first place of course if she had known
they were going to act that way. Well it couldn’t be helped now. She
had gone and nothing would induce her to go back. Perhaps when she
found a home, if she found a home, she might send back to find out the
result of her hard work. It might do her some good somewhere else. But
she was too tired now, and too frightened to think about it.

She stole another glance toward the invaders. They seemed to be arguing
in whispers about something, gesticulating, pointing. Perhaps she might
manage to slip away while they were absorbed without their notice.
She made a soft little move to sit up, and as she put out her arm to
steady herself the metal chain of her handbag clinked just the faintest
little bit against the iron pipe of the low fence that surrounded the
neighboring grave. Instantly everything was silent among the group of
men, the dark figures as if they had been but shadows crouched out of
sight, only the alert head and shoulders of one showed dimly against
the luminous spot in the sky. She could feel that their eyes were
focused upon her as if they had been spotlights out of the darkness.
She did not dare to move even to relax her fingers which had been
stretched to grasp the iron rail. Her breath was suspended midway, and
in the whole wide, peaceful acre the air seemed tense as though the
very dead were waiting with her for the outcome.

“Oh, God!” she prayed, “Oh, God! Help me now!”

It was the first time since Aunt Mary’s death that she felt herself
to have really prayed. Somehow her heart had seemed stunned since the
funeral, and when she said the words of prayer with her lips there
had been such empty ache in her heart that they had not seemed to mean
anything. Now in her great need she had the distinct realization of
crying out to a God upon whom she relied and whom her faith of the
years had tested. And just as distinctly she felt the surety that He
was there. He had answered.

It was as if that cry for help was a surrender, a committing of her way
to Him. As if she had said: “Here am I. I am yours. However right or
wrong I may have been to have put myself into this situation I am here
and helpless. If I am worth anything at all to you save me for I cannot
save myself. I am giving my future into your hands.”

Of course there was no such logical sequence of thought or word in the
swift flash of her appeal, but afterwards she was aware it had been a
commitment and a covenant.

As if an answer of assurance had come a calm came upon her. Her breath
moved on, her heart beat naturally. The tensity of the air seemed gone.
The dark shadows by the pile of dirt stirred. A low murmur passed among
them. They moved and came upright again. Their eyes ceased to pierce
her like spot lights. They moved with ease and took up their shovels.
One even laughed in a low, half nervous tone. Only one still stood and
watched, his attitude alert, not satisfied that the danger was passed.
He murmured a low warning.

“Aw! What’s eatin’ ye?” another replied jocularly. “D’ye think the dead
can walk? It’s just a wild rabbit jumpin’ amongst the gravel.”

“Wild rabbits aren’t metal shod,” said the familiar voice seeming to
come from a face looking her way, and she knew that one at least of the
shadowy figures had not ceased to watch and listen.

It seemed hours that she lay there holding her breath, afraid to stir
lest they come her way, yet feeling an impulse within her to get away.
For at any moment they might come out and walk right in the path by
her side. They could not fail to see her if they passed that way. Dear
Aunt Mary lying so quietly beneath the sod! How good that she was not
really there herself, that she could not know the peril she was in! Or
was she perhaps near in spirit? Did God ever let those who had gone to
live with Him come to guard and help those they had left behind? But at
least she was not worried, for in heaven none could worry, being with
the great God who knew all, and whose power was over all. God would
not really let anything hurt her. She had cried for help and he would
eventually bring her out of all this into safety.

The assurance that came with these swift thoughts made her calmer,
and finally gave her courage to begin slowly to move a hand and foot
out toward the path. There was a sound of soft thudding of the spade
against the turf as if it were being replaced over the excavation and
the men would soon be returning to the road. If she would escape unseen
it must be done at once.

Slowly, cautiously, she put out her hand and firmly grasped the rail of
the low fence surrounding the next little lot. The cold iron steadied
her, and she next moved her foot with a motion so slow and cautious
that there was absolutely no sound from it. But it was a work of time.
Would the time hold out until she had removed herself entirely from the
line of their possible route?

After the other foot had changed its place somewhat she was able to
lift her whole body and move it over several inches into the path
without perceiving any sign that she had been heard or seen. Pausing
to take a deep breath, and holding her body steady a few inches above
the ground she cautiously began to move forward. It reminded her of
those moving pictures of divers and tennis players who by a slower
manipulation of the machine are made to perform their tricks in
measured rhythm so that every stage of the action can be observed.
It meant perfect control of every muscle of the body. It meant deep
breathing and a calm mind to perform the feat, and sometimes the wild
beating of her frightened heart made her feel that she must just drop
in the grass where she was and give it up. Besides her whole body was
trembling with weariness and excitement of the long, hard day, and her
nerves were spent. Big tears welled into her eyes and dropped into the
grass but she was unaware of them. Only her will kept her moving or
held her back when she would have jumped to her feet and run screaming
from the place; only her sense that God was near somewhere and would
help her, kept her mind steady enough to direct her movements. And
sometimes, as she moved inch by inch away from the direct line of the
men it seemed so slow, so impossible that she could ever get away that
she almost fell down.

She had crawled thus on hands and knees some twenty feet, and was just
considering the wisdom of turning her course a little farther to the
left before striking toward the road, when suddenly she heard a low
murmur among the men and glancing back saw that they had shouldered
their implements and were about to start away.

Fear overcame her and made her forget caution, and she lifted one hand
with a sudden movement to hasten, grasping the handbag tightly and once
more the tinkling chains, slipping from between her tired fingers,
struck against a headstone and gave forth a weird little sound.

Instantly there was silence for the space of about a second, the four
men frozen into attention. Then stealthily, his body ducked low,
one of them crouched and came forward. Almost silently he came, but
she knew he was coming straight toward her. She was paralyzed with
fear. She felt she could not move another fraction of an inch, could
not any longer hold on to that cold, smooth stone she had grasped,
could not draw herself out of sight behind a marble shaft that loomed
benevolently close at hand. Then the realization that in a moment more
he would be upon her gave strength to her weakness. Who knew what
desperate criminals these might be? Grave robbers would not hesitate
to dig a new grave and hide a victim in it where no one would ever
suspect. Whatever they had been doing it was evident they did not wish
it known, and it would go hard with any one who might be feared as an
eavesdropper. The thought gave wings to her feet as she stumbled up and
flew away in the darkness among the shadowy grave stones, out toward
the road.

It seemed miles she darted among those stones, as noiselessly as
possibly, but blindly, for it was dark, so dark, and the little spot
of light chased her maddeningly, darting ahead of her and flickering
into her eyes from the side unexpectedly, causing her to change her
course. She was aware that the men had separated, and she seemed to
be encompassed from all sides. Once she stumbled and fell across a
grave with the myrtle brushing her face, and the scent of crushed rose
geranium in the air. Strange that rose geranium should be identified
in her mind at such a time as this. It seemed like a sweet thought
reminding her of quiet home and love and peace. But she grasped the
mossy stone above her and pulled herself up just in time to evade one
of her pursuers; and lo, just at her left was the open field separated
only by a scraggy hedge. She parted the shrubs and slipped between,
thankful that her dress was dark, and sped away over the stubbly
ground, only the impetus of her going keeping her from falling at
almost every step. It was almost as if she were flying, as if she were
upheld by unseen hands and guided. And the hedge grew taller as she
approached the road, completely hiding her flight from those on the
other side. She was conscious of confused noises behind her, but her
own going was so rapid as to shut out any accurate sound. So at last
she gained the fence, crept tremblingly beneath the lichen covered
rails and tottered to her feet only to be confronted by a tall, dark
figure looming in the road as if he had been waiting there for her a
long time.

She caught her breath and turned to fly, but her hands were caught
in a big, firm grasp like a vise, and a flashlight blazed into her
frightened eyes for an instant. She closed the lids involuntarily and
shrank away, with a dizzy feeling that for the first time in her life
she must be going to faint.




CHAPTER IV


About half past seven the next morning, Nannette was going distractedly
about the dishevelled kitchen attempting to get a semblance of a
breakfast for the irate Eugene and at the same time deal with her two
unruly children who half dressed were contending about the cat.

The telephone suddenly rang out sharply and Eugene dropped the morning
paper with a snap and sprang to take down the receiver, an arrogant
frown appearing at once on his face and dominating the anxiety that had
been there ever since the evening before:

“Hello!” he said insolently in the voice he meant to use for Joyce in
case it was Joyce.

“Hello!” came back a voice equally insolent with the effect of having
been the same word thrown back resentfully. A man’s voice. Eugene was
puzzled.

“Who are you?” he challenged with a heavy frown. Nannette paused in the
kitchen doorway and listened and the children suspended operations on
the cat and attended maturely.

“Is Miss Joyce there?” The voice held authority, and denied any right
to interference by a third party.

“Who _is_ this?” demanded Eugene angrily.

“A friend of Miss Radway’s,” came the prompt dignified reply. “I wish
to speak with Miss Radway.” There was coldness in the tone. The voice
had a carrying quality and could be heard distinctly across the room.

“There, I told you so!” cried Nannette hysterically, “The whole town
will hear of it!”

Eugene made a violent gesture with his foot equivalent to telling her
to go into the kitchen and shut the door, and Nannette retired out of
sight with a listening ear.

“Joyce is busy,” said her cousin in a lordly tone. “She can’t be
interrupted now. You can leave a message if you like that can be given
her when she gets done her work.”

“I see,” said the calm voice after a moment of what seemed thoughtful
silence, and there came a soft click.

“Who is this? Say! Who is this? Operator! Operator! You’ve cut us off.
What’s that? Who’s calling? That’s what I want to find out. You cut us
off before the man told his name. Look that up and let me know at once
where it came from. What’s that? What number? Why that’s your business.
You ought to know where a call came from just two minutes ago. You’ll
look it up? All right. Get busy then. I have to make a train.”

“Who was it?” demanded Nannette appearing wide-eyed with dish cloth in
one hand and a piece of burnt toast in the other.

“Shut up!” said her husband rudely, “Don’t you see I’m busy? I never
saw such service as we have here in this town, can’t find out who a
call came from.”

“Was it a man calling or a woman?”

“A man, of course. Isn’t there always a man where a girl is concerned.”

“I never saw a man come to see Joyce,” meditated Nannette wonderingly.

“Joyce was sly. Haven’t you learned that yet? You women are all fools
about each other anyway. This was a man, and a young one. I’ve heard
his voice but I can’t place it. Hello! Central! Central! Are you going
to keep me waiting all day? What? You can’t trace it? That’s all bosh.
Oh! You say it was a local pay station? Well, ring it up at once. What?
You don’t know the number--Aw! That don’t go down with me. Give me the
chief operator. Operator! Operator!--

“Hang it all, she’s hung up again! What time is it anyway! Gosh hang
it, I’ve missed my train. No, I don’t want any coffee. Give me my hat;
I must make that train. No, I can’t stop to tell you anything! Where’s
my coat? It’s strange you never can help me when I’m in a hurry. Get
out of my way, Dorothea! Dang that cat, I believe I’ve broken my toe.”

He was gone leaving an agitated family and a breathless cat emerging
from the lilac bush where it had been savagely kicked.

“Well, anyhow, I bet I can find out who was on that wire,” said
Dorothea maturely. “I bet they’ll know down to the drug store. I bet
I can get Dick Drew to tell me. Most everybody phones from the drug
store. They ain’t but two or three local pay stations.”

“Be still, Dorothea, you don’t know what you’re talking about,”
reprimanded her mother sharply. “Don’t you go to talking or you’ll
make your father awfully angry. You go wash your hands and get off to
school. You’re going to be late. No, Junior isn’t going to stay at
home. He’s perfectly able to go to school, and I’m not going to be
bothered this morning. I’ve got too much to do to have either of you
around.”

The telephone rang again at this moment, and Nannette hastened to
answer it.

It was a woman’s voice this time:

“Is this you, Joyce? Oh! Is that Mrs. Massey? May I speak to Miss
Radway?”

“Why, Joyce isn’t here just now,” answered Nannette sweetly. “Is there
any message? Anything I can do for you?”

“Why, no, I guess not, thank you. How soon will Joyce be back?” “Why,
I’m not just sure,” shifted Nannette uneasily. “Couldn’t I give her a
message?”

“Well, you might tell her Martha Bryan called up to know if she would
take her Sunday-school class next Sunday. I know it’s a little hard on
her to ask her to do it just now when she’s been through trouble, but
she isn’t one to sit down and eat her heart out when there’s work to
be done, and I thought perhaps it would help her over a hard day to
feel she was doing the Lord’s work. She and her Aunt Mary always were
ones you could rely on to help. And I wouldn’t ask, only my daughter
has been taken sick up at Watsonville, and she wants me. I do hate to
go without seeing to my class, and I’m just sure Joyce’ll take it. But
I’ve got to leave by three o’clock. Joyce ain’t going to be gone all
day is she?”

“Oh, I think not,” said Nannette nonchalantly. What if Joyce should
stay all day! How dreadful!

“Well, you ask her to call me just as soon as she gets in. I want to
relieve my mind of that class.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Nannette ungraciously, “but she’s got a lot to do
at home. I doubt if she can manage it.”

“Oh, but she promised me six weeks ago she would if I had to go.”

“Well, I’ll tell her.” And Nannette hung up snappily. She didn’t
exactly relish everybody in town expecting that Joyce would go right on
doing what she always had done, as if her circumstances in life were
just as they had been. It was time people began to understand that
Joyce was a dependent, and as such was not at the beck and call of
every old woman and Sunday-school class. She was tired and angry from
loss of sleep last night, and it was high time Joyce came home and did
her work. Of course she must be out there in the barn asleep somewhere.
Probably she was waiting for somebody to come out and coax her in.
Well, she would go out and find her. There was the harness closet and
there was the hay loft. Probably Eugene didn’t look very far. She would
find her and teach her her duty once for all, and there wouldn’t be
much petting about it either.

Nannette marched out of the kitchen door with the air of a conquering
hero and sailed into the garage, the very crackle of her step on the
gravel foretelling what was in store for any luckless miscreant who
might be found lurking in the hay.

But though she searched vigilantly, and thoroughly, there was no sign
anywhere of Joyce. Out behind the barn a fluttering paper caught her
eye and stopping to pick it up she found it was an examination paper
with answers scribbled after each question in Joyce’s fine script.
Angrily she tore it in half and half again, and scattered it on the
ground, scanned the meadow for an instant, and the distant road and
then went back into the house just in time to hear the telephone
ringing again.

It was a man’s voice this time, a strange, dignified, young voice, a
voice that spoke as from authority:

“I would like to speak with Miss Joyce Radway.”

The sense of panic returned to Nannette, but she summoned voice to
demand sharply:

“Who is this?” At least she would not make Eugene’s mistake and let any
one get away without complete identification.

“This is J. S. Harrington, acting superintendent of the high school. I
wish to speak to Miss Radway with regard to her examination paper. Is
she there?”

“She is not,” said Nannette with asperity.

“Perhaps you know if she is already on her way to school?”

Nannette wished she did.

“She’ll not be able--” she began and then reflected that perhaps Joyce
was on her way to school. No telling where she had spent the night with
this in view. At least she must not give away the present situation to
the whole village. Especially not to this interesting stranger. He must
be the man they were talking about at the station last night, young and
good-looking. What could he want with Joyce?

“I’m not sure whether she is going over to the school today or not,”
she equivocated. “Is there any message?”

“Just ask her to step into my office if she is coming to school. If not
I shall be glad to have her call me, as soon as she comes in. Thank
you. Good morning.”

The click of the telephone was almost immediately followed by a knock
on the kitchen door, where stood a small boy with a basket of luscious
strawberries covered over with dewy leaves. He was freckled and
cross-eyed, with two upper teeth missing, but he had a most engaging
smile, and he wanted Joyce very much. He seemed dubious about leaving
the strawberries when he heard she was not at home, and almost decided
to sit down and wait, but Nannette explained that it might be some time
and he surrendered the basket reluctantly with the message that “Ma”
had “thent ’em fer Joyth and wanted the rethipe for her y’aunth’s maple
cake.”

Nannette regarded the strawberries with a vindictive glare. Why should
Joyce have so many friends? Since Mother Massey died everybody seemed
so interested in doing things for Joyce and nobody seemed to bother
about her in the least, although she was the son’s wife. It certainly
wasn’t going to be pleasant living in this town until she had made
Joyce’s position quite plain. But then, after everybody understood that
Joyce couldn’t go out as much as she used to, and wasn’t wearing such
fine clothes nor having leisure for picnics and Sunday-school classes
and the like, people would soon realize that Joyce was nothing.

The next call on the telephone came from the minister’s wife. She
wanted Joyce to come and take lunch with her. She thought it might take
her mind off her sorrow a little and help her to get back into natural
living again.

Nannette was furious, but she managed a vague reply. Joyce was away.
She wasn’t sure whether she would be back in time for lunch or not. No,
she wasn’t gone to visit friends. She went--well--on business.

The minister’s wife was surprised but courteous. Later in the afternoon
the minister called. He said he had been unusually busy since the
funeral or he would have been there sooner. He said he wished to talk
with Joyce about a little matter her aunt had been interested in, and
had hoped to find that she had returned.

The new school superintendent called up again while the minister was
there, and seemed quite upset that Joyce had not returned, and when she
finally got rid of the minister and went out to the kitchen to consider
the possibility of having to get dinner without Joyce’s help, she was
called back three times to the telephone. First, Susie Bassett wanted
to know if Joyce couldn’t come over and spend the night with her, she
wanted to ask her advice about something. Then Mr. Elkins called from
the store and said his wife was all alone and not feeling very well,
and he would be so grateful if Joyce would run down and sit with her a
little while till he could get away from the store. Then Patty Bryson
from up in the country called to ask Joyce to come up and spend a week
with her and the children while her husband was away, she thought it
would be a nice little change for Joyce.

With flashing eyes and sullen mouth Nannette turned back to her
kitchen only to find Mrs. Pierce her next door neighbor standing on
the doorstep just entering with a warning tap to borrow a cup of
sugar--hers hadn’t come yet--and ask if Joyce was sick, she hadn’t seen
her about all day.

Nannette was almost reduced to tears when she finally got rid of the
woman who was a regular village gossip and had the real vulture smile
on her face. But it was almost time for Eugene’s train and he was
not noted for being patient at meal times. She flew around preparing
what she could briefly, a can of soup, improvised salad out of odds
and ends, a hastily concocted custard poured over some stale sponge
cake she had hidden from the children a week ago and forgotten till
necessity brought it to light. None of the articles were particular
favorites of Eugene. He would miss Joyce’s tasty cooking, but it could
not be helped.

Meantime, where were the children? Six o’clock and they hadn’t returned
since school time! What would Eugene say if they were not here when
he got home? She hastened to the telephone to call up their familiar
spirits and get track of them, and almost every house she called either
had some message for Joyce or wanted to know how she was bearing her
trouble, and had some good word of sympathy for her. It was maddening
to Nannette in her frantic haste, with one eye on the clock, and the
smell of the soup burning. Now she would have to open another can.
There was only a vegetable can left and Eugene hated that.

Then just as she was looking up the number of the last place where she
might hope to find her missing family, they trooped in.

“Ma, is Joyce here yet? Cause our teacher’s coming down to see her
right away. Say, Ma, can’t I put on my new organdie dress? The
superintendent’s coming along with her. I heard them planning it when
I was in the cloak room. And say, Ma, that must have been him phoned
daddy this morning, ’cause I heard him say she had awful good exams. He
said they were ‘very clever’ just like that. I’m going up to change my
dress before they get here. I’m going to wear my new patent leathers
too. And, oh, yes, Mrs. Bryan says for you to call her up _right away_
and tell her what Joyce said about taking her Sunday-school class.
She’s going to take the evening train, and she’s _got_ to know before
she goes.”

Dorothea’s voice trailed off up the stairs as Junior stamped in angrily:

“Say, Ma, what did Joyce do with my baseball bat? I wisht she’d leave
my things alone. Where is she anyhow? Steve Jenkins says he saw her
walkin’ along the State Road last night with her hat in her hand. And
the minister asked me when she was comin’ back, and Miss Freedley told
me to tell her she was comin’ over after supper fer her to teach her
how to knit her sweater sleeves. And say, Ma, ain’t there any more
jelly roll? I’m hungrier’n a dozen wolves. You didn’t have hardly
anything fer lunch. I don’t see why you let Joyce go away. There goes
the telephone. I ’spect that’s Ted Black. He wants to know if Joyce can
help out on the Country Week Picnic Committee--”

His mother swept him out of the way and answered the phone just as
Eugene entered with an angry frown:

“Where is Joyce?” he called out imperatively, just as a strange voice
over the phone asked, “Has Miss Radway returned yet?”

Nannette, her nerves having reached the verge of control snapped out an
answer:

“No, she hasn’t. I don’t know when she’s coming back. She’s away on a
visit,” and hung up the phone with a click.

“Do you mean to tell me Joyce hasn’t come back yet?” roared Eugene
ominously as his wife turned to meet him.

“If you ask me that question again I’ll _die_!” screamed Nannette,
“I’ve had to answer it all day long. One would think Joyce Radway was
the most important person in this town. I think it’s ridiculous your
mother letting her get into everything this way, a charity girl! Well,
you needn’t look so cross. She was, wasn’t she, even if she was your
cousin. Everybody in this whole town is wanting that snip of a girl for
something. I told you you ought to go out last night and make her come
back. She’s as stubborn as a mule, and we’ve got a pretty mess on our
hands. One would think she was a princess or something the way folks
act. And the new superintendent is coming to see her tonight, and the
minister wants--”

“There’s something far more important than those trifles,” glowered
Eugene, “Judge Peterson has rallied and the doctor says he may read the
will this evening. We’ve got to go over there exactly at seven and not
keep him waiting. The doctor is awfully particular about exciting him.
And I want to get this thing fixed up right away. They say the Judge
has heart trouble and might drop off at any time now and that would
make no telling how much more delay. This is serious business for us
and you needn’t sit there and trifle about the village people! Joyce
has got to be _found_, and _found right away_. Do you understand?”

“Well find her then!” retorted his wife. “You talk as if it was my
fault she went away. Haven’t I slaved all day doing her work? And I’m
done now. I’m _just done_!” and Nannette burst into angry tears and ran
upstairs to her room, slamming the door and locking it behind her.




CHAPTER V


For three-quarters of an hour Eugene made it lively for his family.
He stalked upstairs, captured his pampered young son in the act of
purloining one of his clean handkerchiefs, gave him a cuff on the ear
and ordered him in no gentle tones to go to one end of the village as
fast as his legs could fly and find out if Joyce was at Auntie Summers
or had been there, and demand her presence at home at once on important
business. He jerked a library book away from his daughter and sent
her to the other end of town to make the same inquiry at a home where
Joyce had been a frequent visitor, and then he strode to his own door
and shook it demanding entrance in such a tone that Nannette dared not
ignore it. He gave his hysterical wife a rough shake and told her it
was no time to indulge her temper, that action was necessary. She must
get to work on the telephone at once and find Joyce. They must meet
that appointment at Judge Peterson’s on the hour or they might lose
everything. The son had said that his father was very insistent about
having Joyce present when he read the will. It would look very queer if
Joyce didn’t turn up in time.

He succeeded in frightening Nannette sufficiently so that she wiped her
eyes and went to the telephone, calling up one and another of Joyce’s
friends, and in honeyed tones asking if she had stopped there on her
way home and might she speak to her a minute, there was an errand she
wanted done on the way back that couldn’t wait. But one and all said
that Joyce had not been there that day, and two women answered, “Why, I
heard Joyce had gone away on a visit” so that Nannette turned from her
fruitless task at last with a much disturbed face.

“She isn’t in town,” she said, “There isn’t another place I can think
of to call.”

“Well, think of all the places out of town then, find out where she is,
and I’ll get an automobile and go after her. Little fool! She knew she
was making me a lot of trouble. She did this on purpose, I’ll wager.
But she’ll get paid back double for all she does. Just let her wait.”
Eugene was stamping up and down suggesting places to call, while his
wife with more and more agitated voice continued to call up numbers.

“I’m almost sure that operator is Jenny Lowe,” she said with her
hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, “if it is she’ll tell it
everywhere that I’ve called all these numbers. She’s probably listening
in.”

“Jenny Lowe be hanged!” said Eugene. “We’ve got to find Joyce! Look at
the clock! It’s half past six. Call Aunt Whinnie’s.”

Nannette called Aunt Whinnie’s but got no answer, and while she was
still trying to get it Dorothea came panting back saying that Joyce
hadn’t been heard of anywhere, and the teacher and the superintendent
were just coming into the yard.

Eugene went frowning to the front door and disposed of the new
superintendent in short order saying that his cousin had been suddenly
called away and he was not sure how soon she would return. She might
be gone several days. He intimated that she had gone to visit a sick
relative, but when the young man got out his pencil and note book and
asked for her address he replied vaguely that he was not quite sure
whether she would remain more than a few hours where she had gone
and she might make several visits before her return. But the young
superintendent was not one who was easily baffled and asked for all
the addresses, whereupon Eugene was put to the trouble of making up
an address. It was rather hard on him for he had been brought up not
to tell lies, and he always tried to avoid deliberate ones, but this
time he felt he was in a bad corner and had to get out somehow. The
hand of his watch said a quarter to seven, and he must get rid of these
callers. What in Sam Hill did this young upstart want of Joyce anyway?

But the young upstart turned gravely away without imparting his
business, and Eugene shut the door with unnecessary slamming, and went
back to his wife:

“We’ll just have to go over to the Judge’s and do the best we can. We’d
better fix up some story about Joyce. Perhaps we can get around the
old man. I’ll tell you, we’ve had an offer for the house and we want
to close with it right away. Man going to Europe and wants to get this
property fixed up for a relative to live in--How’ll that do? Then we
can find a purchaser and get this house off our hands. I’d rather go
back to Chicago anyway, wouldn’t you, and get out of this rotten town
where everybody’s nose is in your business, and the minister thinks he
owns the earth, and can boss it? I’d like to know what business of his
it was to come after Joyce anyway? Doesn’t he think we can take care of
our own relatives without his intervention.”

At the door a small girl with tangled curls and big blue eyes presented
a note which she said was to be given to Miss Joyce and “not to nobody
else,” and which she steadily refused to surrender even for a glimpse
until Miss Joyce should be forthcoming. There was something racially
strong and characterful in the very swing of her little gingham
petticoats as she swung sturdily down the front path and out the gate
with the note still clasped to her bosom. Eugene called Dorothea to
the front window to identify her, and Miss Dorothea lifted her nose
contemptuously:

“Oh, that’s Darcy Sherwood’s niece, Lib Knox. She’s a tomboy. She can
throw mud just like the boys, and once she tied a string across the
sidewalk and tripped our teacher and she fell flat, because our teacher
told her she was too dirty to come in the school yard. She’s only six
but she’s awful bad!”

Dorothea said it virtuously, and licked her lips to hide the jelly she
had been eating out of a new tumbler she had just opened.

Darcy Sherwood! What had Darcy Sherwood to do with Joyce? Could that
have been Darcy’s voice over the phone that morning?

Eugene was silent and thoughtful during their walk to Judge Peterson’s
and strode so fast that Nannette could scarcely keep pace with him. As
they waited after ringing the old-fashioned door bell he looked down
frowning and admonished his wife:

“Now, don’t you be a fool and spill the beans.”

They were ushered into the Judge’s room where he lay propped up by
pillows in a great old sleigh bed, with his wife on one side fanning
him gently, and his son sitting by the window with some papers in
his hands, but as soon as they were seated the Judge’s eyes looked
toward the door restlessly, and his big voice which had lost none of
its brusqueness with his illness, although it quavered a little with
weakness, asked:

“Where’s Joyce? Didn’t you bring the little girl?”

Nannette looked frightened and turned toward her husband to take the
initiative and Eugene hastened to explain that Joyce hadn’t been
feeling well since the funeral and they had sent her away on a little
trip to relatives to get rested after the shock of her aunt’s death.

The kind, rugged old face looked disappointed, and his head sank back a
little farther on the pillows:

“H’m! Then there’s nothing doing,” he said as if the matter were
finished, “Dan, I thought I told you to tell ’em it was no use their
coming without Joyce.”

“I did, Father. I thought I made it plain.”

“Yes, Judge, he told me, but I felt that if you understood the matter
you would feel it wasn’t necessary to wait for the formality of Joyce
being here. She doesn’t know much about business anyway and would
naturally leave everything to me.”

“H’m!”

The Judge eyed the younger man thoughtfully, keenly, but said nothing
more than that.

“You see,” Eugene hurried on blandly, “it’s about the house I’m
especially in a hurry. We can’t do anything till the business is
settled up of course, but I’ve had an offer for the house, an unusually
good offer. The man wants to pay cash and get possession right away.
It’s a man I met in the city in business relations, and he’s going to
Europe and wants to leave his family here all safely fixed before he
has to leave. Every day counts with him, and he’s especially anxious to
get this house, and is willing to pay a good price if he can get the
thing settled up at once. I thought perhaps you could put the matter
through tonight for me so I could take advantage of this deal.”

“H’m! Does Joyce want to sell?” questioned the old man from his
pillows, “Because if she does you better wire her to come on.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what Joyce has to do with it,” fumed Eugene. “It
was my mother’s house wasn’t it? Naturally I--”

But the old man’s deep voice boomed out in stern and sudden
interruption:

“Joyce has a great deal to do with it. The house belongs to Joyce.”

Eugene arose excitedly, his face growing suddenly very red, his voice
raised far beyond the sick room quality:

“I don’t believe a word of it!” he shouted. “That’s a rank lie! My
mother--!”

But Dan Peterson stood suddenly beside him saying in a quiet voice:

“That will be all this evening, Mr. Massey. Step this way please,” and
Eugene found his arm grasped like a vise and himself propelled rapidly
out of the room with Nannette in a frightened patter coming behind and
some one inside the room shut the door. Afterwards in remembering, it
seemed that he had heard a sound something like a chuckle from the
region of the bed. It made his blood boil hotly when he thought of it.
Of course there had been nothing to laugh at and yet, he felt sure the
old Judge had laughed. There must be something--he must find Joyce at
once.

They discussed it a long time after they got home and Eugene had got
done scolding his wife for having been the cause of Joyce’s leaving.
Eugene wanted to get a detective at once and find Joyce. He was
frantic. He couldn’t stand the night through with this matter of the
house facing him. He even had the telephone in his hand to call up a
detective bureau in the city, but Nannette grappled with him for it,
and pleaded with him to be reasonable for once.

“Just as soon as you get a detective the whole thing will be out, and
everybody will be talking. You’ll have the whole town arrayed against
us, and then where will we be? Joyce may come back tomorrow, and then
there won’t be any need to tell any one. And anyhow you could have
called her back when she first went if you had done what I told you, it
was you that scolded her for burning the electric light so late last
night you remember.”

“It was you that wore her clothes to the city wasn’t it? It was you
that taunted her for being in a menial position! and wouldn’t hear to
her going to those examinations that she set so much store by, wasn’t
it?”--responded he.

Into the midst of this loud altercation there came a tap on the side
door close to which Eugene was sitting. It was so startling for any one
to come to that door at that time of night that Eugene jumped and sat
up. Both were absolutely still for a quarter of a second. Nannette even
turned a little white as she stared toward the door which had four
latticed panes of glass and was lightly draped in open fish net.

Nannette recovered first.

“There she is, I suppose,” she said in a low whisper with lips that
scarcely moved, for she was conscious that she must be under the eye of
whoever was outside. “For pity’s sake don’t rave now and send her off
again. And don’t you give in either. She needs a lesson after acting
like this.”

She arose and gathered up her hat and wrap which were lying where she
had thrown them when she came in from Judge Peterson’s. Her action
seemed to bring Eugene to his senses. He got up and went to the door,
opening it but a few inches and looking out with an air of affront.

But Joyce was not outside, as he had half made up his mind she would
be. A man stood there in the darkness, a stranger he seemed to be at
first glimpse, tall, well built, of almost haughty bearing--a thing
Eugene could never tolerate in any man but himself. For a moment they
stood gazing at one another. It was almost as if the man outside were
sizing up the man who stood against the light. Then Eugene remarked
acridly:

“Well, what do you want?” giving the door the least bit of an impatient
jerk as if he were about to close it. The visitor must speak quickly.

There was perfect courtesy in the voice that replied:

“Mr. Massey? Sherwood’s my name. I’d like to have a few words with you.”

There was a grave assurance about the young man’s tone that irritated
Eugene. Then he reflected that the man might have some news concerning
Joyce and it would be as well to hear him through.

“Well, if you don’t take too long,” he said curtly, stepping out to the
porch and drawing the door to after him. “We were just about to retire.
I suppose you’re aware it’s rather late for callers.”

The young man lifted his hat with a grave smile that showed a row of
irritatingly beautiful teeth, and gave him somehow the appearance of
great advantage, but instead of telling his errand he put his hand out
and pushed open the door saying pleasantly, and almost with an air of
authority:

“We’ll just go inside if you don’t mind,” and was in before Eugene
could resent his action. This was most extraordinary behaviour and
Eugene half ready to eject him for his presumption, was yet somehow
compelled to follow him.

It was quite evident as they entered that the visitor had intended to
come inside for a purpose, for he did not hide the fact that he was
taking in the whole sitting room with a quick keen glance, and even the
hall and stairs and the living room beyond. He bowed deferentially to
Nannette as she slid back into the room, curiosity in every line of her
face.

Seen in the light of the room his face was extremely handsome, with
an easy carelessness upon it that showed he made no merit of his
comeliness, and cared little for impressions. Yet when he smiled even
an enemy must needs listen:

“I came to see whether Joyce Radway has come home yet?”

The tone demanded a straightforward answer, in fact it was like a
command, as of one who had the right to know. Eugene stiffened,
resentfully:

“She has not,” he answered. “I believe I told you that over the phone a
little while ago.”

“You did,” said Sherwood. “I came to make sure.”

He gave a glance about that had a sense of listening in it.

“Indeed!” bristled Eugene.

“When did she go away, just what time?”

“What business of yours is that?”

“It isn’t any of my business. I’m making it mine. What time?”

“Well, find out if you can. I don’t answer impertinent questions.”
Eugene was white with anger. He would have liked to have put this
intruder out, only the man was nearly twice his size.

“That’s what I intend to do!” answered the visitor taking a step into
the room where he could look well through the hall and living room
without effort. There was a grim set look about his face that meant
business, and yet he turned to Nannette with that winning smile he
could flash forth suddenly like the sun coming out from behind a cloud:

“Mrs. Massey, I’m not a bandit, and I’m not as impertinent as your
husband seems to think, although I may be a trifle unconventional, but
it is necessary for me to find out when Joyce Radway left this house
and I mean to do so. If you’ll excuse me I’ll just step upstairs and
speak to your son a minute. Don’t trouble yourself to lead the way.
I’ll find him all right--”

He took one swift stride into the hall, before Eugene realized what
he was doing and bustled irately to stop him. But the stranger did not
need to go far, for Junior in bare feet and pajamas was hanging over
the balustrade, his ears alert for the family scene.

“Hello, Buddie,” the young man said in a tone he might have used to an
older pal.

Junior straightened up involuntarily and a gleam came into his eye. He
threw one leg over the balustrade and balanced grinning, emitting a low
“’ello!” It was plain that he was both pleased and embarrassed.

“Still interested in that baseball bat of mine, are you Kid?”

“Sure!” responded Junior coming down to the steps again and sticking
his tongue in his cheek expectantly.

“Well, how about that package you were to deliver? Did you deliver it
last night?”

Junior hung his head, and wriggled on one bare toe.

“Couldn’t,” he murmured in a low voice. “She went away ’fore I had the
chance. She didn’t come back yet.”

“That’s all right, son,” said the young man pleasantly, “That’s all I
want to know. May I trouble you for the package?”

“I got it hid.”

“Get it, please!”

“Junior!” broke forth Nannette’s indignant voice, “come here to me this
instant.”

But Junior’s bare heels were flying up the stairs, and before his
mother could pursue him he returned with a small indiscriminate bundle
which he thrust over the balustrade where it disappeared inside the
visitor’s coat.

“All right, Buddie, the bat is yours when you call for it tomorrow. At
the old stand. You know.”

“Aw’right!” answered Junior with delight in his eyes. It was plain that
his mother was nowhere in his vision while this hero was in sight.

The young man turned and walked swiftly back through the sitting room
past the angry father and mother and over to the door. With the door
knob firmly grasped in his hand he turned once more and faced his host:

“I happened to see Miss Radway alone on a lonely road quite late last
night and was interested to know if she reached home in safety. I
thought perhaps we might work together to find her if there was any
necessity. But since you do not care to coöperate I will wish you good
evening.”

The young man flashed a distant smile and opening the door was gone,
before the man and woman realized what he was about to do.

For an instant they looked at each other speechless. Then Nannette
broke forth:

“You ought to have asked him where he saw her! Go after him quick!
Don’t let him get away!”

Stung into action Eugene opened the door and called into the night:

“Oh, I say! Come here! Wait a minute!”

But his words seemed to float out on emptiness.

Eugene stood in the door for a moment listening, but there seemed to be
no echo of footsteps. Yet it was scarcely a second since the visitor
had stood inside the door. Where could he have gone? It was almost
uncanny.

Nannette came and looked out the door, and Eugene hurried down the
walk calling out again, but no answer came, and his own voice seemed to
mock him. He looked up and down the street, but saw no one. He walked
around the house, and back to the gate again. There was no sound of
automobile in the quiet moonlit street. Everybody had gone to bed and
the lights were out. Strange! How could the man have disappeared?

“Junior! Who was that man?” screamed Nannette remembering and rushing
back into the house. But Junior had a realizing sense of his disloyalty
to his family, and had fled to his bed with the clothes tucked tightly
around his ears, and his eyes screwed shut as if in deep slumber. When
rudely shaken into being he yawned reprovingly and asked, “What man?”

Nannette brought him at last to a proper appreciation of the necessity
and he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, him? He’s our coach, Darce Sherwood.
You just oughta see him pitch a ball. He’s some cracker-jack pitcher.”

Questioned further concerning the package he said he guessed some old
woman had sent it to Joyce. He guessed it was some seeds or “sumpin” to
put on Grandma’s grave.

The mother and father looked at one another completely puzzled.

“He certainly had no right to go away that way without telling me where
he saw Joyce,” declared Eugene angrily. “Now I suppose I shall have
to go out and find him. The insolent sucker! He thought he had me in
a hole. I _won’t_ go after him. Let him go to the dogs. Probably he
never saw Joyce at all. What difference does it make if he did? Serves
her right if she gets in trouble. I’m not going to hunt him up that’s
certain. I’ll get a detective. What’s he got to do with Joyce anyhow
I’d like to know?”

“Then everybody’ll find out--” wailed Nannette.

“What’s the difference if they do? They’ll find out if she doesn’t come
back at all, won’t they? You haven’t a brain cell working. You’re just
_like_ a woman--!”

“But Gene, why don’t you see that this man is the only clue you have to
where she was last seen?”

“Well, what if he is? Do you think I’m going crawling to a man that
entered my house that way--? Say! That’s an idea! I’ll have him
arrested for house breaking. He came into my house against my express
command. I told him we were retiring. I told him I would talk to him
outside. But he just opened the door and walked in and said we would
talk inside. I’ll call up the police and have him arrested before he
gets home, that’s what I’ll do. Then we’ll tell him we’ll release him
when he tells where Joyce is. Perhaps he’s got her kidnapped somewhere.
Perhaps he knows more than he’s willing to tell--!”

But while they were discussing it Darcy Sherwood was striding over the
meadows and vaulting the fences back of their house, till he reached
the public highway along which Joyce had walked the evening before.




CHAPTER VI


When Joyce felt her wrists clasped in that iron grip in the darkness,
and felt the hot breath of a man on her face, she was more frightened
than she had ever been in her life. All the stories of horrors in the
night, of hold-ups and bandits and kidnappings came to her mind as
she struggled vainly for a moment in that vise-like grip. She tried
to scream, though she knew she was too far away from houses to reach
the ear of any people who lived about unless some one happened to be
going along that road; and people did not go along that road at night
unless they had to. It was lonely and desolate, and out of the way from
the main highway, a quiet remote place for the dead. She had a quick
feeling of thankfulness that Aunt Mary who had always been so careful
for her safety, so anxious when she was out alone at night, was where
she could not be alarmed; a quick wish that she could call to her. Then
the thought of God came and her heart cried for help.

The flashlight sprung in her face sent her almost swooning. She was
conscious that her senses were going from her, and that she must
somehow prevent herself from going out this way in the dark, and then
up through the billows of blackness that were surging to envelop her
soul she heard her own name in startled, almost tender tone:

“Joyce!”

And back through the blackness she came again to earth and
consciousness and opened her eyes, straight into the eyes that
searched her face; answering the call of that strangely familiar voice.
“Oh--was it you?”

There was troubled relief in the voice as she said it, relief as if
she would rather have had back the terror than to have found this one
involved in the mystery. There was question, pain, almost reproach, in
her tone; there was judgment held in suspense as if her soul rejected
the witness of her eyes. Then, as if she could not bear the conclusion
of her own judgment she cried out earnestly,

“Oh, _what_ were you doing there?”

He dropped her hands as if they had been shot away from him and his
head drooped, stooped perhaps would be better, as if a great burden had
suddenly been let upon his shoulders. He tried to speak and his voice
was husky, the words did not come from his lips. He half turned away
with a motion as if he would hide his face.

Then a low stealthy whistle rasped between them and he started back
toward her:

“Go!--” he said quickly, “Go! You must not be seen here! Joyce--Little
Joyce--” the last syllables were scarcely audible. She heard them in
her soul afterward, like a long echo of a very fine whisper. A clear
whistle close beside her, resonant, remembered from childhood, sounded
just above her bowed head as she turned, and she knew he was signalling
to the rest.

“Go! Straight down the road! Keep in the shadow. I’ll come back after
awhile and find you,” he whispered, “Don’t be afraid--” and in the same
breath, louder:

“All right, Kid, nothing but a scared rabbit. We’ll go up the other
way--”

He was striding away from her rapidly into the darkness and she stood
almost petrified in the road where he left her, till she heard a rough
laugh of one of his companions and fear lent strength to her feet once
more and sped her down the road again.

Her heart was beating wildly, and her thoughts in a chaos. She could
not think, nor analyze her own feelings. She could only fly along in
the shadow, stumbling now and again over a rough bit of road, straining
her ears to listen for sounds behind her, casting a fearful glance back.

But the darkness was reassuring. The dimmed lights of the automobile
that had stood by the roadside were no longer visible. The men had
gone away in the other direction. She was alone on the road--with at
least another mile to go before she could turn again into the highway,
and she found an overwhelming tremble upon her. Her very spirit seemed
to be quivering with it. The night which had been warm and balmy
seemed turned to fearful cold and she shivered as she tried to hurry
along. Now and then the moon swept out and threw her shadow along the
way, and she glanced furtively behind her and shrank into the shadow
of the elderberry bushes by the fence. Once a wild rabbit scuttled
across the road and startled her so that she almost fell. She began to
reproach herself for having gone away from home in this silly aimless
way, losing her temper like a child and walking out from safety and
protection without preparation. She wondered if God were angry with
her for it. She wondered why she had done it and what she was going
to do anyway, but most of all she wondered what those dark figures on
the hillside had been doing, and why the shoulders of her friend had
drooped as if with shame. Most of all this dragged upon her soul and
kept her from fleetness. For how must the feet drag when the heart is
weighed down!

She came at last into the highway, and heard by the tolling of the
clock on a distant barn that it was two o’clock. It gave her a strange
sense of detachment from the world to be thus adrift at that dark,
prowling time of the night.

The road was empty either way. Not even a light of a distant car was in
sight. If she could only hope to find a place of shelter before another
came. Surely it could not be much longer so empty on the highway. Some
one would be going by. Some one would see her. They would think it
strange. They would think ill of her if they saw her. There was no hope
for help from any passing car. She would not dare accept it if it were
offered.

Ahead she saw a strip of woods. Her brain began to function. That would
be the grove just before you came to old Julia Hartshorn’s house, and
Julia Hartshorn lived just outside of Heatherdell. Heatherdell was a
little town and she knew many of the people. She would not be lonely
there. But where could she go? She must not be seen out at that time
of night by any one she knew unless she came to it and appealed for
help. That would mean that she would have to tell the circumstances
of her being out from home in the blackness of night. That would mean
criticism for Eugene and Nannette, no matter how gently she might tell
her tale, nor how much she took the blame upon herself. And that would
have hurt Aunt Mary. For Aunt Mary’s sake she must not let any talk
go around. Aunt Mary knew that Nannette was jealous of her, and that
Eugene was sometimes hard on her, but Aunt Mary loved her son, even
though she knew his faults, and Joyce would never willingly make any
gossip that would reflect upon the family. Eugene was right. He knew
Joyce’s conscience. It was functioning right on true to type even now
in her terror and perplexity.

If only she had not gone to that cemetery! If only she had not turned
aside and allowed herself to give up and cry upon Aunt Mary’s grave,
and lose all that time. She might have been far away now, in a safe,
quiet room somewhere that she had hired for the night. There would
have been places where she could have found a room for a very little.
She had some money, she didn’t remember how much, with her--it didn’t
matter. There were a few dollars. Perhaps, too, she had put that gold
piece in her handbag, she wasn’t sure of that. The day had been so
long and hard, so many things had been within its hours. She could not
recall what she had picked up to carry with her that morning. She was
too weary to care.

But she couldn’t bear to go away without bidding good-bye to the spot
where Aunt Mary and her mother lay, and perhaps too she had felt she
could better think what to do, there in the quiet with the two graves.

Well, there was no use in excusing herself. She had gone. She shuddered
at the horror of the last hour, and then that burden again to find out
it was that one--and to wonder. What had he been doing? Was it then
true, all the whispers that had come to her ears, of his life?

Around the bend ahead dashed a light. A car was coming at last. She
remembered he had said he would come after her. She glanced back, but
it was all darkness. Even if he did come would she want to meet him?
Could she explain her presence out at night? He was now an almost
stranger. He knew naught of her life. And perhaps it would be better if
she did not know his.

She glanced fearfully ahead. The light was growing brighter, was almost
blinding. She stepped out of its range and crept among some bushes
till the glare and the swift passing car were gone, and watched the
little red tail light blink and disappear. Then keeping quite close to
the bank she slid along, fearful of another car so near to the bend of
the road. It might come upon her unaware and if she were in the glare
she would naturally be noticed by the driver. She trembled at the
very thought, and hurried along, limbs sometimes stumbling and almost
falling in the tall grass.

But presently she came in sight of Julia Hartshorn’s cottage, a little
quiet brown affair, with gingerbread fretwork on its porches and moss
on its roof, set far back from the street in a grove of maples, like a
tiny island off the mainland of the larger grove near by.

A picket fence with scaling ancient paint, and a gate with a chain and
weight guarded the quiet haven, and the fitful moonlight quavered out
and showed the dim outline of a hammock slung between the maples close
to the west porch. Joyce remembered a long, beautiful afternoon when
she had lain in that hammock and read a book while Aunt Mary sat on the
porch with Julia Hartshorn and sewed. How long ago and how beautiful
that seemed. How like heaven in contrast with what she had been going
through lately! Yes, here was a haven. She might go and knock at the
door, and Julia’s night-capped old head would appear at the window
above. She had only to tell who it was and that she was in trouble, and
the door would be open wide for her. Neither would Julia Hartshorn ever
tell.

But Julia Hartshorn was old, and she had a sharp-tongued niece who had
come to live with her and go to school. It would never do. She must
not venture that. The school in Heatherdell was too near to the school
in Meadow Brook, and too much gossip went back and forth. No, she must
keep to her lonely way and go on. But there was no reason why she might
not slip into that gate for a little while and lie in that hammock till
daylight began to come. She could steal in so quietly no one would ever
know, and get out again before the household was awake. She would be
entirely safe outside a dwelling house of course, and need not fear to
sleep for a few minutes under such protection.

Softly she lifted the latch of the old gate, lifting the gate as she
swung it cautiously open lest it creak, and let herself in, closing it
noiselessly behind her. Still as a creature of the woods she stole up
the grass and tiptoed across the walk to the hammock, sliding gently
into it, and slowly relaxing her tense muscles. It seemed as though she
had suddenly been tossed up by a terrible and angry sea where her very
soul had been racked from her body and laid upon a quiet stretch of
sand, so wonderful it was to lie and rest.

She scarcely knew when her thoughts relaxed from their intense strain
and rested with her body or when the night blurred into sleep and took
her trouble all away. She only realized as she was drifting off, that
her soul was crying, “Oh, God! Forgive me if I’ve done wrong. Take
care of me, and show me what to do! For Jesus’ sake--take care of
me--show me.”

Was that a dream or footsteps stealthily along the road, pausing at the
gate, noiseless footsteps like those in the cemetery? He was coming
back--but he must not. Oh, what was he doing out there in the dark!
Something that he was ashamed of? He had drooped and had not answered!
“Oh, God, show him!” Was there some one at the gate? Or was it fancy.
Ah--now they seemed to be going on. How sweet the breeze on her
forehead--like the breeze from the open kitchen door. “Oh, God. Save
him! Help me! Show me what to do.”




CHAPTER VII


The morning dawned with a luminous pink in the east and a sudden
twitter of birds. April, and four o’clock in the morning; asleep in a
hammock under a tree. What could be more perfect?

Joyce, half conscious of the wonder all about her, had come to life
with the first bird, and a sense of peace upon her. The daylight
was coming and God had kept her. She might go on her way now and be
undisturbed. Then a stab of pain at the memory of the night before
brought her further awake. A low flying bird almost brushed her cheek
with its wing, and the petals of the apple blossoms drifted down in her
face. Such exquisite perfume, such melody of many throats, would it be
something like this when one wakened in heaven and heard the voices of
the angel songs?

Beyond her sheltering tree the dim outlines of the old house loomed
gently in the gray morning, such peace and safety all about. How good
to be resting here.

But Julia Hartshorn’s niece had picked out this especial morning to
get up early and do some house cleaning before going to school, and
just as Joyce was allowing herself to drift off again into drowsiness
Jane Hartshorn’s alarm clock set up such a clang into the melody of
the morning that Joyce came to herself in terror and sat up looking
fearfully toward the house. Not for anything would she have them
discover her there. She must get up and get out before the light. She
must hasten now for some one was evidently going to arise at once, and
it was not safe to remain another second.

Hastily she felt for her handbag, realized that she had only one book
instead of two, groped in the darkness for her hat which had fallen to
the ground, and slid softly out of the hammock.

A glance toward the house showed a light in one of the upper windows
and in a panic she stole breathlessly from bush to bush and from
shadow to shadow till she reached the gate and the high road. Then a
new fear overtook her. She would run the risk of meeting early milk
carts, perhaps stray tramps if she walked along through the village.
Some one might recognize her. It would not do at this early hour in
the morning. Where could she hide until a respectable hour for a young
woman to be out alone? How could she explain her presence there? For
she was not one of the modern girls who go where they please and let
people think what they like. She had been taught that there was a
certain consideration for one’s reputation that was right and perfectly
consistent with independence. One of the precepts that Aunt Mary had
ingrained into her nature had been that good old Bible verse, “Let
not your good be evil spoken of” and she had grown up with a sane and
wholesome idea of values that helped immensely when she came to a
crisis anywhere.

She hurried down the road which would presently merge into the village
street, as noiselessly as possible, and cast about for a possible
retreat. Then she came to a low rail fence skirting a pasture. The
breath of the cows came sweetly in the gray dawn, mingled with the
smell of earth and growing things. She could look across a wide
expanse to wooded hills several miles away. There seemed to be no
buildings to suggest the presence of humans, and cows were safe
friends--at least most of them. She could keep close to the fence and
climb if there happened to be a bull in the lot. With a hasty glance
backward and each way she climbed the fence and dropped into the
pasture, skirting along its edge, and down away from the street. It
was still too dark for her to be visible from the road, and she would
surely find somewhere to sit down and wait until a respectable hour.

She made her way safely through two pastures, stumbling now and then
over the clumps of violets, or little hillocks of grass, but the meadow
was for the most part smooth with the cropping of the cows, and it was
growing lighter all the time.

In the second pasture the ground dipped till it came to a little
rivulet tinkling along over bright pebbles, and giving an absurdly
miniature reflection of the dawn in pink and gold as it ran; and here,
under a great old chestnut tree, she dropped down and looked about her.

Off to the right perhaps half a mile away there was a red barn, and
house beyond it with smoke coming from the chimney. Farther away a
village church spire rose among the trees. It was all so quiet and
peaceful with the first tinge of red light from the sunrise putting a
halo upon everything. Joyce never remembered having been out at this
hour before, all alone with the spring. The fear of the night before
had fled and it was as if she were sitting safe watching God make a new
day. She wondered as the miracle of the sun began to appear in a great
ruby light, what this day would bring forth for her. It hardly seemed
real to her yet, what she had passed through since she left home. The
experience in the cemetery was like an awful dream. She shuddered
to think of it. Was it because an old friend had fallen from a high
pedestal where she had placed him many years ago? Was it because a
nameless fear hovered about her, and she could not bear to search out
in her mind what he might have been doing? Whatever it was she realized
that she must put it away until she had time and privacy. There were
more important things to decide now and she must keep her poise and
plan her day. It would soon be light enough for her to go upon her way
and she must know where she was going and what she should try to do.

In the first place she must find out how much money she had with her.
She had very little of her own any way in change, and in her hurry she
was afraid she might have left that behind. She opened her handbag and
turned it carefully upside down in her lap, quickly sorting out its
contents, the lace, the handkerchiefs and the little trinkets in one
pile, the papers and letters in another, and oh, joy, she had brought
her purse. She opened it quickly to assure herself of its contents.
Yes, there was the gold piece that she had been saving so long, the
precious gold piece that had been a present from her own mother when
she was a tiny girl. Ten dollars had seemed a great sum when she was
small and Aunt Mary had encouraged her to keep it and use it for
something nice that she would like to keep always as a gift from her
mother. That she would not use except as a last resort. She snapped the
little inner pocket shut and turned to the next compartment, counting
the pennies and dimes and half dollars and quarters carefully. There
were three dollars and sixty-five cents, the change from the five
dollar bill with which she paid for her gloves to wear to the funeral.
Last she opened the little strapped pocket that held her bills. She
had been carefully hoarding her last month’s allowance, and the few
dollars saved from the months before to get a new coat and some things
she would need for the winter in case she passed her examinations and
got a school to teach. But she had been obliged to dip into her savings
several times just before Aunt Mary died, and afterward to get things
for Aunt Mary that Eugene did not think of or consider necessary, and
now she was not sure just how much she had left. She counted, slowly,
one ten dollar bill, three fives, a two dollar bill, nine ones, and two
silver dollars. It looked a lot as she went over it again to make sure,
thirty-eight dollars, and with the three sixty-five it made forty-one
dollars and sixty-five cents. Of course the ten dollar gold piece made
it fifty-one in all, but she was not counting that. That was to be
saved at all hazards for the thing that she wanted most as a gift from
her mother. Not unless life itself were endangered would she touch it,
she resolved.

But forty-one dollars ought to keep her if she were careful until she
could earn more. It didn’t look a lot when one considered that she was
starting in the world, but just suppose she hadn’t anything. Girls had
been in a predicament like that before. God was good to her. She would
have to save every cent carefully, and get a job of some sort at once.
She must not waste a day. Jobs were not easy to find, either, when one
could give no references. She would not dare give references because
somehow Eugene would make things unpleasant for her. No one must find
out where she was. She realized that Eugene and Nannette felt that they
had a good thing in her to do their work and look after the children,
while they went around and had a good time, and that they would not
easily let her go. They would not stop at talking a little against her
if by so doing they could lose her a job and bring her back to take
care of them. This conclusion had been forcing itself upon her for
some time slowly, and had been fully revealed by their actions of the
day before. She did not want to make any trouble, nor any talk in the
town, but she was fully resolved not to go back to them. She felt that
if Aunt Mary were here now, in the light of all the things that had
been said to her since the funeral, she would not advise her to remain
there. Indeed, there had been hints now and then before Aunt Mary was
so sick, such as “If you should ever consider it advisable not to live
with Gene and Nan, dear,” or “You can’t tell what may develop when you
get to teaching. I know Nan isn’t easy to get along with--.” But these
were only hints, and Aunt Mary had expected to get well. They all had
expected her to, until the last three weeks of her illness. Joyce had
shrunk from talking about the possibilities of death, and so it seemed
had Aunt Mary. After all, it was her responsibility now, and she was
doing what seemed the best for all. She could never live in Eugene’s
house. Her breath seemed stifled. How could she study and have her
light watched every night? How could she be hampered in her comings
and goings if she were to earn her own living? No, she had been right
to come away. Perhaps the break might have been done more formally,
not precipitated in such a headlong way, that was her greatest fault
to jump headlong into a situation, but even so it would likely have
been harder. She could hear even now the long arguments before she had
brought the Masseys to her viewpoint. Indeed she doubted if she would
ever have brought them there, or have been allowed to go away if they
had really thought she meant it. She was half surprised at herself
that she was really gone from home so easily, half expected to have
Gene walk to her out of the dim of the morning and order her home. She
remembered then for the first time that Gene had been fuming about the
delay in the reading of the will and likely she ought to have remained
until after that out of respect to her aunt, but after all, if Aunt
Mary had been going to leave her something, some furniture or a little
bit of money, while it would have been nice to have it, it would only
have gendered more strife. Why not let Gene have it all? That would
likely compensate for the loss of her service in the family, and it
would have been hard to stay there and see Nan turn Aunt Mary’s house
upside down, perhaps sell or dispose of some of the dear old things
that had grown precious through the years. It was just as well that she
was gone before it came up at all. When she was settled in some nice
place and everything fully assured she would write some letters to her
old friends and to Gene and Nan and tell them where she was so that
there would be no talk about her going. And she knew Nan well enough
to be sure that until such time as they heard from her Nan would cover
her going by some clever story of a visit to friends. She thought that
it would not be more than a few days before she was in a position to
write.

Having settled her finances she took up the pile of papers and letters,
tied them in a neat packet and bestowed them in the pocket of her serge
dress. She was like a bird let out of a cage. She could not go back,
not while the sunshine of the new day was coming, not even if it grew
dark and lowering. She would rather quiver in the heart of her own tree
than be caged again for the pleasure of others and obliged to sing
whether she felt like it or not.

As she reached this decision and put the little packet of letters
firmly in her pocket a ray of sun reached out a warm finger and touched
her hair, and she realized that the day was come and she must soon go
on her way. Hastily she went through the other things in her lap. The
trinkets and lace she folded into a handkerchief and pinned it inside
her dress. Having thus lightened her handbag she set about making a
meagre toilet.

The brook was at hand, sparkling and clear, in which to wash her face,
and she had a tiny mirror in her bag to tidy her hair. By way of
breakfast until she could do better she folded one of the examination
question papers into a cup and drank a long, sweet draught.

While she was setting her hat straight, far in the distance she heard
a humming sound, and for the first time she noticed the poles and
wires of a trolley line perhaps half a mile away over the fields. Sure
enough! That was the new trolley line that had just been completed.
She could ride on it as far as it went and then walk to another line
perhaps. Somehow now that she was away she wanted to go far enough away
from home to be really in a new atmosphere, where people would not find
her and tell the Masseys about her. She must get at least a hundred
miles away from home, perhaps more, or it would be no use going at all.
Yet she dared not take much of a ride on the train, it would eat into
her small hoard too much and leave her nothing to get started on when
she found a new home. But a trolley! One could go a good many miles
for five cents. She strained her eyes to watch for the car and soon
spied it, a black speck moving from the east, growing momently larger
and more distinct against the brightness of the morning. There would
likely be another one going in the opposite direction soon. Could she
make it across the fields before it came? They would probably run every
half-hour. If she missed this next one it would not be so long to wait
for the next. Was it too early for a girl to board a car in the open
country? She eyed the sun. It could not be more than five o’clock. She
decided to try for it, and picking up her small effects was soon on her
way across the fields.

Fortune favored her, and a car came along soon after she arrived at the
highway. She boarded it and found a seat in the end next to a laborer
with a pickaxe and muddy boots, who was fast asleep and did not even
know when she sat down. Most of the men in the car were laborers and
were nodding drowsily, scarcely looking at one another. She was the
only woman in the car, but they paid no heed to her, and she dropped
back into the seat as the car lurched on its way, thankful that her
hasty glance revealed no acquaintance from Meadow Brook or Heatherdell.
She put her head back against the window and closed her eyes and her
senses seemed to swim away from her. She suddenly realized that she
had had no supper the night before and no breakfast but spring water
that morning. All the strain of the day before and the terrible night
seemed to climax in that moment, and for an instant she felt as if she
were losing her consciousness. Then her will came to the front and she
set her lips and determined to pull through no matter how hard the ride
or how long the fast. She was young and this was her testing. She must
not, she would not faint.

The car stopped for a moment to let on some more tired-looking men
going to their work, and a whiff of spring blew in at her window
fanning her brow. She thought again of the hand of her mother, and
wondered if God were reminding her that He cared, and new strength
seemed to come into her.

She was awakened from a half drowse at the next stop by the sound of a
voice that sent terror through her heart. It was the same hoarse voice
breaking out in raucous laughter that she had heard half subdued in the
graveyard the night before, the one they had called “Kid.”




CHAPTER VIII


Joyce sat up startled and peered furtively from her window.

The man was outside waiting to board the car. He was big and red and
ugly, with bold blue eyes and red hair. He had a weak mouth and a cruel
jaw, and she couldn’t help shrinking into her corner as she looked.
Suppose he had been the one to catch her and hold her hands in a
vise-like grip last night! Her soul turned sick within her.

He came up the steps prating in a loud voice about women, called them
“dames” and “skirts,” and his laughter was an offense. Laughter is like
smells, it can be fragrant as the morning or it can be foul as the
breath of a gutter. This man’s laughter was like a noxious gas.

Joyce would have fled if the aisle had not been blocked either way.
Failing in that she shrank still further back in her seat, drew her
hat over her eyes, and found herself trembling in every fibre. Why
did such a man have to be on the earth, she wondered as she heard his
voice going on in coarse remarks. And what possible companionship, even
in business, could he have with the man she knew, whom she had always
thought fine of soul?

The stab of that question came into her morning with renewed sharpness
as she was compelled to sit and listen, as were all the rest of the
passengers in the car, to this crude man’s conversation.

There was nothing to fear of course, for it was broad daylight and
there were plenty of men in the car whose faces told that they would
defend her. They might be all common workingmen, but they had homes and
mothers and wives and sisters and they respected them. There was a kind
of nobleness in their faces that made one sure of that.

Joyce sat motionless and tried to still the trembling of her lips,
tried to control the foolish desire to let the tears come into her
eyes, tried to tell herself she was silly, and only needed her
breakfast and there was no sense in her giving way to her feelings like
this. This man did not know her. He had no idea that she had been the
intruder at his midnight work. Oh, that work--that terrible work! What
was it that bound these men together, the one so coarse, the other who
had always seemed so fine? It haunted her with dark possibilities.
Some money making scheme of course it was. But--it must be something
terrible! She could not forget the look, the droop of the man in the
darkness, when she had asked him about it.

And this other one. He must live somewhere near where he had boarded
the car. He was not any one from Meadow Brook. The business was a
partnership with strangers, yet the one she knew had been the captain,
the head of it all. It was his voice that had given the orders, that
had told them to go back and not come after her. Why should he be bound
up in something that all too clearly was illicit--something of which
he was ashamed? How she wished she had not had to know this about her
one time friend. Of course she had not seen him much since the old
school days--but it had never seemed possible that anything gruesome,
mysterious,--_wrong_, could be connected with him. It would have been
much pleasanter to have gone away from home carrying with her to the
end of life the pleasant thoughts of those she left behind, those who
were connected in any way with the dearness of the old days.

But this was no time to think of such things. The morning was full
upon them in a flood of sunshine, and the car was coming to a halt at
what seemed like some kind of a terminal. There was a platform, and a
shed-like shelter, and the entire car arose as one man and crowded out
on the platform. Joyce waited until they were gone and slipping out
the other end went around the back of the car, crossed the tracks and
walked rapidly up a side street, rejoicing to hear the hum of the cross
line trolley for which the men seemed to be waiting. It would be good
to know that that dreadful man was gone.

On the first corner was a small grocery whose door was just being
unlocked by a sleepy looking lad, and Joyce went in and bought a box of
crackers and some cheese. This would reinforce her and save time. She
wanted to get well out of this region before people began to be about
much. She did not care to run any risk of meeting any one she knew who
would go back home and talk about it.

So, munching her crackers and cheese, she walked briskly down the
street, a new one evidently, filled with rows of neat two-story houses,
some of which were not yet fully finished, for workmen were about and
signs were up for rent and sale.

At a broader cross street she turned the corner and came full upon a
band of men who were working away at a sewer that was being laid,
and suddenly from out of the group arose the noxious laughter of the
red-haired man of the trolley. She stopped as if she had been shot, and
wheeled, back to the quieter street of the small houses. But not back
in time to escape the mocking words that were flung after her:

“There she comes! That’s my girlie! Isn’t she a pippin? Oh, don’t run
away darling! I won’t let the naughty men hurt you!”

Words could not describe the taunting tone nor her horror, as if she
had been desecrated. She was trembling and the tears were flowing down
her cheeks as she fled, block after block without knowing whither
she went. It seemed so degrading that she could not rally her usual
common sense. She began to wonder if perhaps all this was to teach her
that she ought not to have gone away from home? That she should have
remained and borne all there was to bear and just waited until relief
came. But at that her sound sense came to her rescue and she began to
breathe more freely.

She had passed into quite another section of the city now, and trolleys
were coming and going and plenty of people on the streets. She boarded
one of the cars and rode until it came to a railroad station where she
got off and went in. There was a restaurant here where she could get a
glass of milk, and there was a rest room where she might tidy herself
and sit down and get her bearings. She would study the time-tables and
find out where to go intelligently. This running away hit or miss might
only lead her in a circle and bring her back home before night.

So she went in and asked some questions, finally buying a ticket to a
small town about a hundred miles away. Half an hour later, she boarded
the train, having added to her crackers and cheese, an orange and a
couple of bananas for lunch.

It was a way train and slow, and Joyce curled up in her seat and had
a good, long nap, then woke to eat her lunch and sleep again. She had
thought to plan out a campaign for herself, make some definite outline
in her mind of what she would do with the future so suddenly opened out
before her, but sleep simply dropped down upon her and took possession.
The strain under which she had been, the sudden sharp emotions
following one upon the other had stretched her endurance almost to the
breaking point and relaxation brought such utter weariness that she
could not even think.

Something was the matter with the engine and they stayed on a side
track for a long time while men rushed about shouting to one another
and doing things to the engine and now and again seemingly to the
machinery underneath the cars, but it all made no impression on Joyce.
She slept on, curled into a slim little heap in her seat. After a long
time a train came by from the other direction, bringing aid perhaps,
for it halted, and then there were more poundings and shoutings, and
at last the train went on and Joyce’s train groaned and creaked and
took up its limping way, lumbering slowly on like a person on crutches.
About the middle of the afternoon, they came to a halt, and Joyce,
sitting up suddenly warned by some inner consciousness, perceived she
had arrived at the place she had aimed for, and got out quickly.

She had been told in the city that there would be an electric
connection with another city, and sure enough, there stood a rickety
old trolley in which she embarked, the only passenger for more than
half the way.

Half an hour’s ride brought her through a lovely rolling country, past
country clubs, and estates, and into the real farming district again,
then more country clubs, and scattering bungalows and cottages, till
it seemed evident that she was on the outskirts of a new suburb of the
city that was just being developed.

It might have been the pretty little church, covered with vines and
wearing the air of having been there before the bungalows came, that
gave her the sudden impulse, or perhaps it was the well kept hedges and
the general atmosphere of hominess that pervaded the pleasant streets.
She decided to get out and see the place. She was tired of travel in
the stuffy, rickety old car, and at least she could get into another
car after she had walked a while if she found no place that seemed
livable.

She got out and followed down a pleasant shaded street of homes, at
first drinking in the beauty of the well kept lawns and newly painted
gardens and hedge rows, turning corners and admiring bits of stone
dwellings, bungalows, all on one floor with charming variance of rough
stone pillars and porches. Turning two or three corners thus, she came
upon what seemed to be a large estate, an old stone house far back
from the road almost hidden by wonderful trees and dense, clustering
shrubbery. It had the air of having been a fine old house of a time
past, probably the original estate from which the whole town had been
divided, and down at the corner in a little V of land where three
roads came together and divided, the land sloped from a high wall of
hedge, with a tiny gravelled path to the sidewalk, there stood the
dearest little land office that ever a developing operation dared to
build. It was not more than nine or ten feet long and six or seven feet
wide, but it had five windows and a door, and the tiniest little front
porch with a seat on each side as perfect and complete as any little
house that ever was built. A vine had clambered over the portico and
spread to cover one entire end, and there were window boxes in the
front windows where flowers had grown the past year, though weeds were
overrunning them now.

As she drew nearer Joyce perceived that it had a neglected air as if
no one owned it or the owner was away and didn’t care, and it seemed
somehow so much like her own forlorn self, hunting a home and a place
in life, that her heart went out to it wistfully.

Then strangest of all just as she was feeling that way she turned the
sharp point of the corner and saw two men working about it at the back,
and perceived one of them raise a heavy implement and deal a tremendous
blow at the little dwelling sitting so cozily there on the little
knoll, with such a smiling, inviting air, doing its best to urge people
to buy lots and build in this pleasant town.

The little building shivered in all its timbers, and the sound with
which it reacted to the blow seemed something between a groan and a
sob. Joyce stood still with horror in her eyes, and then the man raised
the heavy iron and swung it back for another blow.

But Joyce, without knowing what she was doing, was all at once by his
side:

“Oh!” she cried putting out a detaining hand upon the exact spot where
the iron must strike, “Oh! _Don’t!_”

The man paused in his motion and looked at her in wonder, his iron on
his shoulder:

“Ma’am?” he said astonished, “Did you speak?”

“Yes,” said Joyce shyly, “Why are you doing that? You will ruin the
little house.”

“Them was the boss’ orders, ma’am. Wreck it. That’s what I’m here for.”

“But--Why? It’s a perfectly good little house.”

“He wants to clear this here corner, ma’am, and set the hedge out all
the way around like the rest. He don’t want no office here any more,
he’s bought the place. He said to get this out of the way the easiest
way we knowed how. I’m obeyin’ orders, ma’am!”

The man raised his arm for another blow and intimated by his glance
that he would be pleased if the lady would move a little further away
and give him more room to strike. But Joyce only stepped nearer in her
earnestness:

“Wouldn’t he, do you think he might--perhaps--_sell_ it?” she asked
eagerly.

The two men looked at one another amusedly. This was a queer, new kind
of a girl. But they were dwellers near a great city and there were all
kinds in a city. Their problem was to get rid of this one and go on
with their work as soon as possible. The second man took the initiative:

“Lady,” he said stepping up with authority, “The boss is on his way to
Europe an’ we gotta git this here building out o’ this piece of ground
before we quit tonight. That’s my contract, an’ I generally manage to
keep my contrac’s. That’s how I keep my reputashun--gettin’ things
done when I say I will.”

Joyce drew her brows together thoughtfully:

“What are you going to do with this building?” she asked.

“Break her up an’ cart her off. Got a man cornin’ in an hour to clean
her up fer the kindlin’ wood. We ain’t got no time to waste, lady.”

“Then the house is yours? To do as you please with?” Her eyes
persisted, looking at the men earnestly.

“Wal, it amounts to that. Yas, it’s ourn.”

“Well, then, wouldn’t you sell it?”

“But I tell you lady, the house has gotta git off’n this here piece o’
ground before tomorra mornin’ ’r I lose my big contract on the rest o’
this job.”

“Couldn’t it be moved?” persisted Joyce. “They move houses even bigger
than that. I’ve seen them.”

“Aw, yes, she could be moved. A course she could be moved ef you had a
place to put her.”

“I will get a place,” said Joyce decidedly. “What will you sell the
building for?”

The men looked at one another nonplussed:

“I guess we’d take five bucks apiece, wouldn’t we, Tom?” said the older
of the men winking slowly.

“Sure,” said Tom. “But she’s gotta get outta here this arternoon.”

Joyce looked anxiously about her as if she hoped to find a bit of handy
land close by:

“How much time have I?” she asked. “I’ll have to hunt a place. I’m sure
there’s one somewhere. Do you know where I could get a mover?”

The men grew interested. She really meant business. Well, five bucks
was five bucks of course, and if she really wanted the house, why they
didn’t mind earning double money and getting a bit of a rest in the
bargain. They looked at each other again, a long meaningful glance:

“I guess Sam would fix her up, wouldn’t he, Tom? I guess he wouldn’t
overcharge her for movin’, would he? He’s got the big jacks along
today, ain’t he? An’ she ain’t very big--”

“What do you think he would charge?” gasped Joyce awaiting the answer
as if her very life depended upon it. It seemed as though she just
couldn’t bear to lose that little house! It seemed as though it had
just been made for her need, and she found her heart praying, “Oh,
heavenly Father, please make it possible, please make it possible!”

“Oh, he wouldn’t charge you much ef you didn’t go too fur. But I don’t
think you ken git enny land. It’s all took up about here.”

“How much time will you give me?” asked Joyce impatiently, anxiety
growing in her face.

“Well, we oughtta be pullin’ out o’ here in about a nour,” said the
older man. “The truck don’t leave fur a nour an’ a quarter. We’ll say a
nour an’ ten minutes. That oughtta give you time.”

“Oh!” gasped Joyce and flew down the street looking about her on either
side, and leaving the men gaping after her.

“Well, all I gotta say is,” said Tom after gazing for some minutes,
“she’s some new kind of a nut! Do you reckon to wait fer her to come
back, er shall I go on bustin’ her up?”

The older man dropped down comfortably on the grass and took out his
pipe. “A bargain’s a bargain, Tom,” he said cupping his hands around
the match, “I allus keeps my contrac’s.”

“H’m!” said Tom, dropping stiffly beside him, “But sposen she don’t
come back?”

“She’ll come back,” said the other.

“But sposen she can’t find no land?”

“It’s my opinion, Tom, that she’s one o’ them kind, that ef she can’t
find no land she’ll _make_ a little bit. I’ve seen ’em before, an’ they
can bamboozle the eye teeth out of a tightwad ef they really try. She’s
really tryin’ now. She wants this here cottage bad, an’ I intend she’ll
have it.”

Tom squinted his eyes and observed his chief thoughtfully remarking
after a while:

“H’m!”

Pretty soon the chief arose, took up his implements of work and went up
to the little house. He studied the foundation for a few moments and
then he began with his pick to work about it, loosening the stones in
which it was set. Tom arose and followed him, watching his movements a
moment. Then he raised his eyes to the side of the little structure as
if for the first time he observed it as a dwelling, a housing place for
a human being.

“That’s a purty vine,” he observed, “too bad it has to die.”

“It ain’t agoin’ to die,” said the chief. “We’re agoin’ to save it.
Where’s that there big lard kettle we bed around here? See ef it’s
inside the hedge.”

Tom foraged behind the hedge and brought a battered tin can.

The chief dug carefully about the roots of the vine, in a good-sized
circle, dug it deeply and neatly and together they lifted the roots of
the vine with the earth firmly about it, and fitted it into the lard
kettle.

“Now, we’ll hev to work it so’s this here don’t git disturbed when we
move her,” said the chief.

Tom found a bit of board and some nails among their tools behind the
hedge, and made a little shelf on the side of the building upon which
they set the can, nailing it firmly to the house so that it would not
be disturbed.

Then with deep satisfaction the two set about preparing the building
for its removal.




CHAPTER IX


Joyce had walked for three blocks in frantic haste with sinking heart
before she saw any land that looked at all promising. They were all
smug dwellings with beautiful lawns about them, and she had sense
enough to know that people who lived in houses of that kind wanted
their lawns to themselves, and could not be persuaded to sell or rent
even a foot for any such sum as she could offer. But the turn of the
next block brought in sight a row of neat stores and just beyond an
old-fashioned house set back from the street built of field stone that
looked as if it had stood there years before the little new town had
ever been heard of. It was neat and trim with a wide piazza the length
of the front, and tall spruce and hemlock trees standing in a friendly
group about it. There was a street running across between it and the
stores, and on this side yard there was a bright garden of flowers and
a grassy place with two maple trees just far enough apart to let her
little house in, and here Joyce paused and looked with longing eyes. If
only she could get permission to put her house here. If she could have
it between those maples, with the right to use the side gate! And there
was an outside faucet with a hose attached. They might let her get
water there--!

She stood for several minutes taking in the whole situation. It would
be nice to have the protection of a house near by provided nice people
lived there. It would be around at the back of the house so the owners
would not need to feel they were losing any of their own front yard,
or privacy, and it was near enough to the street so that she would feel
she had a spot of her own.

It was like Joyce not to hunt up any land agent and try to find a place
in the conventional way but to just fasten her eyes upon the desirable
spot and then go after it.

Timidly she opened the gate and went in, choosing the side gate instead
of the front. It was unusual to have a gate. That was because it was an
old-fashioned house. She was glad there was a gate. It made her feel as
if she would be more secure in a little house all by herself to have
a gate shutting her in. But this was too much like a fairy tale. She
must not get up her hopes. Of course these people wouldn’t hear to her
request. They would think she was crazy perhaps to dare to ask.

There was some one in the diningroom setting the table. The door was
open on a side porch, and she could see as she went up the steps that
the table was long, and spread with a white cloth, and there were
flowers in the middle in a glass bowl, blue violets, quantities of
them. The door beyond was open through an airy pantry to a kitchen, and
there was a savory odor of broiling meat. She sniffed it hungrily as
she put out a timid hand to knock, and thought anxiously that it must
be getting late if some one was getting dinner ready so early.

A pleasant-looking woman with her hair in crimping pins over her
forehead and a long, plain gingham apron covering her dress came to the
door with a tea towel and a glass in her hand, polishing as she came.
Joyce almost lost her voice at the thought of her own audacity while
she looked into the pleasant gray eyes of the elderly woman. This was
just the kind of woman she would have chosen if the fairy tale were
real. But she remembered that ten minutes of her hour were already
gone, and she must hurry.

“I’ve just stopped in to see if there is any possibility that I could
rent, or perhaps buy, a very few feet of your yard, here at the back. I
have a little house and I want to put it somewhere right away.”

“A house!” said the woman astonished. “Why no, we don’t want to sell
any land. This place has been in the family for four generations and
it’ll go on to my son when he comes of age. He’s only in high school
yet, but he’s fond of the old place, and we don’t want to give up any
more land. We’ve just got about enough. My husband wouldn’t think of
selling any, not even a foot.”

“Would you rent a little spot? It’s a very little house. I could put it
quite close to the fence if it was necessary, and away at the back.”

“Mercy, no!” said the woman, “We like our privacy. We wouldn’t want
another house so close. It’s bad enough to have all those stores across
the street. My husband wouldn’t have sold that land if he’d known they
were going to build stores--Mercy! What’s that?”

The woman had turned with a start of horror, for a flash of light had
blazed up from the kitchen that flickered over the room like a sudden
illumination, and a pungent odor of burning meat filled the air at the
same instant. Strange what a short interval there is between cooking
and actual burning, and what a sudden odor burnt meat can impart to a
room. The place was filled with it.

Joyce was standing so that she could see straight into the kitchen
range and she saw exactly what was the matter. There were flames
bursting out from the cracks of the gas range oven, and flames lighting
up the seams of the broiling oven. Having had the same thing happen
to herself once when she was cooking she understood just what had
occurred. Without more ceremony she threw the screen door open and
walked in, straight through into the kitchen. While the owner of the
calm eyes was hurrying distractedly about the kitchen seeking for the
pie lifter and a holder, Joyce quickly turned out the gas under the
oven, and threw open the lower door. It was as she supposed, there
was grease and drippings from the broiling chops in the pan below the
broiler and it had caught on fire and was blazing high. It was of no
use to try to smother it out or to save the chops. They were burned to
a crisp already and the kitchen was filling fast with a black, oozy
soot that was fastening to every immaculate pot and pan and to the wall
and ceiling.

The gray-eyed woman moaned, for the chops were many and expensive and
she was preparing for a company dinner. Then her despair was changed to
terror as she saw the flames shoot out into the room bringing dense,
black smoke with them.

“I’d better call the Fire Company!” she gasped and turned toward the
telephone.

“No! Wait!” gasped Joyce amid the smoke, “Give me that bread blanket!
Quick!”

The woman seized the thick, soft woollen cloth that lay tucked snugly
about three pans of biscuits on the table and Joyce swathed her hands
in its folds and courageously gripping the broiling pan, broiler, chops
and all, carried them flaming to the back door and flung them out into
the grass.

It was all done in a second and the two stood in the doorway and
watched the conquered fire flash up a few times and go out. Then the
woman turned to the girl:

“You’re wonderful!” she said earnestly, “I can’t thank you enough. I
don’t know what I should have done if I’d been alone. I never could
have carried that out all afire that way. I don’t see how you did it.
And you got burned! I’ll bet you did! Yes, and there on your arm too.
That’s too bad! Now come over here and I’ll do it up. I’ve got some
sweet oil and linen--.”

The tears of pain were stinging into Joyce’s eyes but she shook her
head and tried to smile.

“No, thank you,” she said, “I haven’t time to wait. I’ll just put it in
cold water a minute to take the smart out, and then if you have some
baking soda I’ll cover it up and it’ll be all right. It’s not much of a
burn anyway, and it was my fault your meat burned. If I hadn’t hindered
you, you wouldn’t have forgotten it. I’m afraid you were going to have
company too. I think I ought to pay for that meat.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t your fault. I ought not to have left that grease in
the pan. I knew it was there and I just forgot it. But I don’t know
what I’m going to do about the chops. It’s Wednesday afternoon and all
the stores are closed. My company comes on the five o’clock train, my
cousins from New York on their way up from Florida, and they’re only
going to stop over till the nine o’clock train. I don’t see them very
often and I’d like to have a little something extra, and now I don’t
know what I am going to do. I shouldn’t have broiled them so long
beforehand only I wanted to get the smell out of the house before the
folks came, and I knew I could keep them warm in the warming oven all
right. Now what in time am I going to do for meat?”

“Haven’t you got anything at all in the house?” asked Joyce turning
from dusting her burns with soda.

“Nothing but some ham. Got plenty of that on hand, bought a whole one
the other day, but one doesn’t want to give New York City folks fried
ham for dinner. That’s kind of farm food. I wanted a little something
nice.”

“Did you ever bake it in milk?” asked Joyce, wishing she knew some way
to help the woman for she understood her distress and felt that she was
really to blame for having bothered her when she was busy.

“No, I never tried it. I’ve heard some say they cook it that way, but
I don’t know how. Do you? I don’t see how that would be any different
from stewed ham.”

“Oh, but it is! It’s delectable. If you can get the things quickly I’ll
fix it for you. You’ve just about time if you want dinner at five. It
has to bake an hour. Have you plenty of milk? And mustard?”

“Loads of milk. We have a cow, and mustard too, but what do you want
with mustard?”

“You’ll see,” said Joyce. “Cut the ham in thick slices, as much as you
want. My! That’s nice ham, nice and pink looking and good and big. How
many people? Yes, I guess you need two slices. Can I use these two iron
frying pans? I think it bakes best in iron. You light the oven please,
turn it on full power. Now, see, I take a handful of mustard and rub it
into the meat, all over thickly, and put it into the pan. Then fill
it up with milk till it almost covers the meat. Put it into the oven
and bake it just an hour, a good hot oven, and it will be the sweetest,
tenderest thing you ever put into your mouth. There, there’s just
room enough for both pans, and you needn’t worry about meat. They’ll
like that I know. I found the recipe in an advertisement of ham in a
magazine and I tried it. Everybody loves it. Now I must go, but I just
wish I could wait and help you to make up for spoiling those chops. You
don’t know anywhere I could go that they would rent me a piece of land,
do you?”

“Well, no, I don’t just know, but suppose you wait till tomorrow
morning and my husband may know of something. He might be able to find
you just the right thing. If you’d be willing to stay and help me here
a little while I’d pay you well and I’d help you with all my heart.”

Joyce smiled sorrowfully:

“That would be too late. I’ve got to have a place within a few minutes
now or I’ll lose the house. The man said they couldn’t wait but an hour
and ten minutes and I must have used up more than three-quarters of it
now. I’d love to stay and help you, and if I can possibly get through
what I have to do I’ll come back and help you. Perhaps I could get here
in time to wait on the table if you’d like me. I wouldn’t want any pay.
I feel as if I owed you something. But I just can’t stay now. I must
save this little house. It’s the only place I could ever hope to have
for a home that I could afford, and I’ve really bought it, so I _must_
find a place to put it.”

“For pity’s sake! Bought a house and must have a place to put it right
away. Why, I never heard of anything so unreasonable. Couldn’t you buy
the land it was on? Where is it?”

“No, the man wants to clear his land. When I came on them they were
breaking it up into kindling wood, and it’s the dearest little place,
just big enough for one. It’s about four blocks away from here on the
edge of a big place.”

“Oh! The Land Office. That _is_ pretty. Yes, I heard some one had
bought that old house and was going to fix it up. Why--but that’s not
a house. It’s only a room. That wouldn’t take up much room. I should
think most anybody would be willing to let you have enough land for
that. If that’s all maybe papa wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t sell any land
but he might rent it.”

“Oh,” said Joyce clasping her hands eagerly, “Where can I find him?
I’ll go right away. Perhaps I’ll be in time if I hurry.”

“Why, no, you can’t find him anywhere. He’s gone to the city. He won’t
be home till the folks come. He went to meet them. But if you’re in
such a hurry as all that I suppose you could bring your house here for
the night anyway, and then we could see about it tomorrow. About how
much were you figuring to pay? Could you pay as much as a dollar a
week?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Joyce relieved, “I’m expecting to get a position
right away.”

“Well, you can bring it here tonight and if it doesn’t look too much
in the way we’ll try it. Our missionary society is getting up a fund
to get some chime bells for our church, and each one of us has to earn
some extra money some way. If I choose to earn mine by giving up a
piece of the back yard my husband won’t object. The house is really
mine anyway. You can come and try it and we won’t promise anything on
either side till we see how it goes. Now. Can’t you hurry right back
and help me. I’m almost distracted with all there is to do, and I’m all
shaken up with that fire and all.”

“I certainly will,” said Joyce with almost a shout of glee in her
voice, as she turned and fairly flew back the four blocks to her little
house, straining her eyes as she came nearer to make sure it still
stood whole and fair before her. Yes, there it was, all vine clad. How
dear and sweet. But the vine would have to go of course. It could not
survive. What a pity. Of course those men would think that was all
nonsense. If she only had a little time perhaps she might have managed
to get the root loose and maybe it would live, but there wasn’t time
and she mustn’t think of it. She must hurry, hurry back to that woman
who had been so good, and help her with all her might.

“She’s a comin’,” growled Tom as the sound of her swift footsteps drew
near, “an’ she don’t sound discouraged neither.”

“What’d I tell ye?” growled the other. “The hour ain’t up fer ten
minutes yet neither.”

“Mebbe she’s comin’ to ask fer more time,” urged Tom squinting down the
street speculatively.

“No,” said the other, “she wouldn’t come till the time was up to the
minute ef that was it. Anyhow, look at her! She’s ashinin’ like a robin
just back fer spring. That ain’t no discouragin’ countenance, ur my
name ain’t McClatchey.”

The big auto truck was just lumbering around the corner as Joyce
arrived panting and triumphant:

“I’ve found a nice place,” she said joyously, “just down this street
three blocks, and one around the corner. It’s opposite the side of a
row of stores, just beyond the stores on the side street. There’s a
fence, but I thought perhaps you could back right up to it and slide
the house over it.”

“Most likely we kin,” said the boss filling his pipe speculatively, and
straightening up to await the truck.

“What! Ain’t ya got the kindlin’ ready to pile on yet, boys? It’s most
quittin’ time now. You said--.”

“Hold your clack!” commanded the chief. “This here is a house, it ain’t
no load o’ kindlin’ wood. You made a mistake. I’ve sold this here
buildin’ an’ it’s gotta be delivered to oncet. You clamber down, Sam,
an’ git them jacks an’ rollers from behind that hedge, an’ get busy.”

“Can you tell me how much it will be?” asked Joyce anxiously
remembering that this was a momentous question and might yet present
an impossible barrier to her plans. She looked from the driver to the
chief in a troubled way, and the chief spoke up gruffly:

“Oh, you kin give him five bucks too ef you want fer keepin’ his tongue
still, but he has to do what I say, and I say this here house is goin’
to be moved t’night. Look out there Sam, don’t you knock that there
hangin’ garding off’n the end. That’s a part of the proposishun, an’
don’t wantta be destroyed. Get me?”

“Oh,” said Joyce, quite childishly clapping her hands. “You’ve saved
the vine! Oh, thank you so much!”

“Sure,” said the chief, “sold it to you, didn’t I? Part o’ the house,
ain’t it? I ’low to keep my contrac’s. Now, you kin run ’long, an’ be
on the spot when we git thar to say where you want her put. This ain’t
no place fer a girl while we’re movin’ her, you might git hurt.”

“Shall I pay you first?” she asked opening her little handbag.

“No,” said the chief quite crossly, “don’t take no pay till we deliver
the goods. Down across from the stores you say? Stone house? Picket
fence? Yep. I know the place. Ain’t but one picket fence in the place.
Folks wouldn’t sell an inch of ground. You’re lucky! But then ennybody
kin see you’re that kind. Run along. We’ll be along in a leetle while.
You needn’t to worry.”




CHAPTER X


On winged feet Joyce retraced her steps and entered the diningroom she
had left a few minutes before as eagerly as if it were her own home.

“I’m so glad I could come back right away,” she said. “The men have the
truck all ready and said they would be along in a little while, and oh,
I’m so thankful to you. Now, what can I do first?

“I could see you were a little troubled about that ham, never having
tasted it cooked that way. Is there anything else we could make to help
make up for the chops? Or couldn’t I go somewhere and find the butcher
and ask him to let me have some more for you. I’d pay for them myself,
because I really burned them up you know.”

“Well, you’re a dear child,” said the woman pleasantly. “No, you
can’t find the butcher. He’s taken his wife up in the country for the
afternoon, and he’s cross as two sticks anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t
want him to know I had been so careless, and it’s none of his business
anyway. But I was thinking if there was something else I could make.”

“Well, what have you on hand? Let’s look in the refrigerator,”
suggested the girl.

“Not much. There’s some cold chicken. I was saving it for Jim and he
didn’t come home at noon.”

She hurried to the refrigerator and took out a bowl which Joyce
examined.

“There’s half a breast and a drumstick, and both wings. There’s the
gizzard too. Why don’t we make some chicken salad. Have you any celery?”

“Yes, I bought a stalk the other day. I like the top leaves to flavor
bean soup, but there isn’t much.”

“A little will do. I see you have some tomatoes.”

“Yes, Jim likes them. I say they aren’t very tasty this time of year,
not worth the money, but Jim always asks for them.”

“Well, why don’t we stuff them with chicken salad? That would make a
beautiful salad dish and make the chicken go farther. Didn’t I see
lettuce in the garden? A few leaves will do even if it isn’t very big.
And how about mayonnaise?”

“Why, I make a boiled mayonnaise, but it’s late to get it cool, isn’t
it?”

“Haven’t you any oil? That makes it so much nicer.”

“Yes, Mrs. Parsons brought over a can she had left when they moved away
last week. There’s pretty near a pint in it, just had a few spoonsful
taken out, but I can’t make real mayonnaise. It won’t get stiff for me.
It separates. And it takes so long, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I can. No, it only takes a few minutes. I know a lovely recipe.
Where’s the oil? Get me some salt and pepper and mustard and eggs. I’ll
have it ready in a jiffy while you cut up the celery and chicken. Then
we’ll fix it and put it on the ice all ready.”

The two were soon busily at work, and the mayonnaise whipped itself
into a thick, velvety, yellow mass in no time under Joyce’s skilful
hand. The worried hostess was delighted, and presently a tempting
platter of scarlet tomatoes was set on the ice, filled to overflowing
with the most toothsome chicken salad that ever went to a feast.

“You’re going to have creamed potatoes and new peas out of your own
garden. Isn’t that wonderful? What’s for dessert? Anything I can do
about that?” asked Joyce as she turned away from the refrigerator.

“Why, I’ve ordered ice cream, and I made a cake. That’s all right, I
just looked at it and the icing is hardening nicely. You see I just
got the telegram at three o’clock that they were coming. It went first
to the other Bryants up on the hill and they were away. I ought to
have got it yesterday. I wonder why that ice cream doesn’t come. They
promised to have it here at four. I always order it earlier than I need
it for safety. It’s twenty after four now. I believe I’ll call up to
make sure.”

She went to the phone and in two or three minutes appeared in the
kitchen door where Joyce was just putting on the peas, with her face
the picture of dismay:

“What shall I do? They can’t send it. They say the orders have all gone
out this afternoon, and mine wasn’t among them. There was some mistake.”

“Isn’t there some other place? I’ll run out and get some for you.”

“No,” said Mrs. Bryant in despair, “the other two places don’t have any
fit to eat. I wouldn’t offer it to a cat! I haven’t even a pie on hand.
Isn’t this simply awful!”

The poor woman sat down and dropped her tired face in her hands looking
as if she were going to weep.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Bryant. There’s always something one can do.
Let me think. Have you any junket tablets?”

“Why, yes,” said the despairing housekeeper, “But what is junket? An
invalid’s food!”

“Wait till you see mine. It’s caramel junket, and we’ll serve it
with whipped cream. You haven’t some preserved cherries or a few
strawberries or something to put on the top of each dish, have you?
It’s the prettiest thing you ever saw. Where is the sugar, quick? We
must hurry. Have you some individual dishes that will be pretty to hold
it?”

Mrs. Bryant produced some long stemmed sherbet glasses and a bottle of
preserved cherries, saying dubiously:

“It’ll never cool. It’s way after four now.” But she watched the deft
fingers as they manipulated the sugar over the flame, until it had
reached the right perfection of caramel color and was stirred fizzing
into the lukewarm milk.

“It won’t set,” said Mrs. Bryant, “mine never does except in real cold
weather.”

“Oh, yes it will. I put in an extra tablet to hurry it,” said Joyce.
“Now, I want some cream. Can I take it off those two bottles? It looks
rich enough to whip.”

“Yes, it whips I guess,” sighed the woman, “but I never can get time
for such frills. That’s why we’ve decided to sell the cow, it took so
much time to tend to the milk. It’s really sold, but the man isn’t
coming for it till next week.”

Joyce worked breathlessly, one eye on the clock, and all the while her
heart watching for a little house to come riding down the street, yet
the time went by and no house appeared. Could it be that the men had
gone back on their word, or that they had made a mistake and taken it
to the wrong street, or that something had happened to the precious
little structure on the way?

The junket “set” and the cream whipped in spite of the anxiety of
Mrs. Bryant, and at ten minutes to five both were on the ice, and the
cherries were on a plate with a fork near by to place them on their
setting of whipped cream at the proper moment.

“You had better go and get ready yourself now,” said Joyce smiling, as
she lifted the potatoes and poured them through the colander, setting
them to steam dry for a moment before creaming them. “I’ll see to the
peas, and the ham is just perfect. I’ll have it all on the platter
ready to take in and keep it hot. You don’t happen to have a white
apron you could lend me, do you? That is, if you want me to wait on the
table.”

“Oh, will you? I’d be so glad. I’m always nervous with city folks. Yes,
I’ve got an apron. I’ll throw it down the back stairs. And I’ll just
run up and change now, and smooth my hair. It won’t take a minute. They
ought to be here any time now. I’m real relieved. I think things are
going to be all right. If you have time you might cut the cake.”

Joyce, wearied almost to the limit, yet interested in what she was
doing and eager to serve one who had so served her, turned back and put
all the last little touches on the table that she well knew how to put,
smoothed her own pretty hair as well as she could with only the tiny
comb with which her handbag was fitted, washed her face and hands at
the sink, and took off the big gingham apron Mrs. Bryant had loaned,
to replace it with the white one that presently fluttered down the back
stairs. She giggled to herself to think what a change had come over her
life in twenty-four hours. Here she was at almost the same hour getting
supper in another kitchen for an entirely different set of people,
utter strangers. How strange and interesting! How wonderful to have the
opportunity to thus work her way into a bit of land for her house! How
kind of the Heavenly Father to fix it all for her! How good it was that
she could cook, and had the ability to help in this time of need!

But there was no time to meditate. The kitchen clock was striking with
a business-like clang, and the honk of an automobile horn could be
heard coming down the street. Mrs. Bryant rustled down in a gray crêpe
dress and her hair fluffed up becomingly. Her eyes were bright and her
cheeks wore a pretty little touch of nervous color as she looked out
the door.

“I think they are coming!” she said eagerly, and then Joyce glancing
out behind her saw looming clumsily in the distance, blocking up the
street and grown to most enormous proportions, her little vine clad
office riding down behind the bright little car that was speeding
rapidly toward the Bryant gate.

“Oh, Mrs. Bryant!” breathed Joyce in alarm, “My house is coming too,
and you haven’t told me where to put it yet!”

“Your house?” said the preoccupied lady half impatiently, “Oh, yes.
Why, put it anywhere you like for tonight. Just don’t get into the
garden. You won’t have to go out and see to it, will you? Because I
can’t spare you now.”

“Only for a second,” said Joyce happily. “I’ve got to pay the men.”

“Well, wait till the meat is on the table and everything passed. Don’t
forget the coffee. There they are. Now I must go.”

Joyce, starry-eyed, tired to death but smiling, began to take up the
dinner and carry it into the diningroom. She could hear the hum of
voices in greeting, the people going upstairs, the splashing of water
as the guests made rapid toilets, and all the time her senses were
listening for the coming of the truck and trying to time her actions so
that she might go out and tell the men where to put the house, and yet
not interfere with any of her duties as waitress.

She flew out at last while the guests were being seated and told the
chief about where she thought the house should stand.

“I’ve got to go right in,” she said confidingly, “I’m helping Mrs.
Bryant with a dinner. She has company, and they’re going to catch a
train, but you can put it right in there between those two trees,
wherever it is convenient to you. Just so it keeps out of the garden.
I suppose I’ll have to get some one to fix it steady, won’t I? I’ll be
out again in a few minutes if you need me for anything,” and she flew
in again, and straightening her white apron entered the diningroom with
a plate of hot biscuits.

Mr. Bryant was a meek, apologetic little man with a retreating chin
and kind eyes. He half arose when he saw Joyce as if he thought this
was another guest that had somehow got misplaced, but Mrs. Bryant
incorporated her at once into the picture with a glance that placed
her as a server, and Mr. Bryant slid back into his chair, his mouth
the shape of an inaudible O, and addressed himself to this new and
mysterious kind of ham that looked like roast veal and cut like chicken.

The guests exclaimed with delight over their food. They said they had
lived in hotels all winter and it was just wonderful to get back to
home cooking again, and what wonderful ham! Was it really ham, just
HAM? And how did she do it? Could she give them the recipe? And then
Joyce as she came and went with relays of hot biscuits and peas and
potatoes heard Mrs. Bryant tell carefully how she rubbed the mustard
into the meat, etc., through all the performance just as she had done
it, and finish up:

“Yes, we think it is the best way in the world to cook ham,” just as if
she had been doing it that way all her life. She smiled to herself over
the salad as she arranged the ice cold tomatoes on the crisp lettuce
leaves. Well, it was a pretty dinner and she was proud to think she had
helped make it so. The poor burnt chops were utterly forgotten now,
lying in the grass at the kitchen door, and sometime within the next
few hours she would get a chance to sit down, perhaps to lie down,
somewhere, on the grass if nowhere else, and rest. Oh, that would be
wonderful!

She took the plates out and brought in the salad, adding some crackers
she had found in the pantry, and then slipped out to see what the men
were doing.

“What a very superior waitress you seem to have, Aunt Mattie,”
remarked a niece, eyeing the door through which Joyce had passed, “You
don’t want to let me steal her and take her up to New York do you? I’d
certainly give a good deal to get one that looked like that. She seems
a real lady.”

“She is,” said Mrs. Bryant shortly, “She’s not a waitress at all. She’s
just a neighbor who came in to help me so that I could have all my time
with you instead of running out to the kitchen all the time.”

There was something innately, grimly honest about Mattie Bryant. She
might claim the credit of a well-cooked ham, but she would never let
a young girl who had been kind to her be treated like a servant.
It wasn’t in her. She would have liked to have posed as having
well-trained servants, but she couldn’t.

“A-a neighbor, did you say, mother?” asked Mr. Bryant, “Why, I don’t
seem to remember her. Where does she live?”

“No, I guess you don’t, father, she’s mostly been here when you were
away. She lives on this street. Cornelia, won’t you have another cup of
coffee?”

And then there came a shuddering, sliding sound, and a dull,
reverberating thud, that vibrated along the floor, and seemed to make
the dinner table shiver a tiny bit and everybody looked up and said,
“Why, what is that? An earthquake?” and only Mrs. Bryant kept her cool
indifference, and went on pouring coffee. But outside the little vine
covered house had slid into place between the two maples, and settled
to rest exactly where it had been aimed by the three men who had put it
there, and Joyce was out in the sunset fluttering three five dollar
bills from her precious hoard and smiling her wistful, wild rose smile:

“I wish I could give you ten times as much,” she said, “If I only had
it! You’ve been so kind.”

The old chief stood a minute and watched her as she went in, looked
at the bill, half folded it to put in his pocket, thought better
of it and stepped inside the building. He glanced about, fumbled
a pin from the lapel of his old coat and pinned it up on the wall
opposite the door. Tom watched him from a distance, squinting his eyes
thoughtfully, busied himself with his dinnerpail and pickaxe till the
chief was around the corner, when he slipped into the cottage, took a
look around, stood thoughtful a minute and deliberately took out his
own five dollar bill and pinned it beside the other. Then he went out
quickly and followed his chief down the street.

Over in the kitchen Joyce, too weary to eat much supper had taken a
bite and gone at the dishes pell mell. She was a swift worker and
used to turning things off rapidly, but the last two days had been
more strenuous than any in her short life, and now that the immediate
excitement of the dinner and the house were over, she was beginning to
feel that she had reached her limit.

Mrs. Bryant slipped away from her guests long enough to smile upon
her, and tell her to eat a good supper, that everything was wonderful,
and she couldn’t thank her enough; then went back to the parlor where
the chatter of relatives long separated with many years to check up
in a short time made a din almost amounting to a church social. There
was the uncle who had certain jokes that he had to tell over, and the
cousin who boasted, and the cousin who wanted to recount all the
past, and the aunt who wanted to forget the past and dilate on her
house in New York, and her place in Maine, and her winter in Florida
and the trip she was going to take abroad this summer, and with it
all the poor, eager little Bryants hardly got in a word. The strange
young woman in the kitchen might naturally be forgotten under such
circumstances, especially as they were planning to take all their
guests into the city in time for the late train.

So Joyce washed out the dish towels and slipped out the back door with
only the moon to light her to her little new house.




CHAPTER XI


Joyce wondered, as she went cautiously through the grass lest she
stumble in the darkness, whether her house was going to be at all
habitable, and what she should do if it were not. She had no mind to
trouble Mrs. Bryant any further, neither did she care to have that
good woman know how thoroughly she was adrift in the world without a
spot to lay her head. Very likely Mrs. Bryant might offer her a bed
for the night, it would be like her good nature, and yet, she was an
utter stranger, and she shrank from accepting such a favor. Taking an
entire stranger into one’s home was a big thing to do, when one had no
introduction whatever except that one could cook.

She had had no time to look out at her new purchase while it was being
placed, and now was not even sure they had set it evenly on its floor.
It might be on end or toppled onto its roof for aught she knew, and
when this thought presented itself she walked on in a growing dismay.
But the street light just opposite proved a boon and shone right
between the two trees to the little white building which was nestled
all properly on a level spot, floor down, and even as a die, with its
little front porch facing the street and set back about fifteen feet
from the fence. When she put her hand on the porch rail it seemed to
be standing solidly. She could see, on stooping down, that it was set
on some stones with fresh cement. The men had taken trouble to make it
right and firm for her. How kind they were! She must try and hunt them
up tomorrow and thank them. Then she remembered the vine and tired as
she was stepped around to see how it had fared on its journey. Behold
it had been taken out of its lard can and set in the ground! They had
even found some water and watered it, for drops were glistening on
the leaves and an empty tin can lay on the ground. Somehow it brought
sudden tears to think that these two rough men had taken so much pains
to set out the vine for her, a stranger.

“It is just God,” she said to herself as she went back to the front
porch, “God is taking care of me!” Then she lifted her eyes to the
stars and said in a soft voice as she stood on her own little step,
“Dear Father in Heaven, bless this little house, and me, and take care
of me here for Christ’s sake.”

It occurred to her as she turned toward the door that it might be
locked and then where would she find a key to fit it? But the knob
turned and the door opened without any trouble and she stepped inside
and closed it softly after her. For a moment she could see nothing.
Then her eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness, and the patches
of light on the floor that came through the little diamond panes of the
windows and door showed the room to be empty save for a wooden box in
the middle of the floor, and a great stack of newspapers in one corner.

Joyce had brought a few matches with her from Mrs. Bryant’s and now she
struck one and looked around carefully. The place was tolerably clean.
The floor was dusty of course and a few peanut shells were scattered
here and there, but nothing very bad. The walls were lined with compo
board and painted white, and in the flare of a few matches presented
no unpleasant features. The box was empty and the pile of newspapers
seemed to be different lots left over from some newsstand. They were of
old dates, folded but once, and quite clean. There did not even seem to
be any spider webs in that corner, and only the top papers were dusty.

Having satisfied herself so far she deposited the remaining matches on
the window sill for a possible time of need in the night and set to
work. Those newspapers were her only chance, and she was thankful for
them. She must make a bed out of them.

Her first act was to drag the box across the floor to block the door.
There was no key and she had no mind to sleep in a strange place, with
a door that could be opened by any one in the night. The box was just
high enough to reach under the knob, and heavy enough so that the door
could not be opened without making a good deal of noise; and after she
had placed it she felt quite secure in her new shelter.

She covered the top of the box with a clean newspaper and put her hat
and handbag upon them. Then she attacked the pile of newspapers. She
unfolded them sheet by sheet and crumpled them thoroughly, throwing
them into the corner and when she had covered a space on the floor
about six feet long by three feet wide with these crumpled papers
crowded close together, she laid several open sheets smoothly over them
tucking the edges well underneath, and began again crumpling papers
and putting on the top another layer. These in turn had several whole
newspapers laid smoothly on the top and then another layer until she
had quite a comfortable couch of springy paper. She even opened out a
couple of papers and filled them with crumpled pieces for a pillow.

There were still plenty of newspapers left and she spread them out
overlapping one another in layers, until she had a coverlet of good
proportions. Then she folded their edges back to hold them together.

“Now, I sha’n’t freeze if it turns cold in the night,” she thought
gleefully.

Next she went to her little new windows and wrestled with them. They
were casements, swinging in, but it required much pounding and pulling
to make them swing at all at first. At last she had them all open
wide letting in the sweet night air. She looked out into the dark
garden a trifle dubiously, it is true. It did seem a little uncanny
to sleep there alone with windows wide and the street so close, with
not even a curtain to shelter her, but she must have air and there was
nothing else to be done. She must just wake up early in the morning
before folks were astir. Curtains were among the first things she must
purchase. Of course there were the newspapers, but they would shut out
the air.

She knelt for a moment beside the wooden box in the path of moonlight
that came through her window and prayed for strength and guidance.
It seemed a strange thing she was doing, now that she had done it,
this buying a little house and daring to set up a home of her own on
practically no money at all. A sense of awe was upon her as she brought
her deed before God and tried to see it in the light of His wisdom.
Had she done wrong to fly off at the unpleasant words of her cousin
and seek a new environment? Somehow her soul rang true, however, as
she cast once more a retrospective glance back and asked approval and
guarding. She seemed so alone as she knelt there in the little empty
room in the moonlight. Aunt Mary gone. The death angel standing ever
between them and the dear old life they had lived together; the home
town with its dear friends who loved her and whom she loved, forever
lost to her because of the presence there of the cousins who had
nothing in common with her and who were possessed to spoil everything
she tried to do; were jealous of all her communication with the old
friends. There was simply no one or nothing left but God, and she must
cling close to Him.

She glanced out her little open window as she rose from her knees,
and dismay seized upon her as she heard footsteps coming along the
pavement. The street was so near. It was almost as if she were standing
in the way of the oncomer. She held her breath and the steps paused for
a full minute in front of the new little house in its strange setting,
and she shivered nervously as they finally passed on.

Then there came to her mind, as if a sweet voice had spoken, the old
words she had learned with Aunt Mary one Sunday afternoon long years
ago:

“The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him and
delivereth them.”

“I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for thou Lord, only makest
me dwell in safety.”

She crept into her strange, rattling couch and drew the crackling
coverlet up about her, laid her head upon her rattley pillow and
closed her weary eyes, resting her heart upon the words of the book
as upon a pillow of peace. Then suddenly, without warning, the tears
came stinging into her eyes, as she remembered how alone in the world
and desolate she was, and how she longed for her dear aunt and her old
home. There in her strange little bed she cried as if her heart would
break for a few minutes. Then into the confusion of her sad thoughts
came the words, “Even Christ had not where to lay His head.”

“And I have!” she said to herself severely, “I ought to be glad and
thankful. He gave me this house. It was just as plain as if I had heard
Him offer it to me.”

So she turned over the little damp spot on her pillow where the tears
had fallen, and deliberately settled herself to sleep, forcibly putting
away all thoughts of her strange experiences for another time and
addressing herself to rest. There might be dangers passing on the
street, but God had promised to care for her, and she knew she could
trust Him. She needed the rest and must take it. So she slept and night
settled down about the little cottage under the maples.

       *       *       *       *       *

A hundred miles away in the darkness a man stole like a shadow through
the night, walking noiselessly down a deserted road to the graveyard,
vanished among the graves into the velvety blackness under the trees.
Appeared a point of light like a darting firefly fitfully now and then
lighting up the spectral marbles for a gleam and going out again as
if it had not been there. A soft sound of stirring among the growing
things on a grave as one knelt beside it and worked, breathing hard,
the light shining once more steadily for an instant on trailing vines
and glowing berries, then ceasing entirely. Steps to the back of the
graveyard, and strange, muffled sounds dying away into silence and
midnight.

Later, in a city cellar lair a meeting of angry, puzzled, incredulous
men, and one, resolute, calm, fearless, indifferent, determined,
dominating them all. Money going around, more than they had expected,
yet only arousing suspicion; and then, before they could protest, the
leader going out into the night alone, leaving them to voice their
suspicions, and plot against him.




CHAPTER XII


When Judge Peterson woke up in the morning after a night of restless
tossing, and an early morning doze, he called to his wife with a voice
much like his old time vigor.

“Miranda, bring me my pants. I want to try how it seems to sit up. I’ve
got to get out of here and find that little girl. There’s something
queer about this business and I reckon it’s up to me to study it out.”

The anxious face of Miranda Peterson that had been creased all night
with tormenting fears suddenly relaxed and a gleam of joy came into her
eyes. This was her old time husband back again. The visitors hadn’t
done him so much damage after all, perhaps had only given him an added
incentive to get well. With a spring in her step and a light in her eye
she swung the old-fashioned wardrobe door open and revealed his baggy
trousers hung up by their suspenders just where she had put them the
night he was taken sick.

“All right, father,” she said briskly, “There they are. You have your
breakfast and as soon as the doctor comes we’ll ask him if you can put
’em on. There’s ham and eggs this morning, do you feel for ham or only
eggs?”

“Both!” declared the indomitable old man, “I’ve got a lot to do today
and I want strength. Mother, did you ever think that Mary Massey
suspected her son’s wife of not being--well--exactly loyal to the
family?”

Miranda Peterson paused in the open doorway:

“Yes, I did, father. The last time I was up there before she died she
kind of tried to apologize to me for asking me to close the door while
we talked. She said she knew Nan wasn’t very fond of Joyce, and she
didn’t want her to know we were talking about her future, it might
cause jealousy. She said Nan had accused her of thinking more of Joyce
than she did of her own son’s wife, as of course she did. How could she
help it? But I could see she was real uneasy about how they would get
on when she was gone, especially when they found out about the house.
She said then she was going to explain it all to Eugene right away. But
you know she took worse that night and I suppose she never did get the
chance. I think myself it was a great mistake, letting the children
grow up without knowing all about it, but of course Mary Massey felt
she must keep her sister’s dying request, and her sister hadn’t wanted
Joyce to know she had money coming to her till she was twenty-one. She
said she was afraid it would spoil her. Well, she isn’t spoiled, that’s
one thing certain, but it always seems to me when you work real hard to
escape one trouble, you’re like as not to run head on to another that’s
about as bad. Look what’s happened now. I don’t blame Joyce Radway one
little mite for not standing that Nannette. She’s got a tongue like
a hissing serpent, and she can wind that light-minded, weak-chinned,
bull-headed husband of hers around her little finger. How that poor bag
of meal ever came to be Mary Massey’s son I can’t figure, even with a
husband like Hiram Massey, for Mary Massey was the salt of the earth.
Talking about salt, do you want your eggs on toast? And hot milk? Yes,
I know. I’ll have ’em here in the jerk of a lamb’s tail, and then
you’ll be ready to talk to the doctor when he comes.”

“All right, mother. And say, send Dan down. He’s about isn’t he? Well,
I want him to go an errand. Send him in.”

Dan appeared, clean shaven, kindly eyed, with a square jaw like his
father’s and a determined set to his shoulders.

“Dan, we’ve got to find that little girl right away. Understand?”

“Yes, father. So I told Darcy Sherwood last night. I’ve a notion we’ll
be on her track soon. Darcy gets around quite a good bit, and he seemed
interested. Always thought a good bit of Aunt Mary, you know. Any
danger of that poor fish of a Gene lighting out?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the Judge, “He’s too mad. Thinks his
dignity has been offended. It’s about all he’s got left of the family
pride, his dignity and he’s working that for all it’s worth. He likes
to be bowed down to, has ever since he was born, and he thinks his
mother’s Christianity was wide enough to cover him and his fat, lazy
family. I don’t want to do injustice to anybody, Dan, but I’ve a notion
that chump needs a lesson or two and I’m figuring on being able to give
it to him in a few days. I don’t know why good women like Mary Massey
have to be afflicted with conceited puppies for sons. I suppose she
loved him so she spoiled him. Women mostly do. Take your mother. Dan,
you’d have been a ruined man if it hadn’t been for the lickings I gave
you with the old birch rod down behind the barn when your mother’d
gone to missionary meeting. You’ve never thanked me for that, Dan, but
you’re a better man for it, you know. Now, Dan, just slip me those
pants on the nail behind you, lad. I’m going to surprise your mother.
Hurry up. I hear those ham and eggs coming!”

With the help of Dan, Judge Peterson got into his nether garments and
was sitting on the side of the bed when his wife arrived with the ham
and eggs, and though a bit weak and trembly he insisted on sitting up
in the rocking chair without pillows while he ate his breakfast. The
old zest for work and fight had lifted him at last from his weakness
back into the world again and he was determined to get right into line.
Of course the doctor hustled him back to bed again when he arrived, and
glad enough he was to get there, though he wouldn’t own it, but in the
half-hour after he had finished the ham and eggs and before the doctor
arrived he managed to get quite a number of little things started that
meant business for all those who were trying to oppress any of his
beloved clients.

When Dan Peterson came home for the noonday meal he was able to report
that several lines of secret organizations that thread this land of
ours like hidden tracery had been set vibrating with efforts to find
Joyce Radway and restore her if possible at once to her home. Meantime
Eugene Massey had been notified that while he would be at liberty of
course to remain in the home where his mother had lived for so many
years until its rightful owner could be found and should return, it
must be thoroughly understood that nothing about the place must be hurt
or sold or destroyed in any way.

It was all done very quietly, and nobody in town was told. Judge
Peterson was friends with everybody, but he had been able to go about
that town for a good many years without letting his neighbors so much
as dream that he knew aught about them and their affairs, or anybody
else’s, and he was not going to begin now by disgracing the family of
his old friend Mary Massey. Eugene and Nannette simply were made to
understand that they must walk carefully, and that they were under
surveillance. Nannette grew to have a hunted, ingratiating look, and
stayed at home more than had been her custom. She spent much time
writing letters to Joyce and addressing them to “General Delivery” in
every part of the country. She even put advertisements in the personal
columns of one or two big city papers in parts of the country where
her fancy thought Joyce might have wandered. She questioned Dorothea
and Junior nightly on what they knew about Joyce’s friends, and habits
in the village; and concerning anything that had been said to them
during the day about her. They acquired the habit of being sharply
alert to any scrap of news that might bear in the remotest degree upon
the tragedy in their home. For even to their childish minds this that
had happened in their family had assumed the proportions of a tragedy.
Their mother cried a good deal and scarcely ever made desserts for
dinner. Their father had locked up cousin Joyce’s room and taken the
key. They were forbidden to go into the parlor and play on the piano,
and anything that had been very especially nice in the way of furniture
was guarded carefully. Their father explained to them that it might
mean some one had to go to jail if it turned out that they had no right
to things and any thing had been injured. Scarcely a night passed that
their father and their mother did not have a wild orgy of argument
ending in a fit of weeping on their mother’s part. Dorothea and Junior
decided that it would have been better to have Joyce back. Besides,
they were hungry for jelly roll. They even set out on one or two
expeditions of their own to find their cousin, but only got into some
trouble each time, and once Junior barely escaped with his life from
under the wheels of an automobile.

But the worst of all to their thinking was when their father decided
that they must all go to church every Sunday. Dorothea didn’t mind so
much because she could wear her prettiest clothes, but Junior hated
the white stiff collar his mother made him wear, and the sitting so
long without wriggling, for Eugene was very strict, and the time seemed
endless.

Quite respectably they filed into the church the first Sunday after
Joyce disappeared, just as if they had been doing so regularly during
the three years they had lived in Meadow Brook. Of course every one
thought they were doing the proper thing after a death in the family,
and would probably never come again. But the minister welcomed them
gravely, and Nannette in her new black veil which was almost becoming,
dabbed her eyes with a black-bordered handkerchief when he spoke of
the departed mother who had been so faithful in her church attendance
during the many years. People spoke to them sympathetically, it was
not in their scheme of Christian living to do otherwise; but one or
two sharp voiced sisters who believed in “speaking their minds,” asked
pointedly after Joyce and wanted to know when she would be back.
Nannette had by this time concocted a flexible story about her having
gone to see several distant relatives of her father’s in response to
a telegram. Whereupon one keen minded sister who had a daughter in the
telegraph office hastened home to acquire further details. Before night
Nannette’s version of Joyce’s western visit had grown and acquired
definite shape, with a definite destination and even the length of time
she was to stay. It reached the minister’s wife who told it to the
minister on the way home from church, and they decided to write to the
minister in the town where Joyce was visiting and ask him to call on
her and make her feel at home, and incidentally discover if she looked
happy and all was well with her. So the ball rolled on, and Eugene,
despite his ravings and rantings, was powerless to stop it.

Lib Knox suddenly began to cultivate Dorothea’s companionship
industriously, using her own peculiar methods for so doing. She brought
Dorothea a handful of tulips which she had stealthily extracted from
one of the finest gardens in town, and she offered her five minutes’
lick from her all-day sucker. Now, although Lib was somewhat of a
social outcast, much sneered at by the children who were not in her
clique, Dorothea was nevertheless flattered by the unusual attention
given her by this notorious outlaw, and was presently deep in the
ecstasy of an illicit friendship with a child whom respectable mothers
tabooed. Not that Lib at the age of eight had reached any depths of
wickedness beyond most, but she had no respect for age and class, she
did as she pleased without regard to clothes and manners, and she could
sling a fine line of truth uttered in purest Saxon language at any one
who dared attempt to interfere in any of her plans. “Not a nice little
girl” was what the mothers met in social conclave said about her, and
she early knew it and delighted to distress them by cultivating their
young hopefuls and leading them into bypaths of mischief where only her
guiding hand could lead them safely out again. Lib cultivated Dorothea
until Dorothea was as wax in her hands, and no foreign spy or diplomat
could have used advantage with keener skill than did little Lib Knox
of the dancing bronze curls and the wicked green eyes. What she did
not extract of facts from unsuspecting Dorothea’s soul was not worth
extracting.

The high school professor felt keenly annoyed. He trusted his
intuitions violently, and to have the opportunity to prove them taken
away from him by so simple a thing as a girl going on a visit was not
to be thought of. In the first place it was not like a girl with a face
like that one to suddenly fly up without any reason and go off on a
series of visits to distant relatives, right in the midst of important
examinations which he had all reason to suppose she had worked hard for
and was anxious to take. In fact, the members of the school board whom
he consulted all agreed in his judgment of Joyce’s character and the
things they said about her showed that she had every reason to wish to
pass her examinations well and get a position to teach. There must be
something behind all this and he meant to ferret it out.

So he put aside his stacks of examination papers and took his hat and
went for the third time to interview poor Nannette. But Nannette saw
him coming and fled to the attic, locking herself in, and keeping
quiet as a mouse till he grew discouraged knocking and went back to
his papers once more. But he did not give up. He searched out Eugene’s
city address and got him on the telephone, grilling him for fifteen
expensive minutes as to the cause of Joyce’s leaving, and why he
couldn’t reach her by telephone or wire if he tried every place that
she had expected to visit. Eugene was reduced almost to a state of
distraction and came home that night in a worse temper than ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night four men sought out an old haunt where they had been
accustomed to meet and sat in dark conclave. They were big, husky
fellows and three were dark-browed with heavy jaws and hands that could
break an iron bar or crush a lily, but one had bright red hair and
unclean eyes, with a voice that had continually to be hushed by his
companions.

“Well, _I_ say there’s a _skirt_ somewhere in all this,” he bellowed
forth as he raised a glass of ill-smelling liquor to his lips.

“You spilled a mouthful!” hissed out one they called Bill. “He never
cleared out alone. D’you know who the dame is, Tyke?”

“I got my ideas,” boasted the red-haired one mysteriously.

“Whaddaya know, Tyke? Spit it out. This ain’t no Deef Mute Club. You’ll
get in the same class with him if you go around keepin’ things ter
yerself, an’ you know what that means, Tyke! We ain’t to be trifled
with. Can’t swing that game with us the second time. It’s mates or
hang, and you understand. Now, let her fly. Whaddaya know?” A heavy
hand came down on his shoulder and Tyke shivered in his long length
like a serpent taken unawares.

“Take yer hand off’n my shoulder you, Taney, ur ya don’t get a word
outen me.” He shook the rough grip off and shuffled into another
position. “You fellers go off like powder. Ef you don’t quit yer
suspicions I’m outta this fer good, and then where’ll ya be? I got
brains, an’ I know a thing er two, an’ when I say I got ideas I ain’t
sayin’ I know it all, but I got a line on it. I think I can foller it
up.”

“Meanin’?” The heavy hand came down once more upon his shoulder.

“Meanin’--well--boys, I seen a girl in the graveyard that night.
Splashed my flashlight full in her face oncet. I think he seen her
too--”

A low mutter from Bill as he took another drink in big gulps.

“Know who she was?” asked Cottar, the man who had not spoken yet.

“Nope. I don’t live around these diggin’s you know, but I’d know her
again ef I seen her, I swear I would. She had eyes you don’t forget.”

The man drank in silence and watched him.

“Get it all off’n yer chest Tyke--” said Bill at last. “There’s more
comin’.”

Tyke edged in his chair uneasily. He dropped his voice to a whisper:

“She slep’ in a hammock that night. I seen her. I follered after he
went back to the village. I made an excuse an’ cut across to the
station. Remember? But I come back after you all left an’ went down the
road a piece. I think I could find the house again. I seen her in a
hammock underneath the trees.”

The men bit hard on their pipes and watched him in silence piercing
him through with little narrowed eyes in the smoke haze of the room,
grilling his soul to see if it were true.

“Well, whaddaya figger?” Taney asked at last.

“Ain’t figgerin’ yet. Gotta find out more. Gotta find that girl. Gotta
find him. Ef they’re both gone, they’re gone together. You all didn’t
think fer a little minute that guy told a straight story, did you? You
all didn’t believe he’d give up a business that was rollin’ in the
money hand over fist jest fer what he called conscience, did ya? Just
because he thought it wasn’t a nice, pretty little business? Not on
your bottom dollar he didn’t.”

“Mebbe he got cold feet,” suggested Cottar.

“Cold feet? That guy get cold feet? Nope, you don’t know him. Nothin’
couldn’t ever make him get cold feet. I know that guy. I seen him in
France. He’d walked right outta the dugout just after his bunk had been
shot away an’ smoke a cigarette as cool as if he was takin’ a ride
in a pleasure park. Nothin’ didn’t never faze him. He’d just eat up
danger. He thrived on it. No, sir, the only thing he’d ever fall fer
was a skirt, an’ it’s a skirt that’s done it this time fer sure ur I
don’t know nothin’. No siree, he’s got that last cache all salted down
somewheres, good and rich you bet, an’ he’s throwed us off’n the track
an’ thinks we can’t find out where he got it from ner where he’s sold
it to, but we’ll show him we’re too smart fer him. I ain’t got red
hair fer nothin’. I wouldn’t ha thought he’d a lied to me, we was like
brothers, we was; in France, I took him back to the base when he got
his, an’ he brang me a drink when I had the fever an’ was left on the
field with the little love messages comin’ over constant from the enemy
all around me, he just walked out calm as you please, just like he
always is, an’ said, ‘Tough luck, kid, but we’ll pull you outta here--’”

“Cut that!” said Bill sharply, “We ain’t hearin’ any soft soap. We come
here to get fair play an’ justice. He’s a sharper he is! He’s a slick
robber! He promised us a big deal when we went into this here dangerous
business, an’ he’s went back on his word. He let us take all the risks,
an’ he hung round in the bushes. An’ then here he comes along after
he gets the business goin’ fine to suit him an’ pays us a couppla
hundreds apiece an’ says he’s _done_. That he’s decided to _leave
off_. Now--Tyke, you there, you just might ez well understand what I’m
sayin’, we ain’t takin’ no soldier boy blarney about this guy at all.
He’s turned _yaller_, an’ took _all the dough_! Bought us off with a
trifle, an’ skipped the country! Left us here to face the music while
he skips out with a dame an’ spends his thousands. No, sir, I ain’t no
fool. Drink o’ water ain’t in it. Get him a knockout. That’s what he
needs, an’ we’re here to do it, d’ya hear, Tyke?”

“Oh, shure, I’m with ya boys, I was only tellin’ ya, he ain’t no
bloomin’ coward, an’ don’t ya reckon on that. He’ll take his medicine
with a smile if we ever catch him to feed it to him, an’ don’t you
ferget it.”

“Well, I’m a goin’ to knock that there bloomin’ smile off his pretty
face,” declared Bill. “Get me?”

“Here too!” declared Tyke lustily. “But we gotta find the skirt.”

“We gotta make one more try fer the boodle,” declared Bill, “an’ that
we’re goin’ to do t’night. I been figgerin’ we ain’t looked carefully
down at that first place we went, out near the point ya know. There’s a
spot down behind some hazels--” he lowered his voice and looked around
the room at the hazy groups around the tables and finished his sentence
in a whisper.

A door opened across the room, a face shone with a white pallor through
the blue haze of smoke, and a low, sibilant voice uttered a single
sentence:

“Cop’s comin’.”

A soft shuffle of feet on the sawdust floor, and the gray figures in
the room melted like mist from a breath, as if the rushing in of the
outside air had blown them all into rings of smoke and carried them
away. Mysterious doors opened and closed as if they had not been, and
the room was quiet and deserted, the proprietor and his assistant
reading the sporting pages with their feet on a table when the cop
swung along and looked in:

“Business pretty poor t’night, Jake,” he said with a significant look
around.

“Yas, Cap’n, pretty poor. Beats all how a man’s goin’ to live ef this
here prohibition keeps up. Have a glass o’ sody, Cap’n? Sorry I ain’t
got nothin’ better to offer ya.”

Out in the night gray figures melted into black shadows, and a low
voice murmured: “Behind the hazel--”

       *       *       *       *       *

And out at sea a revenue cutter paced the coast, and a little black
boat with a silent crew and no lights, dropped down after a long wait
behind the horizon and stole away, hovered back to watch, and stole
away again just before the dawning.




CHAPTER XIII


Joyce did not get up as early as she had planned. She had been utterly
worn out with the experiences of the last two days and human flesh will
have its revenge. The sun stole into her little casement windows, and
laid warm fingers on her brown hair, but she did not feel them. She was
sleeping deeply. It was the grocery boy with the little yellow Ford
from the store across the way that finally reached her consciousness.
He was possessed of a clear, sharp whistle, and a jazzy tenor voice
and when he was not using one he was using the other while he unloaded
boxes from the freight station.

Joyce roused at last, rubbed her eyes and looked around, for a moment
forgetting where she was. The little house was full of sweet air and
brilliant sunshine, and in the maples overhead two robins were singing
with all their might. The world sounded cheerful and busy and she felt
rested and more ready for life than when she had crept between her
newspapers the night before.

As her eyes wandered over her own painted walls suddenly she saw the
two five dollar bills pinned there, waving a little in the morning
breeze. Where could they have come from? Had some one, a former
occupant, pinned them there for safe-keeping while at work? And must
she waste her valuable time going out to hunt for the owner? Then she
spied the ragged edge of one bill, and a crooked tear half way across,
and noticed that the other was crisp and new. These must be the bills
she had paid the men for their work! That tear was unmistakable. She
had been afraid it would tear all the way across before she got rid
of it. The other two bills she had used had been crisp and new. She
remembered that the man who drove the truck got a crisp, new one. It
was the two older men who had left this money for her. The kindly
spirit of the rough workmen drew sudden tears to her eyes. To think
that such a beautiful act should be done by rough workingmen who were
utter strangers to her. Gentlemen at heart they were. Ah, more than
that, God’s men. Surely her Heavenly Father, knowing her need, had let
them be his ministers. She knelt suddenly beside the wooden box and
prayed a blessing on the men, and a thanksgiving to the Father who
had thus given His help, and arose feeling strengthened. Somehow the
nearness of God her Father, Christ her Companion had become real to her
in a new sense. Some might have said this little bit of money came from
the kindness of humanity, and proved nothing about an overruling God.
Joyce knew better. She had the inner witness in her soul that God was
with her, the spiritual sense that comes to those, and those only, who
believe, and who yield their lives to leading because of that belief,
which becomes Faith, the Faith of our fathers. Because Faith is the
gift of God in answer to our deliberate act of belief. Joyce had no
question but that her Father’s hand was in every happening of her life
and had one suggested that all these things would have happened anyway,
whether she believed, or prayed or not, she would have merely smiled as
at one who is talking about something he does not understand. So simply
had she been taught in the Faith while she was yet a little child, and
so deeply and truly had the Faith grown within her year by year.

Joyce smoothed her hair with the tiny comb and mirror in her handbag,
and decided to hunt up the railroad station and wash her face. She did
not care to appear at Mrs. Bryant’s until her arrangements were more
complete, neither did she wish her to know that she was so hard put
to it for shelter that she had slept in a newspaper bed all night.
It would not look well for her reputation to be poor as a tramp. She
wanted to be respected if she was poor, and she wanted to hold up her
head and feel independent, not to have people feel they must offer her
charity. She must hunt up those two men right away and try to make them
take that money back, or thank them at least if she found it would hurt
their feelings to restore the money. She felt deeply touched at the
thought of their act of kindliness. Perhaps they had daughters of their
own, and had noticed her thin little purse. Men who would take the
trouble to dig up a vine and make a shelf to keep it safely must have
fine souls within them.

Joyce folded her bed into an innocent-looking pile of papers, so that
it would tell no tales of the night, in case any one looked in the
window, pulled the casements shut, and moving the box against the wall
softly opened her door. As she did so she noticed for the first time a
key hanging on a nail high up on the door frame. She fitted it into the
lock and found to her joy that it worked perfectly. The coast seemed
to be clear for the moment. The yellow Ford, without a muffler, had
whizzed away after another load of freight, and the only person on the
side street was walking away with his back toward her. She cast a
furtive glance toward Mrs. Bryant’s kitchen door but it seemed to be
closed and no one about, so she locked her door, slipped quickly out
the gate and around the corner without being seen.

She found on inquiry that the pretty little stone railroad station
was only four blocks away. It contained a tiny wash room that was in
tolerably clean condition, so that she was able to make herself quite
respectable, although her serge dress did look a bit rumpled from
sleeping in it, and she realized that a hot iron for pressing must be
among the first necessities, if she was to keep neat and presentable
for finding a job. An iron would mean some kind of a stove. What kind?
There was no gas in her little house, and she hated oil. Aunt Mary
had felt it was dangerous. Still, that was probably the only thing
possible. Mrs. Bryant would perhaps let her press her dress once, but
she did not want to be constantly beholden to her landlady for the
every-day necessities. Well, a way would come. She must trust and work
each problem out as it appeared. She could not face them all at once.

She stepped into a drug store and got a glass of good milk and three
butter thin crackers at the soda counter, and then went out to hunt up
the two men who had left the money.

But they were not where they had been the day before, and a careful
search for several blocks finally discovered only the truck man who
said the other two were on another job that day and would probably not
return to that suburb at all as the work was about done there. When she
told him that she wanted to thank them for their kindness, she could
see by the way he said he would tell them that he knew nothing about
their kindly act, and she had to turn away and be satisfied with only
this. Looking up to the waving leaves of the trees in the sunshine, and
to the blue, blue sky overhead a great thankfulness came into her heart
for all that had come to her, and she lifted a little prayer, “You tell
them, Father. Make them know I thank them.” She wondered whimsically
as she walked down the pleasant street, whether she would meet them
some day in heaven, and make them understand then how truly she had
appreciated what two strangers had done for a lonely girl.

She went back to the little line of stores that was already beginning
to make this new suburb look like a commercial centre, and found a
small utility shop where she bought thread, needles, a thimble, a paper
of pins, enough cheese cloth for window curtains, some blue and white
chintz that the woman let her have for fifteen cents a yard because it
was all that was left, half a yard of white organdie, and a big blue
and white checked apron of coarse gingham that would cover her dress
from neck to hem and was only fifty cents.

There was a hardware store next door, and here she found a partial
solution to her fire problem in canned alcohol and a little outfit
for cooking with it. She also invested in some paper plates and cups,
a sharp knife, a pair of good scissors, a hammer, a can opener, some
tacks, and a few long nails.

She stopped at the grocery store on her way back and bought a can of
vegetable soup, a box of crackers and some bananas, and hurried back to
her domicile, excited as a child with a new toy. She had spent just
six dollars and twenty-three cents.

But first she must pay her ground rent, so after depositing her bundles
she ran to Mrs. Bryant’s door and knocked.

Mrs. Bryant welcomed her with a smile:

“I’m real glad to see you,” she said, “I didn’t pay you yet for
yesterday. Mr. Bryant said I ought to have asked you if you had a place
to stay all night. He said we owed you a great deal and he left this
ten dollar bill for you. He said it was worth a good many times that
what you did, carrying that broiler out of the house. You see it’s all
wood ceiling up behind that range, and if it had caught fire the house
would like as not have gone. You know I had some dish towels hanging
up on that little line to dry, and two of them were scorched. I found
that out this morning. It wouldn’t have been but a minute more till the
whole would have been in a flame, and then the wall would have caught.
And Mr. Bryant hadn’t renewed the insurance. The time was up day before
yesterday, and he had been busy and had just let it slip by without
realizing till this stirred him up. So he appreciates what you did.”

“Oh, that was quite all right, Mrs. Bryant. I didn’t want to be paid
for what I did yesterday. It was I who distracted your attention and
made you forget your meat, and I wanted to make up for it. I couldn’t
think of taking so much anyway. I just helped you out when you were in
a hurry. Anybody would have done that. And I’m sure you helped me out.
I came in to pay my first month’s rent,” and she laid a five dollar
bill down on the table.

“Well, I’ll take that,” said Mrs. Bryant, “but you’ve got to keep the
ten. My husband put his foot down. Five is for getting the supper,
and five is for saving the house. It really isn’t much you know when
you stop to consider it. Why we’d have lost everything. Now, is there
anything I can do to help you? When do you move in? Want to borrow
anything?”

“Why, perhaps I may need something by and by, but I’m all right so
far,” said Joyce ignoring the question about moving in. “I’m wondering
if I can get some water now and then at that outside faucet?”

“Why, sure, get all the water you want. It’s right handy for you, and
there’s a drain out by the back door you can use too, or you can throw
your dish water into the garden. Here, I’ll show you--” and she whisked
outside and made Joyce acquainted with all the ins and outs of the
kitchen shed.

“I don’t mind a bit if you come and wash out your clothes in these
tubs,” she added thoughtfully. “You can’t do much washing out there
in that little tucked-up place. Besides, you’d have to carry so much
water. Better just bring anything you want to wash in here and rub it
out. There’s the wire clothes line outside, and you can fix it to wash
on the days when I don’t so we won’t interfere. How’d you ever come to
buy that little shack anyway? Some agent sell it to you?”

“Why, no,” said Joyce smiling frankly, “I just saw it as I passed by
and it appealed to me. A man was knocking it to pieces. I got there
just as he struck the first blow and it shivered like a person, such a
pretty little house! I needed a house myself and I asked if I could buy
it. They said it had to be taken away at once and finally they agreed
to sell it if I took it away in an hour.”

“H’m!” said Mrs. Bryant eyeing her thoughtfully, “You were hunting a
house were you. Where’d you come from? How’d you happen to come to our
town?”

Joyce smiled:

“I just walked till I came to it I guess. You see my aunt died with
whom I have lived since my parent’s death, and I felt as if I could go
on living better if I tried a new place, it wouldn’t seem so sad, so
when I reached this region I just took a trolley and rode till things
looked interesting and then I got off and walked till I came on the
little house.”

Mrs. Bryant looked interested. Joyce’s story was vague but it intrigued
her. Her life had never contained such romance as walking off into
the world till you found a place you liked and then camping down
there. Joyce was a new kind of girl and she liked her. But she also
wanted to satisfy her own curiosity and her sense of the conventions,
so she proceeded with her inquisition. Also, it was necessary to
have an explanation ready to give at the Ladies’ Aid that afternoon
of the new little house that had come to park on her premises.
She knew every one would ask about it. She could hear them now,
“Whoooo--is she? Wheeer--did--she--come--from? Whoooo--knows--her?
Whiiiiiy--is--she--here? Whoo? Tu--Whit, Tu--Whoooo?” for all the world
like so many owls. Mrs. Bryant meant to be ready to silence all voices.
Her husband was sponsoring this girl by allowing her on his premises,
and she was not going to have anything questionable said about her.

“What you going to do now you’re here?” she asked abruptly. “Have you
got means of your own, or do you have to work?”

Joyce flushed but answered without hesitation:

“Why, I’ve enough to get along on I think until I get a job. Of course
I could have found something easier at home I suppose, but I thought it
would be better to make a change. I guess I’ll find something pretty
soon. I’ve got to get settled first.”

“H’m!” said Mrs. Bryant, “What’s your line? You a stenographer or what?”

“What! I guess,” laughed Joyce. “I’ve been aiming to get ready to
be a teacher, but I suddenly decided to come away just before the
examinations so I guess I’ll have to wait for that. And anyhow it’s
almost vacation time. I’d have to do something else until fall of
course. I wonder if perhaps I could arrange to take examinations here?
I don’t suppose you know when the state examinations come off in your
public schools here, do you?”

“No, but I could find out this afternoon. I’m going to Ladies’ Aid an’
Mrs. Powers is always there. Her husband’s on the Board of Trustees,
and she mostly knows everything about education. I’ll ask her.”

“Thank you,” said Joyce gladly, “I should be so glad if there was some
chance for me to get my try-out before next year, for I really want to
teach. I’m hoping for a position. I can get along with almost anything
else in the way of a job until then. I’d like to take my examinations
while everything is fresh in my mind. I’ve been studying hard all the
spring for them.”

“Well, I’ll see if that can’t be arranged somehow. There ought to be
somebody round that has got some pull with the school board. Meantime,
if you find a job and want references, just send ’em to me. I’ll be
glad to tell anybody you’re all right.”

“But you don’t know me, Mrs. Bryant. How could you give me a
recommendation?” laughed Joyce in amazement.

“I know you all I need to know,” said the good woman decidedly. “You’re
a good girl and a capable girl. Nine out of every ten girls I know
would have screamed and run for the fire company instead of stalking in
here and doing something. And I can’t be sure of one that would have
come in here and helped me the way you did with that dinner when I was
hard put to it, not even for pay. They’d have had too much to do in
their own affairs. And if they had come after urging they wouldn’t have
known what to do without being told at every turn. You told me, and you
made things go, and I say you’re a smart girl and a good girl.”

Such praise from a stranger was sweet to Joyce’s lonely soul and she
found the tears welling to her eyes, but she choked them back with a
smile:

“Thank you, Mrs. Bryant, I’ll try to live up to the recommendation
you’re giving me. I only hope you won’t ever have reason to take it
back.”

“Well, I don’t believe I shall. Now don’t hesitate to ask for anything
you want to borrow, and let me know if there’s anything I can do for
you. By the way, if you want to clean any before you get a stove just
come over and get hot water. I’m going out this afternoon, but I’ll
leave the kitchen key under the door mat and if you want to, just come
in and put on the teakettle and get all the hot water you need.”

So Joyce went down the short path to her own door with gratitude in her
heart and a ten dollar bill in her hand, saying over to herself the
words that had leaped to her lips of a sudden out of the stores of the
past when she and Aunt Mary learned whole chapters out of the Bible and
repeated them to one another:

“And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail,
according to the word of the Lord.”

“Isn’t it almost funny,” she said to herself thoughtfully, “The money
comes back just as fast as I spend it for the things I need, faster in
fact. It’s wonderful to be cared for this way!”




CHAPTER XIV


Back in her house she set to work on her curtains, cutting the cheese
cloth in lengths, and hemming it with long, even stitches. It did not
take long and her fingers flew rapidly. She was always a fast worker on
whatever she took up, and her thoughts kept pace with her work. Suppose
Mrs. Bryant should find out that it was still possible for her to take
her examinations! Suppose she got a school here! Could she live in the
little house all winter? How would she get heat? And light? She would
have to work and study in the evenings! How many problems there were to
meet when one dropped away from a home and provided it for oneself!

There were strings enough around the packages to run in the hems
and hang the curtains, but the windows had to be washed before the
curtains could be put up, so Joyce ran over to the store for a few
more purchases. A broom, a scrubbing-brush, soap, a galvanized pail
and a sponge. She had no rags but a sponge was wonderful for paint and
windows. Then a bright thought came to her and she asked if they had
any boxes for sale. They took her down to the cellar where were boxes
and barrels of all sizes and shapes. She selected several boxes and
two nice clean sugar barrels, besides two delightful boxes with lids
swinging on tiny hinges. These would make wonderful closets for her
china when she got some. She had to pay ten cents apiece for them.

It was noon when she got back, and all the whistles were blowing. She
lighted her little alcohol can and heated the can of vegetable soup.
This with crackers and a banana for dessert made a fine meal and while
she was clearing it away the boy from the grocery brought over her
boxes and barrels, and the place began to assume a look of furniture.
Mrs. Bryant came to the door with a roll of old rags as the boy went
away.

“I thought you might like some cloths for cleaning,” she said, stepping
in at the door. “I have such quantities, so I brought some.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Joyce, “I was wondering if I could make my
windows shine with newspapers. Now I won’t have to try. Won’t you come
in and sit down. Here’s a nice clean box.”

“No thank you,” declined the lady stepping back with a glance of
approval around the little room and at the window where Joyce had
tacked up a finished curtain to try it. “I’m on the committee for
serving the luncheon at the Ladies’ Aid today and I have to hurry. We
serve at one and it’s almost that now, but I saw your goods coming
in and I thought you might need these so I just ran in. I left the
teakettle on and you can just turn it out when you are done. How cosy
you are going to be! This is a real cute little house. Well, I must run
along.”

Joyce drew a long breath as she watched her go. “Goods.” She glanced
at the barrels and boxes amusedly. So she had thought these were her
goods. What would she say if she knew she had no goods in the world?
And she had so hoped to get the little room looking habitable before
there were any visitors. Well, the woman hadn’t noticed the lack of
furniture, and perhaps she would be able to do something about it
before she came again.

She changed her serge dress for the new gingham apron, got the hot
water and went happily to work scrubbing with all her might. In a short
time the place was smelling sweetly of soap-suds and gleaming with the
whiteness of the paint. Evidently there had not been much wear and
tear on the inside of the place since it was painted, for when the
dirt was washed off it came out nice and clean. There was an advantage
too in having a small place. It did not take long to clean it. The
five windows and the door were soon finished, and then she swept and
scrubbed the floor, and put up her curtains.

She stood back when the last tack was driven with a sigh of
satisfaction and looked around. It certainly did look cheerful and
pretty. She could imagine being quite happy in this pretty place.
Now there must be some inner curtains to draw when night came on and
screen her from the passers-by. They could be of cretonne and there
would have to be five-cent rods for them, so that she could draw them
back and forth. How many things there were to buy! Perhaps she could
find some cheap cretonne and get enough for a curtain across one end
to screen her bed from view until she could manage to get one that
was respectable. Beds cost a great deal, even just cot beds, she knew
for she had bought one once for a poor family at Aunt Mary’s request.
Then there was a mattress and pillows. So many, many things to buy.
But there would be a way. See, how her money had increased as fast as
she had spent it. Could she trust that such care would continue until
she had an income? And the old chant from the beloved Bible story of
childhood went over again in her head: “And the barrel of meal wasted
not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the
Lord.”

Joyce was not a modernist. She had been taught to believe the Bible
literally, and found no difficulty with miracles. She was not dumb
nor ignorant. She knew that the academic world was largely inclined
to put aside all that was miraculous, and to doubt everything that
they had not seen happen in every-day life; but she looked upon such
as souls who had not chosen to accept God’s way of proof, the proof
that comes to the soul of every true believer who takes God at His
word, and cannot doubt because He knows. Miracles never had bothered
her, because if God could make _anything_ why couldn’t He make or do
anything else? She had once heard a wonderful man who came to Meadow
Brook to preach say that mystery was something that God knew but didn’t
tell right away, and ever after that the mysteries that she found in
the Scriptures had been but more beautiful to her. They never troubled
her nor made her doubt. She was a bright girl with a more than ordinary
mind and a fair education, but she accepted the things of the kingdom
as a little child and when some one pointed out to her a spot that
seemed a contradiction to facts as she knew them she would smile and
say, then _she_ had made some mistake, not God, and not His word. That
was how Aunt Mary brought her up. More and more as Aunt Mary drew
nearer to the end of this life and saw how miserably she had failed to
teach her own son heavenly things did she yearn to give this dear girl
something substantial to stand upon when all else failed. And if she
had not left Joyce anything else she had left her a great Faith in the
living God and in His Word.

But it was growing late in the afternoon and Joyce was weary. The night
was coming on again and the question of light had not been settled.
Perhaps she had better run over and get some candles and a few more
things for supper. She was hungry as a bear, and the can of soup seemed
a forgotten dream.

So she went to the store again, and when she came back and had eaten
some sandwiches of dried beef and bread and butter and drunk some
milk she felt better, and set to work to arrange her box furniture to
advantage.

There were the two barrels. They were to make easy chairs, one for
herself and one for any possible company that might come in. They would
have to wait to materialize until she could buy material to upholster
and cover them, and until she had time to work over them. They would
need sawing. Oh, they must wait, but when they were finished they
would stand here, and here--she wheeled them into place. And right
here between them should stand a table--she placed the biggest square
box there, and imagined a lamp with a pretty shade, and some magazines
lying on it.

The two boxes with hinged lids she nailed to the wall in the corner
she called her diningroom and kitchen. These were her china closets.
She carefully placed her paper cups and plates in one and arranged the
cracker box, the milk bottle and other supplies in the other. Somehow
she must manage shelves for them. There were some loose bits of boards
in one box. These would make shelves if she could manage to borrow an
old saw.

In the corner beyond the window next her bed she placed another box
for a dressing table. Some day she would drape it in chintz and get
a looking glass to hang over it. Chintz or cretonne was really one
of the next things she needed. There must be a curtain to shut off
her bedroom. She did not want everybody to know she was sleeping on a
paper bed, and a curtain would give a little privacy. Besides, she must
curtain off a small corner for a closet.

She was suddenly interrupted in her meditations by a tap at her door.

“I wondered if you were here yet,” said Mrs. Bryant as she opened the
door, “No, I can’t come in, I’ve got to run back and start supper.
But I just stepped over to tell you Mrs. Powers, the lady that lives
in the big brick colonial with tulips in the yard, perhaps you’ve
noticed it--she was at the Ladies’ Aid today and was going on something
terrible about how she was going to have company from Baltimore
tomorrow, and her maid had gone away sick yesterday and isn’t coming
back for a week. She had telephoned in town for a maid but they
couldn’t get her any she would have and she didn’t know what to do.
She said her friend hadn’t seen her in a long time and she wanted to
take her around in the car and she just didn’t see how she was to cook
dinner too. Well, she seemed so distressed and all that I finally up
and told her how you helped me out last night. I don’t know’s you’ll
like it, but she seemed so interested that I went on and told her all
about you, how you were a teacher, and you’d bought this little house
and were going to teach school in the fall, and then she looked awfully
disappointed and said: ‘Oh, she’s a teacher, is she? Then I don’t
suppose she’d be willing to help me out, would she?’ And I said, well,
no, I didn’t suppose you intended doing things like that, that you were
a perfect lady, but you might do it once for accommodation. I finally
said I’d tell you anyhow. She said if you would come she’d gladly pay
you five dollars for cooking dinner, and if you were willing to wait on
the table too why she’d pay ten. I really hated to tell you about it
after I’d promised, but you can do as you like.”

“Why, I’d be glad to help her,” said Joyce pleasantly, “and I’d like
to wait on the table too. I really want to earn the money of course,
and while I don’t think I want to be a cook for life, still I don’t see
that it’s going to hurt me to cook a few dinners for other people. I’ve
had to do it in my own home a good many times.”

“Well, I didn’t know how you’d feel about it. I think it’s fine of you.
Some folks are so kind of proud nowadays. But I somehow thought you
were sensible.”

“Well, what should I be proud about?” laughed Joyce. “I haven’t any
reputation here to lose anyway, and if people want to think less of me
because I know how to cook they can.”

“Well, I say you’re a real fine girl. So that’s settled, and I’m kind
of glad, for her husband’s on the school board, and if she wants to she
can do a lot for you. You run right in the house and call her up. Her
number is 95 and her name is Powers. I told her you’d call.”

Joyce ran in to the telephone and came out smiling in a moment:

“Thank you ever so much, Mrs. Bryant. This will help me out a lot. I’ve
just been thinking of a good many things I want to get and I wasn’t
sure I ought to spare the money. Now I can get them right away. I’m to
go to her at twelve o’clock and stay till after the dishes are washed.
Which way did you say she lives?”

After most explicit directions had been given Joyce went back to her
house and flew at the bundle of chintz with swift fingers. There was
about three hours of daylight left--the evenings were long this time of
year--and she must use every minute of them for she must have a thin
dress to work in and she did not want to burn a light and show that
she was staying nights in the place until she had things looking a
little more comfortable, both because she did not want any one to offer
her charity, and because she did not care to have them all know how
poverty-stricken she really was.

She folded her material crosswise in the middle and spread it upon the
driest place on her cleanly scrubbed floor. Then she laid her blue
serge smoothly down upon it with the shoulders to the fold and the
kimona sleeves stretched toward the selvages. The material reached
below the serge far enough for a good hem, and guided by her serge
dress she took her sharp, new scissors and carefully cut out a straight
little simple slip of a dress.

She had cut many a dress before, on Aunt Mary’s big diningroom table
with a box of shining pins and a tried and true pattern to guide her.
But she knew the lines of a simple dress well enough and she could not
see how she could go far astray in her cutting. It had to be long
enough and wide enough for it was as big as her blue serge. So she
clipped away, and soon had a dress cut out, making the neck line only a
curved slit until she should try it on.

Then she sat down and ran up the two side seams on the right side and
slipped it on to try it. Of course she had no mirror but she managed to
get a vague glimpse of herself in the closed lattice of her window. It
needed a little taking in under the arm, but the rest seemed all right,
and she slipped it off again and sat down to make the changes and
French the seams. Another trial and the fit was found to be better. She
hunted out her pins and turned up the hem. This she found rather a hard
proposition, but after several takings off and readjustings it seemed
to swing evenly.

She was growing tired, and her back began to ache with sitting on the
hard box after her day of scrubbing and curtain making. She wondered if
she could keep at it much longer?

With a weary impulse she flung her paper bed out in the corner and
threw herself down upon it.

For almost ten minutes she forced herself to lie and relax, trying
to think of nothing and really rest. Then the clock on some distant
building struck eight, and she roused up, suddenly aware that she had
but a few more minutes of daylight and that if she lay here she would
soon be asleep. She simply did not dare leave all that sewing till
morning. She must have a neat, washable dress ready by twelve o’clock
in which to work. So she stood up and tried to cut out the neck of her
frock as best she could, wishing all the time for a big mirror. She
finally got out the two-inch bit of glass belonging to her handbag and
inspected her work, deciding it would have to do. Then she caught up a
newspaper and cut and experimented until she had a pattern for a simple
collar to fit the neck of her dress. This she cut from the half-yard of
organdie, also cutting organdie cuffs to fit the short sleeves.

It was quite dusky now in her little room and she had to take the
pieces of chintz that came off the sides of the dress out on her front
step to see what she was doing. Here she cut from the longest piece
a string belt, and several long strips of bias binding about an inch
wide. Then rolling up these with the organdie collar and cuffs, her
scissors, thimble, needle and thread, she put on her serge dress and
hat and hurried down the street. She had thought of a way to work a
little longer that night without burning a light. She would just sit in
the station waiting room a little while and sew.

The soft evening breeze of the out-of-doors revived her weary body and
she felt quite cheered and happy. To think, she was going to earn a
whole ten dollars in one afternoon and evening! Here was her Father
providing her with more money again just when she had discovered so
many things she had to buy, that it overwhelmed her. The “barrel of
meal and the cruse of oil” again! How wonderful it was!

When she reached the station, however, her plans seemed balked for the
station itself was closed and dark. There was a bench, however, down
along the platform under a shed-like roof, and a great arc light glowed
above it. People were walking back and forth too as if waiting for a
train, so Joyce sat down at one end of the bench and took out her bit
of sewing. No one noticed her and her swift fingers had soon run on
the bias bands around collar and cuffs, and turned down the binding
smoothly. She just loved the hemming of them down. It was like a bit of
fancy work, and they looked so pretty--the blue edging the sheer white.
Of course the dress could have been bound around neck and sleeves
without the white collar and cuffs but this touch of prettiness made it
look more comely, and she must remember her appearance if she was to
hope to get a school around here sometime. Mrs. Bryant had given her
the reputation of a lady and she must keep it up, even if it meant a
little more work for her.

By the time the half past nine train had gone she had the organdie
bound, and was sewing up the string girdle. She lingered only until the
seams were run up before she gathered up her things and hurried back to
her little dark house. It was growing lonely on the station platform,
and she did not like to stay any longer, but she could turn the girdle
inside out in the dark by the help of a safety pin, and then everything
would be ready for morning. She would only have to hem the skirt and
put on the collar and cuffs.

Sitting in the dark on her box she found a safety pin in her handbag
and, fastening it in the end of the girdle, began pushing it through,
and when it was turned all the way, creased it carefully and smoothed
it between her fingers till it almost looked as if it were ironed flat.
Then she took off her serge dress, put on her gingham apron and lay
down under her paper blankets for another night’s sleep, too weary to
do more than thank her Heavenly Father for keeping her so far. As she
drifted away into sleep she heard a soft, sweet voice, like a pleasant
melody in her soul, Aunt Mary’s voice long ago, saying over the golden
text from Sunday School, over and over again till she learned it, “And
the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail,
according to the word of the Lord.”

“I must have a Bible,” she said to herself dreamily. “I wish I had
brought mine along.”




CHAPTER XV


Notwithstanding her weariness Joyce did not sleep well that night.
She heard the late travellers passing by and the milkman and grocery
trucks on their way to a new day, and she tossed on her rattling, lumpy
bed till almost dawn. Somehow all the happenings of the last few days
seemed to have arrived in concrete form and to be standing about her
couch for her to reckon with.

First, there was the matter of her leaving home. Ought she to have left
at all? And if she should have left, was that the right way to have
done it? The whole problem of her life took on a distorted form in the
midnight and darkness that it had never presented before. She thought
of her friends back in Meadow Brook who had loved her and Aunt Mary.
What would they think of her going? Perhaps she should have waited to
tell them all, and yet how could she make explanations? It would only
bring discredit upon Eugene and Nannette and that she did not want to
do. No, she could not have asked her friends, or even have told them
good-bye without more explanation than she was ready to give. There was
the minister, and Judge Peterson, the Browns and Ridgeways, and a host
of others. They never would have let her go alone out into the world
without even a destination, and no chance of a job. They would have
worked it somehow for her to stay with one of them. She would never
have been free, and Eugene and Nannette would have been furious at her
making a display of their family quarrels in the town. No, she could
have come away in no other manner. And she had to come. She could not
have stayed much longer even if she had not started that night.

These questions somewhat conquered, her thoughts turned to the first
night away from home, the awful experience in the cemetery, and the
look on the face of her old friend when she had asked him what he was
doing.

And now she knew what had been the underlying thorn in her soul that
had made the pain ever since.

Long ago, perhaps ten years before, when she had been a little girl,
there had been a holiday when she and Aunt Mary had started off with
a neatly packed luncheon and a handful of books to spend the day in
the woods, a long promised, eagerly anticipated excursion. There were
chicken sandwiches neatly wrapped in wax paper. How well she remembered
helping to make them! And little blackberry turnovers rich with gummy
sweetness. Hard-boiled eggs, tiny sweet pickles from the summer’s
vintage, sponge cakes, big purple grapes, and a bottle of milk to
drink. Plenty of everything. Aunt Mary never stinted a lunch and she
always put in enough for a guest if one should turn up.

And that day the guest really came.

It was a warm, sunny day in October and the leaves were just beginning
to turn. As they climbed the hill above Meadow Brook and came within
sight of the valley, great splashes of crimson flung out like banners
across the valley and yellow glinted across the purples and browns like
patches of gold in the sunshine. There was a smell of burning leaves
and sunshine in the air and the earth was sweet with autumn. Blue and
yellow and white asters bordered the road that wound along the hill
and dipped again into the valley among the trees. Purple grackles
were stalking the fields in battalions, their stiff, black silk armor
glinting in the sun, cawing of the weather and their coming need of
flight. She could hear their hoarse, throaty voices as she lay and
stared at the ceiling in her little lonely house under the maples.

And the air! How sweet and winey it had been!

She and Aunt Mary had climbed a fence and crossed a field till they
reached the deep, sweet woods with its solemn cathedral silences and
its lofty vaulted ceiling. How far away the world had seemed as they
entered and trod the pine-strewn aisles and penetrated deep into the
cloistered vistas. She remembered thinking that this must be where God
stayed a good deal, it was so sweet and perfect. Above in the branches
strange birds sent out wild, sweet notes, like snatches of celestial
anthems. Favored birds to live in such safe and holy fastnesses.
She remembered wondering if they ever flew down to Meadow Brook and
fellowed with the common birds, picking up worms in garden paths, and
draggling their feathers in the dust of the world like sparrows, or did
they always stay here alone with God and praise?

They had found a mossy log to sit upon and a carpet of pine needles
fragrant and deep, and there they had established themselves, the
little girl lying full length upon the sweet bed of needles, the older
woman sitting upon the log and reading. It was a story book they were
reading, one of Louisa Alcott’s, was it “Under the Lilacs” or “Little
Women”? “Under the Lilacs” of course, because it was where the little
white circus dog Sancho appeared that she remembered first noticing the
boy’s back.

There had been crickets droning somewhere, and a tinkling brook that
murmured not far off, and no other sound save now and then a falling
stick or bit of branch from some high tree top hurtling down, until,
with the advent of that dog there had been a tiny human stir, an
almost imperceptible sound of giving attention, and her eyes had been
fastened on the gray-brown back, the tousled bright head topped by the
torn old baseball cap just a few steps away in the dim shadowed aisle
down which she was looking. At first she scarcely recognized it as not
a part of the woods, so still it sat, that square, young back in its
faded flannel shirt, held in a listening attitude. Then gradually she
had become aware of the boy’s presence, of the fishing rod in his hand,
of the bank that he must be sitting on which had seemed but a level
stretch to her first vision. She had turned a quick glance to Aunt
Mary, but Aunt Mary only looked up an instant, paused to recognize that
there was some one there, smiled knowingly and went on with the story.

It must have been an hour they sat thus listening to the reading, the
boy and the fishing rod not moving, the little girl watching with
fascinated, dreamy eyes as if she were looking at a picture that might
come alive any minute, and then suddenly something happened. The rod
bent quickly down with a jerk, the boy’s arm went out with a quick,
involuntary motion, and a fish swept up from below somewhere in a great
circle and landed floundering on the grassy bank.

Joyce sat up quickly with round eyes watching the boy’s manœuvres with
the fish, and Aunt Mary stopped reading and looked on with interest
too. The boy looked up at last shame-faced and flushed:

“Aw, gee!” he said, “I didn’t go to interrupt you. That fish just got
on my hook an’ I pulled it before I thought. That’s a cracker-jack
story you’re reading.”

“Why, I’m glad to be interrupted by such an interesting happening,”
Aunt Mary answered him. “What a beautiful fish! What kind is it?”

“That’s a trout. You don’t find many of ’em any more. They been all
fished out. Want it? I c’n find some more when I want ’em.”

“Oh, thank you, I couldn’t take your fish,” said Aunt Mary with a
smile, “But I’ve enjoyed seeing you catch it. You better take it home
to your mother.”

The boy’s head bowed a little lower and he said in a low, gruff voice:

“Haven’t got any mother. She’s dead. They don’t want to bother with
fish at home. D’you like me to cook it for you? They’re awful good
cooked outdoors like this right on the coals.”

He began to gather sticks and twigs together, and placed them in a
little pile.

“Well, that certainly would be wonderful,” said Aunt Mary smiling,
“Then you can take lunch with us. We always bring along enough for a
guest--”

The boy looked up wistfully and grinned, and then was off for more
sticks.

In a little clearing he built a fire while the little girl watched him,
and put his fish to cook, and then they spread out the lunch on a big
white cloth on a rock the boy showed them, and they had a great laugh
over the bugs and ants that kept coming to dinner with them.

The boy ate lunch with them, carving his fish proudly with a big
jackknife and serving the biggest portions to his guests, saying he
didn’t care for fish anyhow, he could get it whenever he wanted it. But
he ate the sandwiches and little pies and cakes hungrily, and watched
the little girl with shy, furtive glances.

Afterwards he washed the dishes for them in the brook and packed them
back in the basket, then curled down at Aunt Mary’s feet while she went
on reading.

Oh, the memory of that long, beautiful afternoon among the pines, with
the sun sifting down through the leaves and the taller trees waving way
up almost touching the sky it seemed, and the drone of bees somewhere,
the distant whetting of a scythe--how it all came back as she thought
it over!

And then the book was finished and they sat back, sorry it was done,
dreamy with the loveliness of the story in which they had been absorbed.

“That’s a cracker-jack tale,” declared the boy. “Gee, I’d like to have
that dog. My dog died,” he ended sadly. “Got run over by a truck.”

They talked a little about the dog and the boy got out a dirty little
snap shot of himself with the dog in his arms when it was only a little
puppy, and the little girl smiled and said it was a darling.

Then somehow Aunt Mary led them around to talk of other things, of how
still it was in the woods, and how beautiful, and how God must love it
there. The boy’s face grew sober and wistful and wonder came in his
eyes with a kind of softness. Aunt Mary got out her little Testament
and read the story of the healing of the man who was born blind, in
the ninth chapter of John. How they thrilled to the story all the way
through, as the different actors came and went, the blind man himself,
his wondering neighbors, the scornful Jews, the cowardly parents,
Jesus, who came to find him after they had all left him, even down
to the words that Jesus spoke to the fault-finding Jews: “If ye were
blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say, We see; therefore your
sin remaineth.” How strange that those words should sound even after
these years, with the murmuring of the pines among the words, and the
holy stillness afterward, while the shadows grew long and violet within
the sanctuary of trees where they sat, and dusk was all about them. The
boy’s lashes drooped thoughtfully and his whole face took on a far-away
look. Then Aunt Mary’s voice came again softly praying: “Dear Jesus,
we know You are here today just as then. Help us for Christ’s sake to
have our eyes open to sin, so that we shall always know when we are not
pleasing Thee. Amen.”

They had gone out together silently through the quiet aisles with
only the tall singing of the pines and the distant melody of thrushes
in their evening song above them. The boy had gathered up the basket
and his fishing rod, and helped them over the fence with a kind of
reverence upon him.

They had walked down the road to the village with that beautiful
intimacy still upon them, like friends who had seen a vision together
and would never forget. All the way to their door the boy had gone,
saying very little, but with an uplifted look upon his face. Aunt Mary
had asked him to come and see them sometime, and he had suddenly grown
shy and silent, dropped his eyes and set his young shoulders as if he
had come to a hard spot. “Well, g’bye!” he said gruffly, and turning,
darted out the gate and down the street, flashing them a wonderful
smile as he went. He had become suddenly all boy again.

He had come again several times with gifts--a splendid plant of
squawberry vine with bright red berries hanging to it, a great sheaf of
crimson leaves and sumac berries, a handkerchief full of ripe chestnuts.

When winter came again they sometimes found their paths shovelled
around the house very early in the morning and caught a glimpse of a
red sweater and gray cap going down the street as they arose.

There had been several times at school when Joyce felt his protection
against the larger boys who snowballed most unmercifully.

Once he drew her on her sled through a drifted place. And once she
found a rose upon her desk and looking up saw his eyes upon her
suddenly averted and knew he had put it there. But he never came again
into their intimate family circle as he had done that wonderful day in
the woods. His family moved to another part of the town, and she seldom
saw him, yet they always spoke when they met, and something would flash
from eye to eye that was different from an ordinary acquaintance. They
could not forget that day and that holy cathedral of the woods where
they had companioned so richly together.

She had not seen him often through the years, but he had come to Aunt
Mary’s funeral, and at the cemetery stood close to the open grave
looking down with bared head as if he loved the one who was being laid
to rest. A handsome fellow with a distinguished look about him, and
that wonderful wistfulness in his eyes that had not lost the child
look and could still flash a smile that lit the hearts of those who saw
it.

That! And then to see him there in the dark--at a gruesome task of some
sort, and to have seen his eyes as she asked him what he had been doing!

She had not spoken to him in years. Their sole communication had been
through smiles till she asked him that question wrung from her lips at
cost of pain. Somehow her words seemed to strike a blow at the dear
past and shatter something that had been most precious.

And now she had gone over it again in the watches of the night the pain
was still there. He had somehow gone wrong. She had to admit that to
her loyal heart. Perhaps he had been wrong all the time, a bad, wild
boy. She had sometimes heard hints of that floating about the village
but had not believed it. She had clung to that day when they had read
_Under the Lilacs_ together, and then heard the story of the blind
man and gone out together again into life with the blessing of Jesus
resting upon them. She could not bear to think that the boy who had
been so gentle and kind, so interested and happy in that sweet, simple
place, could have been bad all the time, and only dropped out of his
regular life for the day just out of curiosity. He must be right and
true somehow. And if he had been doing wrong he must be sorry perhaps,
for he had looked ashamed. She could not get away from that. She
covered her face with her hands to pray and found there were tears upon
her cheeks, and then she prayed with all her heart, “Oh, Jesus, go and
find him and make him understand. Open his eyes that he may see and sin
no more.”

About that time a man under cover of the darkness came down the road
from the Meadow Brook Cemetery and stole into Julia Hartshorn’s gate,
and silently over the grass to the hammock under the trees; pausing a
moment to look furtively up at the dark house, he stooped and felt all
over that hammock. He had passed the house that day, slowly, in his
automobile and he was sure he had seen the form of an object sagging in
the middle. He had observed it most minutely. He was come now to find
out. It might give him no clue even if he found it, but he was here.

His hand moved carefully and came in contact with a book, yes--and
something soft like cloth, a handkerchief with a faint smell of
lavender drifting from it. He slipped them in his pocket and went
silently away into the night on rubber shod feet that made no sound,
and after he was gone for a season, came another shadow, stealing as
silently into the yard and up to the hammock. It is doubtful if Julia
Hartshorn and her niece would have ever recovered from the fright if
they had known what went on in their yard that night. But they were
slumbering deeply and did not even see the tiny spot of light that
flashed over the hammock, and down upon the ground, bringing out in
clear relief a scrap of paper with writing across it. A hand reached
for it, and again the flashlight focused for a scrutiny. “oyce Radw”
the paper read and that was all. It was torn on all its edges, and
evidently a part of a larger writing. The man searched again, but could
find nothing more. So he stole away as he had come, but he kept the
paper safely for future reference.




CHAPTER XVI


When Joyce awoke the next morning it was with a feeling of trepidation
lest she had overslept and would not be able to accomplish all that she
must before twelve o’clock.

She hurried around anxiously, folding her newspaper bed into an
innocent-looking pile, putting away her things carefully for any
possible scrutiny, and eating a hasty breakfast of crackers, cheese and
what was left of her bottle of milk.

When everything was neat and trim she took out her dress and sat down
to sew, wondering if perhaps she ought not to run out and find what
time it was before she started to work. But fortunately the town clock
settled the matter by chiming out nine o’clock. Three hours before she
must be at Mrs. Powers! Well, there was only the collar and cuffs to
sew on, the skirt to hem and the pockets to make. She could get along
without pockets if necessary, but she really needed them. If only the
collar would fit and not have to be made over again or cut down or
anything.

She put in the hem swiftly. That was plain sailing, as it was carefully
pinned. Then she put on the cuffs and tacked them in place, and donned
the gown. Yes, the collar fitted nicely. With a relieved mind she took
it off again and faced on the collar. While she was doing so the clock
struck ten. If she hurried there would be time to make the pockets.
It was half past before she finished the collar and tacked on the
girdle. Somehow her fingers seemed terribly slow. She cut two strips
from the organdie, bound them with blue and sewed them at the top of
two patch pockets. It was striking eleven as she pinned the pockets in
place and began to sew them on with strong, firm little stitches, but
ten minutes would see it finished. She drew a long breath and began
to think of what was before her. Mrs. Powers had sounded pleasant but
condescending. Well, one could keep still and obey orders, and after
all, condescension didn’t hurt anything but one’s pride. What was
pride? She could stand almost anything for just once.

She must stop at the store on her way and get a clean gingham apron.
She ought to have a white one for table waiting also. If there was
anything cheap enough she would get it. If there was only another two
hours she could easily make one. But there wasn’t. She broke off her
thread for the finish, and laid aside her thimble and scissors happily.
Well, the dress was done anyway.

She wasted little time in putting on the new garment and smoothing her
hair, feeling quite neat and trim as she locked her door and hurried
down the street. Mrs. Bryant eyed her approvingly from her kitchen
window.

“She certainly is a pretty little thing,” she said to herself. “I wish
I had a daughter like that. It’s going to be a real comfort having her
right near this winter when Jim is away. I’m glad we let her have the
lot.”

Joyce bought her other gingham apron, and found a tiny white one,
coarse, but neat, for fifty cents, and with her two aprons presented
herself at Mrs. Powers’ door at exactly twelve o’clock.

Mrs. Powers herself opened the door, her hair in crimpers, herself
attired in a somewhat soiled pink silk kimona:

“I forgot to mention that you might come to the side door,” she said
loftily, “but it doesn’t matter this time.”

Joyce paused on the threshold and surveyed her silently. She had never
met anything quite like this, nor dreamed that people who served others
had to endure it. She was minded to flee at once, till she remembered
that she had promised to get the dinner and that it was probably too
late for the woman to get any one else now. She must be a lady, even if
her employer was not.

Before she could speak, however, Mrs. Powers entered upon her
introduction to the work.

“You don’t object to washing dishes I hope. The lunch and breakfast
dishes will have to be cleared away before you can do much. Here’s the
menu for tonight, I’ve written it out so there won’t be any mistake.
I never like to have to give directions twice. Fruit cup. You’ll find
the things in the store room, oranges, grape fruit, some white grapes
skinned and seeded, I like plenty of grapes in it, and there’s a can
of pineapple. Then we’ll have a clear soup. Do you know how to make
soup? I’m sure I don’t know what you’ll make it out of. You can look
around and see. Perhaps there’s some stock. Then for the meat course
we’ll have chops and creamed potatoes and peas. There’s lettuce in
the garden, and tomatoes in the refrigerator. You make mayonnaise, do
you? Mrs. Bryant spoke of that I think. Well, that fixes the salad
all right. Then ice cream and cake and coffee. I’ve ordered the ice
cream, of course, but I’ll need two kinds of cake. I always like to
have two kinds. That’s all, I believe. Now, I’m going up to lie down. I
really must or I’ll look like a rag, but I shall expect you to have the
diningroom and kitchen cleaned, the peas shelled, and the mayonnaise on
the ice by the time I come down. Then I shall feel easy. You’ll need
to scald and skin the tomatoes too, and get at your cake as soon as
possible. It’ll need to get cold before icing. Now, do you think you
understand it all?”

Joyce looked at her with frank amusement as she rolled out the
sentences, tolling off the tasks as if they were trifles and expecting,
actually expecting all that work to be done. In spite of her a fresh
young laugh rang out as if it were all a joke. The lady eyed her
curiously, uneasily. What kind of a young working person was this
anyway that laughed at her tasks and came to the front door for
admission?

“I want dinner promptly at seven,” she said haughtily. “Do you feel
sure you will remember all I have told you?”

“I’ll do my best to accomplish as much as possible, Mrs. Powers,” said
Joyce, remembering the ten dollars and sobering down. “There isn’t any
too much time, I guess.”

Joyce undid her bundle and enveloped herself in her clean gingham apron
as she spoke:

“Now, if you’ll show me where to find your materials.”

“Yes,” sighed the lady comfortably, leading the way to the kitchen. “I
hope you’ll let me know right away if there’s anything else you need,
because I hate to be disturbed when I’m taking a nap.”

She trailed away from the scene before Joyce realized the whole
situation, or it is doubtful if she might not have fled even yet.

The kitchen was stacked with soiled dishes in every available spot,
and soiled dish towels, grocery bags huddled together between piles of
plates and pans and potato peelings. It was evident that not only the
breakfast and lunch dishes were unwashed but also the dinner dishes
of the night before, and possibly some from lunch of the day before.
It was a wreck of a kitchen and no mistake. Joyce stood still in her
pretty new blue dress in the midst of it all, appalled at what was
expected of her. It seemed to her that no two girls could accomplish
all that had been given her to do before seven o’clock. The cooking
alone was enough to keep her on the jump, without all the cleaning. She
was minded to get at the preparations for dinner first and leave the
clearing up to take care of itself when the lady came down again, only
that absolutely nothing could be done until there was a clean place in
which to work.

Joyce had been in hard places before, with a meal ahead to get for
company in a short time, and had rather enjoyed the sharpening of her
wits to win the game and get it done in time. But never had she had
such a kitchen as this to deal with. At first glance her soul revolted
from having to touch it. The floor was grimy and messy with things
spilled on it. Numerous dishes standing under the sink out of the
way with fragments of food burned hard to them showed discouraging
impossibilities ahead. The sink was filthy with grease and the dish-pan
filled with greasy water. It was all simply unspeakable. She scarcely
knew where to begin.

Investigation showed there was no hot water, and that the source of it
was in a tank heated by a small laundry stove in the cellar, which was
out. Joyce descended the cellar stairs, found an axe, and split up a
box, and finally got the laundry fire going. Then she came upstairs,
and put three pans and the teakettle full of water to heat on the gas
range. While they were heating she went to the refrigerator to see what
was on hand for that soup which she was supposed to make.

The refrigerator proved worse than anything she had yet seen in the
house, and greatly needed a good cleaning, but there was no time for
refrigerators. She was weary in every bone and sinew now thinking of
all that must be done before six o’clock. But she gathered out whatever
was worth using, some chicken bones, a small piece of boiled beef, a
left-over lamb chop, a bowl of chicken gravy, a few lima beans, and
a cup of mashed potatoes. Not a very promising array. She cleared a
spot on the kitchen table, skimmed the grease from the gravy, cut the
fat from the meat, and put the whole array on to simmer with a little
water. A little foraging brought some onions and carrots to light,
which she diced and put in with the mixture. By this time the water was
hot and she scalded the tomatoes and skinned them, putting them on the
ice to harden. Then, with her soup and salad well under way, she felt
more at her ease to go at the cleaning.

The first job was the sink, and it took fully ten minutes to reduce
it and the dish pans to order. Then, as she could not find any clean
dish towels, she washed out those that were soiled and hung them out
in the back yard. They would be dry by the time she needed them, for
there was a good breeze blowing. She glanced at the clock as she came
in. Forty minutes of the precious seven hours was gone and scarcely an
impression made on the dreadful-looking place. She looked around in
despair. The second relay of hot water was ready, and she went to work
gathering first all the soiled silver and putting it to soak in a pan
full of suds while she scraped up the dishes and sorted them in orderly
files. Everything would have to soak before it was washed, for food had
been smeared over them all and left to dry. By the time the sorting
was done the silver washed easily, and she put them into the rinsing
pan, and filled the first pan with a pile of plates to soak while she
washed off the drain board and shelf and made room to drain her dishes.
Inch by inch she cleared places and filled them with clean, steaming
dishes, filling her pans again and again with hot water. The laundry
stove was getting in its work by this time and the water from the
faucet facilitated matters, nevertheless, it was half past two before
she had every dish subdued and standing in clean, dry rows on a clean,
dry table ready to be marshaled into pantry shelves that sadly needed
cleaning, but could not have it now. She must get that fruit dug out
and on the ice at once.

She turned her attention to cake next, and when it was in the oven went
at the mayonnaise dressing. She had made a chocolate layer cake, rich
and dark, with a transparent chocolate filling and thick, white icing,
and was just taking a sponge cake, light as a feather, out of the oven
when the mistress arrived, fine and cool in a light crêpe de chine,
her hair marcelled and her face powdered to the last degree, leaving a
perfume of luxury in her wake as she moved.

“Mercy!” she exclaimed. “Is that all the cake you’ve made? And look at
the time. You’ll have to frost that, of course. It’s too plain that
way. Have you fixed the salad? And, oh, I forgot to say--There’ll have
to be hot biscuits. I hope you can make good ones. Mr. Powers is very
particular about his biscuits. He likes them light. I must say you
might have scrubbed this floor a little bit, and by the way, I wish
you’d run up by and by while your vegetables are cooking and wipe up
the bath room tiles. My son took a bath this morning just before he
went off on a trip and he left water all over the floor.”

Joyce turned suddenly from setting the hot cake carefully on a
cake-cooler and faced the lady. Her cheeks were two pink flames and her
eyes were bits of blue ice. For just one second words trembled on her
lips, words that were not humble nor gentle. Here was a woman much like
Nannette, who appeared, to think the world was made all for herself.
Joyce longed to lay down the knife with which she had loosened the cake
from its pan and walk out of the kitchen as she had walked out of her
cousin’s kitchen a few days before, never to return, but she reflected
that she could not go on walking out of situations all her life that
she did not like, and moreover it would be a mean thing to leave the
lady with her dinner only half got and company coming. It was obvious
the lady was unfitted to get it. And then, she had promised to do it.
The lady had depended upon her and she must stick. Why not make a game
of it, something that had to be overcome and won? So she let her lips
soften into a smile and answered with a twinkle of amusement:

“Why, I’m not sure I’ll have time, Mrs. Powers, but I’ll do my best.
Things were pretty badly messed up here, you know, and it all took
time. By the way, Mrs. Powers, Mrs. Bryant told me that your husband
was on the School Board. I wonder if you could tell me whether there
is likely to be any opening for a teacher next fall? You know I am a
teacher. That is, that’s what I’ve been getting ready to be.”

There was something, just a shade of fineness perhaps, in the way Joyce
spoke, a kind of sense of being above littleness and an air of being
there to help her purely as a favor, that made the lady the least
bit ashamed of having asked her to wipe up the bath room floor. She
stared at Joyce a minute in that superior sort of surprised way, as if
suddenly some ribbon or powder puff or bit of lace she had been using
had risen up and claimed a personality, and then she answered in a cold
little tone:

“Why, I’m sure I don’t know. There might be. If you put this dinner
over well and get it all done on time I’ll try and remember to speak to
him about it. Mr. Powers loves good dinners, and he might do something
for you. I’m going down in my car now to meet my friend and I wish
you’d answer the telephone while I’m gone and keep an eye on the front
door. And don’t for mercy’s sake let anything burn. I just hate to have
the house smell of burned food when guests arrive. Don’t forget the
bath room floor, and have plenty of biscuits.”

The lady sailed away again after having peered into the refrigerator at
the tomatoes and fruit cup getting chilled, and sniffed at the kettle
of soup on the back of the range, with never a word of commendation.
Something strangely like tears came into the girl’s eyes as she turned
back to the kitchen and reviewed the work still to be done, looking
despairingly at the clock. Quarter to five! Could she do it? One thing
she was sure of, she would never work for this woman again if she could
help it. There seemed to be no pleasing her. It had been quite another
thing to get dinner for Mrs. Bryant, who was delighted with everything
she did. This woman treated her as if she were the very dust under her
feet. Perhaps she had made a mistake in consenting to do kitchen work.
Perhaps she had lowered herself in the woman’s eyes and hurt her chance
of getting a school. Well, she must forget it now. It was all in the
game and she was out to win. It was just another hindrance put in her
way, a net to get her ball over, a wicket through which she must pass.
She would win out in spite of it. So, trying to coax a laugh into her
throat instead of a sob, she went to work with redoubled vigor.

When the cake was frosted and standing white and beautiful in the
window to dry she slipped up to the bath room, wiped up the floor and
tidied it a bit. It needed a vigorous cleaning but she had no time
to give it. Then she hurried down to shell the peas and scrape the
potatoes. When they were on she would feel easier in her mind. There
was a stalk of celery in the store room and a few English walnuts.
The salad would look prettier if she diced the celery and stuffed the
tomatoes with celery and nuts. She must try to get time. It wouldn’t
take a minute. Then the lettuce must be got from the garden. It ought
to be in salt water this instant.

The next hour was a wild whirl. It seemed, as she rushed from table
to range and from refrigerator back to the kitchen, that she had been
rushing, rushing, ever since she left home, and she was tired, oh, so
tired.

The biscuits were in the oven and the potatoes and peas bubbling gaily
on the stove, the chops were in the broiler and Joyce was trying to
set the table, when Mrs. Powers returned with her guest. After taking
her to the guest room upstairs she came languidly down to see how the
dinner was getting on. She said no word of commendation, but a look of
satisfaction dawned in her eyes as she saw the orderly row of salad
plates, daintily and appetizingly arrayed on the kitchen side table,
and caught a glimpse of the two cakes in the pantry window smooth and
glistening in deep frosting. Joyce caught the look or perhaps she would
not have been able to go on through the next trying hour.

“Mrs. Powers, I can’t find but one of those rose napkins you said you
wanted to use. Could you tell me where else to look?” she asked as the
lady returned to the diningroom.

“Why, I’m sure they are in the drawer,” said the lady sharply as if
somehow Joyce must have lost them herself. “They’re always right
there.” She came and looked herself.

“Well, I guess they didn’t get sent to the laundry,” she admitted at
last reluctantly after a hasty slamming of sideboard drawers. “Oh, here
they are. How tiresome! Well, you’ll just have to take them down to
the laundry and rub them out. There’s no other way. The others simply
aren’t fit. Here, take these. You’ll find the electric iron right down
there and you can iron them dry.”

Joyce paused aghast.

“But the dinner,” she said. “Things will burn, and I’m afraid it won’t
be on time if I wait to do that.”

“Well, you’ll have to manage somehow. I’m sure I don’t know what else
you can do. We’ll have to have dinner late then I suppose, although Mr.
Powers hates that. He always says never hire a person twice who can’t
get meals on time. It’s the worst fault--”

But Joyce had seized the napkins and was already on her way down to the
laundry, her lips set in a hard, determined little line. The School
Board should never be able to say she couldn’t be on time, even if it
was the School Board’s wife’s fault that she couldn’t be. She would win
out and have dinner on time anyway.

So with a quick turn of the faucets, and a fling of the soap, she
rubbed out the necessary napkins, and while they were soaking for a
minute, hunted out the electric iron and set it heating. Up the stairs
again to her dinner to watch the chops and turn the lights under
the vegetables a little lower, breathlessly down again, such a wild
scramble! Quarter to seven it was when she came up again with the three
neatly ironed napkins in her hand and wildly flew into the diningroom
to finish setting the table. The sweet potatoes were browning in their
sugar bath and she had to watch them closely that they did not burn. It
meant flying back and forth continually--and oh, there were the olives,
the ice water, and cream for the coffee. Would the dinner ever be
ready and served? And where was her apron?

The last five minutes were a nightmare. She could hear the front
door open and the voice of the two gentlemen as they entered. Which
one would be Mr. Powers? The gruff, deep one, or the high falsetto?
And then came the awful minute when she donned the new white apron,
and came to sign to Mrs. Powers that all was ready. The clock in the
living room was chiming seven with silvery tones as she signalled her
readiness, and she thought she saw a look of surprise and relief in
the languid eye of the hostess, but she stayed not to make further
discoveries. She would have her hands full for the next few minutes
without knowing whether the lady was pleased or not.

“Surely He shall deliver thee--”

What was it that Bible verse said that ran through her head with
every pulsation of her racing blood? Why should a Bible verse come so
persistently into her mind just now when she was too busy to think
about anything? “Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the
fowler, and from the noisome pestilence”--that was it. The snare of the
fowler was the little things that caught one. Well, He had delivered
her. He had helped her to smile instead of to be annoyed. Was she
winning out? Dinner was on time anyway.




CHAPTER XVII


The guests were eating away at the fruit cup with a relish. It was
delicious, Joyce knew, for she had tasted it when it was finished. She
was hot and thirsty and she longed for some of it now, but there was
none left. She had filled the glasses as full as possible. She heard
one of the guests say how delicious it was, and the hostess reply in
her languid drawl that it wasn’t what it ought to be, that she had a
new maid, and she was sure she didn’t know whether they were to have
anything fit to eat or not. She was brand-new, and green, and what was
worse, she was _literary_. “Fancy, Clement,” and the lady turned to the
tall man with the deep, growling voice and her laugh rang out, “fancy,
she wants me to recommend her to you as a teacher in the High School!
Isn’t that the limit?”

Joyce was just coming in to take the glasses and replace them with
the bouillon cups filled with a delicious concoction that came out of
that mixture of bones and meats and vegetables with the addition of a
bit of tomato, onion, celery top and parsley, and she stopped short in
the pantry with flaming cheeks and quick tears in her eyes, and then
stepped hastily back into the kitchen and paused in dismay. What should
she do? How could she face that tableful of hateful people with their
laughter still upon their lips?

There before her stood the kitchen door wide open to a garden and a
path that led around the house to the gate. She could walk out and
leave this impossible woman to her fate. Let her get up and serve her
own guests, and wash her own dishes afterwards and keep her own ten
dollar bill, yes, and her school positions too. There were other people
in the world--and the tears rolled down her hot, angry cheeks.

“Surely He shall deliver thee,--Surely--Surely--”

It rang in her ears like a voice, a reminder.

“Yes, I know--” said her tired heart. She mustn’t get into the habit of
walking out back doors when she didn’t like things. She really mustn’t.
“Dear Jesus, please give me strength, courage--” She dashed the tears
away and splashed cold water on her hot cheeks, then in answer to the
third ringing of the buzzer appeared in the diningroom as if nothing
had happened and quietly removed the glasses from the table.

In her pretty little blue dress with her white collar and apron she
looked a slender vision as she entered with her tray and was conscious
at once that every eye was fixed upon her, whereupon her cheeks flamed
the rosier, but she kept her eyes down upon her work and managed to get
through the door with her heavy tray of glasses without breaking down.

“Jove!” she heard the gruff voice say. “She looks as if she could teach
if she wanted to.”

“Yes, yes,” chimed in the falsetto, “quite pretty for a kitchen-maid, I
should say.”

“Quite too pretty, I should say,” said the cool voice of the lady
guest, like a sharp, dividing steel, significant, insulting.

Joyce trembled as she heard Mrs. Powers respond in her affected drawl:

“Yas, I thought so myself. But what could I do? I’d have had to get
dinner myself--”

“Well, she seems to know how to cook,” growled Mr. Powers. By this
time his soup was steaming at his place and he was regarding it with
interest.

Joyce caught his glance fixed pleasantly upon her as she went about
placing the soup, and took heart. Perhaps all hope of a chance through
Mr. Powers was not lost after all.

“Surely He shall deliver thee. Surely--” The words kept ringing as she
went back and forth from kitchen to diningroom, dreading each encounter
more than the last.

As the meal progressed it became evident that all were enjoying it and
the men at least were loud in their praises of each new dish as it
arrived.

“Well, I say. These peas taste as if they had just been picked,” said
the guest, and his host replied:

“Say, Anne, these sweet potatoes beat anything we ever had. Get her to
stay if you can. Pay her fifty dollars a week if you want to, only get
her to stay!”

Mrs. Powers turned a languid smile of disgust on her woman guest and
answered scornfully:

“Now, isn’t that just like a man? Candied sweet potatoes and a pretty
face! That’s all they think about. I wish you’d see how she left the
kitchen floor! And she had _plenty_ of time to clean it up before she
began to get dinner.”

“Well, if you ask me,” said her husband heartily, “I’d say cleaning
kitchen floors wasn’t her job.”

All these things she heard in stage whispers that were not intended for
her ears, as she went back and forth bringing dishes and serving new
courses.

At the salad even the ladies waxed a little kindly, but when the ice
cream came on and with it the two great luscious cakes there was loud
applause from the gentlemen, and it was evident that if a position
in high school depended upon making good cake Joyce had won it. She
hastily placed the last coffee-cup and retired precipitately from the
diningroom, afraid that after all she was going to break down and cry.
She was so tired!

But cry she wouldn’t. She had one more thing yet to do before anybody
had a chance to come out in that kitchen. She would scrub that kitchen
floor if it took the last bit of force she had left in her body.

So she closed the pantry and kitchen doors, donned her gingham
apron again, and got down upon her knees with hot water, soap, and
scrubbing-brush, and a great drying cloth she had found in the laundry.
Such a scrubbing as that inlaid linoleum had it never had had before
and never would likely have again!

She laid a newspaper down by the sink to keep it clean when she was
done, and then straightened herself up and rested for a moment,
wondering if the ache would ever go out of her back and knees again.
It wasn’t just the scrubbing the floor, nor the working hard to get
dinner; it was the culmination of the days since she had left home.

But she must not take time to think how tired she was. There were the
dishes yet to wash, and the table to clear. All those dishes! How long
the evening looked ahead! They were rising from the table at last and
she must hurry with the dishes already there and get them out of the
way.

So she went at the dish-pan again, her fingers flying as though she had
just begun after a good night’s rest. And one by one, dozen by dozen,
those dishes were marshaled again into shining freshness, and the table
cleared.

She had just decided that she would slip out the back door and let Mrs.
Powers send her the ten dollars when she got ready, when she heard the
pantry door open and Mrs. Powers stood in it, surveying her coldly, a
crisp ten dollar bill in her hand.

“Oh, you’re going! I was going to ask you to wipe up this floor before
you left--”

She paused and glanced down at the shining floor, from which Joyce had
just removed the newspapers. She seemed a trifle flustered.

“Oh, you’ve done it. Well, that’s all right. I never feel that a girl
has finished until she has cleaned her kitchen.”

She handed out the money and Joyce took it as though it had been a hot
coal that she wasn’t sure but she wanted to throw out the back door.
Of course she had earned it, earned it hard, but it went against every
grain in her body to take it. She felt humiliated and dragged in the
dust.

“Surely He shall deliver thee!”

She drew a long breath. It was almost over. She was free to go at last.

“I was going to tell you,” went on the lady as Joyce rolled up her
apron preparatory to leaving, “I’m giving a little dinner tomorrow and
I shall want you again. You might come over about ten. We don’t get up
before that, and then you can clear away the breakfast things. We have
dinner about five on Sundays. My husband says the day is so long if we
don’t have a good many meals. I’m calling up my butcher to get some
chickens. Of course he’s closed, but he always serves me after time if
necessary. He knows he has to or lose my trade. I think we’ll have some
more of those biscuits, and--”

Joyce suddenly broke into the monologue:

“Mrs. Powers, excuse me, but it isn’t necessary for you to finish. I
couldn’t possibly come.”

“You couldn’t possibly come? I’d like to know why not? I suppose you
have some date or other with some young man--I might have known a
pretty girl would be troublesome--”

“Stop!” said Joyce, her voice trembling, and just then above the wild
beating of her angry young heart she heard the words:

“Surely He shall deliver thee--”

It steadied her so that she was able to control the flashing of her
eyes and to speak quietly, albeit with a trifle of hauteur in her
steady voice.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Powers. You have no right to speak to me in that way.
I have no young men friends nor any others in this vicinity and no
dates with any one, but I do not work on Sunday. I don’t think it’s
right. I was brought up to work only six days in the week.”

“For mercy’s sake!” sneered the woman, “and so you refuse to help a
person out in a tight place? What possible wrong could that be? We have
to eat, don’t we?”

“We don’t have to have dinner parties,” said Joyce quietly.

“Well, I think you’re impertinent,” said the lady angrily. “It is none
of your business when I have dinner parties. I suppose it’s more pay
you want, and I think that’s extortion, but of course seeing you’ve
washed the kitchen floor and seeing I can’t very well get any one else
I suppose I’ll have to pay it. What do you want for your valuable
services?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Powers. I am not going to work. If you were sick or in
trouble or starving I’d be glad to help you out, but I shouldn’t accept
pay. I am not working on Sunday.”

“Well, I’ll pay you fifteen dollars for the day if you’ll come. That’s
outrageous but I’ll pay it because I have to. And if you’ll come early
enough in the morning to get breakfast I’ll make it twenty. Come,
that’s about as high as any girl could ask.”

“It is impossible for me to accept at any price for Sunday service,
Mrs. Powers.”

Joyce had retreated toward the door and picked up her bundle.

“I don’t see how you can possibly expect me to use my influence to get
you a school when you act like that,” said the angry woman as a last
resort. “I shall tell my husband how unaccommodating and impertinent
you have been. You are not a fit person to set over young people. And
if you refuse my request I shall take pains to see that you get no
position in our schools. As for all this nonsense about working on
Sunday, don’t you know, my poor girl, that all that belongs to a bygone
day? The Sabbath was made for man, and not to be long-faced in. I am in
a far better position than you to know what is right and what is wrong,
and I tell you that it is perfectly all right for you to help a person
out when they have company, and at the same time help yourself out, and
I’ve offered you very liberal wages. I’m perfectly willing also to see
that you get a place to teach if you prove to be at all fitted for it,
provided you go out of your way to help me.”

Joyce looked at the woman steadily.

“Mrs. Powers, I would rather never have a position to teach than
purchase it at the price of doing something I think is wrong. Besides,
I couldn’t help hearing what you said about me at the dinner table, and
I’ve no expectation of your using your influence to help me in any way.
In fact, I think I’d rather you wouldn’t. Good night, Mrs. Powers.”

She was actually gone, out the back door, through the moonlit garden,
out the little back gate, and down the street, before Mrs. Powers
recovered and realized that she had lost her.

“She won’t come,” she announced, going back to the living room, where
her guests and her husband were awaiting her return to the game of
cards in which they had been engaged, “and she actually had the nerve
to try to preach a sermon to me about having dinner parties on Sunday.
Did you ever? Aren’t help the limit these days? I suppose it made
her mad for me to ask her to scrub the bath room floor. She’s quite
inclined to be above her station. But isn’t it ridiculous? Now I’ll
have to get Martha Allen to cook the dinner and she can’t begin to make
mayonnaise like this girl.”

“I thought you told me she wasn’t help,” said her husband. “You said
she was a school-teacher.”

“Oh, well--” said the wife indolently, “you know what a school-teacher
is that has to go out to work to make a living. Just as soon as I knew
she would come I set her down where she belonged, and made up my mind
if she was any good I’d get her permanently.”

“Well, that’s a laudable ambition. Coax a girl to come and help you as
a favor, and then try to keep her down to the station you’ve put her
in! I must say I admire a girl who is willing to cook when she hasn’t
anything else to do, and especially when she knows how to cook like
that. I believe I’ll look into her case. If she applies for a job in
the school I’ll vote for her. I like a girl with ambition and without
notions, and I’ll bet she earned her money today.”

“Now, Hatfield, that’s just like you,” complained Mrs. Hatfield Powers.
“I take the trouble to tell you what a good-for-nothing girl she is
and then you go and vote for her just for sheer stubbornness. Just to
oppose me. Just to show you how wrong you are about money, I paid her
_ten dollars_ today for getting that little bit of dinner, and I went
so far as to offer her double that if she would come early enough to
get breakfast and stay all day tomorrow!” She looked around the room in
triumph amid the admiring exclamations of her guests.

“Well, I still say she earned her money,” said her husband.

Joyce Radway let herself into her little dark room, locked her
door, tossed her hat on the box table, flung herself on the heap of
newspapers in the corner and burst into heart-breaking sobs.

By and by her tears were spent and she grew quieter, and above the
tumult of her soul a still small voice seemed saying over the words
softly to her troubled heart:

“The Eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting
Arms.”

How wonderful that that should come to her now!

Once, a long time ago, when she was a little girl and was learning
verses with her mother and her aunt, they had told her that these
verses they were teaching her were to be stored up for a time of need,
and that when any distress came, if they were safely in her heart and
memory, they would come out to comfort her or show her the way out of
a difficult situation. She had not thought much about it then, but now
that all came back. She was in trouble and comfortless, and the verses
were coming like a troop of strong angels to comfort and guide her and
help her through temptation--to show her that God was not a God afar
off, but was nigh to each one of us, even in our hearts. So, comforted,
she fell asleep.

And the next day was the Sabbath.




CHAPTER XVIII


When Joyce awoke that first Sunday morning in her new home the sun was
streaming broad across her bed. By that she knew it was very late. It
suddenly came to her consciousness for the first time that she had
been so busy getting her dress done in time to reach Mrs. Powers’ at
twelve o’clock that it had never occurred to her to do any marketing
for Sunday, and of course everything had been closed up tight when she
came home at half past ten. Well, there was enough in the house to
keep her from starving, and she would just have to get along. There
were probably restaurants open, but why go to a restaurant on Sunday?
She had not been brought up to be much away from home on the Lord’s
day, and while she understood that it might be necessary sometimes for
restaurants to be open on Sunday for some poor homeless ones, still,
she didn’t see patronizing them if she could help it.

Examination of her larder proved that there were still a few crackers,
a small piece of cheese, two slices of dried beef, one banana, and
almost half a loaf of bread. There was a little milk left in the bottle
too, and she could have that for breakfast. It was not an extensive
array for a Sunday dinner, and probably Mrs. Powers’ menu would have
offered a more tempting list, but she drew a relieved sigh to think
that she did not have to get Mrs. Powers’ dinner that day, no, nor eat
it, either.

She ate her breakfast of crackers and milk hungrily, for one cannot
work as hard as she had worked for the past three days without
developing an appetite, and by the time she was finished, and
everything put away, the church bells were ringing.

It was interesting to be going to a new church. All her life she had
attended the same church. It came to her while she was brushing her
shoes and putting on her serge dress and hat that, perhaps, some of
the dear people would miss her and wonder. Perhaps sometime she would
write to the minister or her Sunday-school teacher and explain that she
had felt an entire change would be good for her, less sad; and that
she had gone thus quietly because she dreaded the good-byes. Yes, that
would probably be the right thing to do after she had once established
herself, and had a good paying job, and could report herself as doing
well. It made her almost homesick to think of how all the old friends
were on their way to Sunday School just now--how her place would be
vacant in the class and her spot in the pew empty.

It wouldn’t be the first time though, for Nannette had contrived both
Sundays since Aunt Mary’s death to keep Joyce at home, the first time
because she had a sick headache and wanted Joyce to stay and wait on
her, the second time because she and Eugene were going somewhere and
demanded that Joyce remain at home with the children, who were supposed
to be under the weather. People would not think it strange that she had
not come this Sunday either, perhaps, and she knew Nannette well enough
to be sure that by this time there was some well-arranged story sent
about explaining, with perfect plausibility, her absence. So she had no
uneasiness on the score of her friends.

She chose the pretty church with the stone arches and ivy wreathing for
her first entrance into religious worship in her new home. It bore the
name of her own denomination on its bronze tablet outside the door, and
she entered with a kind of feeling that it partly belonged to her.

The church was filled with well-dressed people, and a vested choir
was singing an anthem as she entered. She was annoyed to be late and
slipped into a seat near the door.

The vested choir would have been an innovation in the old church
in Meadow Brook, but she thought it rather pretty. The church was
artistic and beautiful, with deep-toned woods, vaulted ceiling, and
gleam of jeweled windows picturing forth sacred themes in memory of
certain departed church members. She sat in the softly cushioned pew
and listened to the glorious music, the rich tones of the organ,
the well-trained voices. Now, indeed, was her soul to find rest and
refreshment for the hard times of her life. She relaxed and found peace
and a sense of nearness to God in this, His house.

The Powers family entered, to her surprise, a bit noisily, with their
guests, and made quite a flutter getting certain seats. They seemed to
be important personages, for whom the ushers hurried to find the place
in four hymn books, and present calendars of the day, with smiles and
obsequious bows. The men were fresh from a round on the golf course,
and had that air of bored patronage and indifference that so many
men wear on Sunday morning, as if virtue fairly exuded from their
rosy faces because they had come in from the velvety green to this
sombre stuffy dullness for a little while to patronize God. The women
were attired in spring array and filled the air about them with the
faint, sweet perfume of the well-groomed. The eyes of their envious
sisters were fixed upon their hats and coats in earnest study from the
minute of their entrance, and many a woman forsook her mild attention
to the service and tortured her mind with such problems as how she
could get together a becoming hat like that without paying the price
of an imported one, or whether there was enough in the breadths of
grandmother’s old silk gown to cut a silk coat like the one Anne Powers
was wearing.

Joyce, in her back seat, was surprised that her employer of yesterday
should be in church. She had unconsciously labeled her as a
non-churchgoer. In Meadow Brook the people who gave dinner parties on
Sunday did not pay much attention to churchgoing, and as she watched
from her shadowed seat under the gallery and saw Mrs. Powers’ delicate
airs, and the way she held her book and sang, she marvelled that this
pretty woman, with the rapt expression, could be the same one who spoke
so contemptuously to her the day before.

But when the minister ascended the pulpit for the sermon she tried to
put such thoughts away from her mind and to listen to what was being
said. It was not for her to judge the people in God’s house, and God
himself might be able to see something acceptable in the worship of
these people that was not apparent to her.

The minister had read the story of the man born blind, and it had
given her a warm feeling about her heart to remember the dear old
story, so linked with thoughts of her Aunt Mary, and especially of that
wonderful day in the woods, so she settled herself to enjoy the story
once more, and to thrill over the miracle of the healing as she had
always been able to thrill over this particular story even after she
had grown up.

As the sermon opened up with an eloquent passage descriptive of the
oriental day and setting of the story her mind was back in the aisles
of the grove with the boy and Aunt Mary, and the birds singing far
overhead. Her own sweet thoughts leaped ahead in the story, till
suddenly, she became aware of words that were being spoken, words that
did not seem to fit the thread of the story at all. What was this? No
miracle? Common sense? Jesus used clay to give the man something to do
himself, possibly it might have had some medicinal qualities as some
clays known to the medical profession of the day are known to have
healing qualities. But more likely the clay was a mere agent to bestir
the man, to awaken him to a sense of himself, and stimulate his nerves
to action--a mere psychological effect on the man’s spirit, something
that Jesus, with his unusually keen insight into men’s natures, saw
was needed. Such cures were often performed today, by shock of fire
or fright, by inducing the subject to in some way believe that he
was healed. There was a great deal in will power and in the state of
mind, and Jesus used common sense and set men right with _themselves_.
Perhaps the man had not been really blind at all from his birth, but
had merely got in the habit of keeping his eyes shut and thinking he
was blind, until he and his friends had come to believe that it was
true. There was much proof for this theory in the way that his cure
was accepted by his friends and neighbors and even by his parents.
If there had been a real need of cure it was not at all likely that
the parents of the invalid would have taken the cure so lightly and
even professed that they knew nothing at all about it. The matter was
evidently held lightly among them. The work of Jesus on this earth
was really to bring men to _themselves_, to awaken them to a sense of
what they could _do for themselves_, in even rising above weakness and
physical infirmity. They called Jesus divine because they could find no
better word to call Him, but we were all divine, all the children of
God as was Jesus, and all able to do what Jesus did. Perhaps not in the
same degree, for he was the greatest man that ever lived, but still, in
a sense, we could do for suffering humanity just what Jesus did. If we
were not actual physicians, able to heal disease, we could yet persuade
men to common sense, awake them to open their eyes to things about them.

Joyce sat straighter in her seat and her cheeks grew hot with
excitement. She felt as if some exquisite, sacred fabric, that was
beyond price, and had always been most dear to her had been torn in
tatters and scattered to the four winds. She felt as if she must arise
and cry out to the man that what he was saying was false--that he was
blaspheming!

She looked around startled on the indifferent audience composed in a
dreamy silence of peace, eyes intent upon the preacher, lips placid, no
look of protest in their faces! How strange! How awful! Was there no
one, not one, to stand up for the Bible, for the miracle of healing,
for the matchless God-nature of Christ?

But other words suddenly arrested her, standing out from the drab
background of the sermon sharply:

“The time has come when the world no longer needs a bloody atonement
to appease an angry God. The world has grown beyond that ghastly idea.
The death of Christ was to show the world how much He loved it, not to
wash away its evil deeds in some mysterious way. People must undo their
own evil deeds. No one could do that for them. We must work out our own
salvation with fear and trembling, for it was the God in us that works.
We all have God in us, only we are not letting Him work, just as that
blind man had sight, but he was not using it--”

Joyce almost started to her feet. She seemed to be crying out in her
throat so that it hurt: “That is not true, oh, that is not true! Will
no one tell him what an awful thing he is saying?” But not a sound came
from her lips, of course. She found that her limbs were trembling and
she felt as though she scarcely dared look up. To think that she was
here in God’s house listening to this and no one making any protest!
She looked around again, aghast at the smug, satisfied faces of the
congregation. It was almost as if they were not listening.

The minister’s voice broke again upon her troubled spirit:

“No man’s death can do away with my guilt. No amount of shed blood can
cleanse me from sin. I’ve got to do that _myself_. As Jesus made the
man go to the river and wash the clay away, so you and I must wash
away our own sins in the sweat of our brow, working for Him. We must
feed the hungry, clothe the naked, be kind one to another, uplift the
fallen, uplift and broaden humanity, put away sin from our lives, and
in its place put deeds of kindness such as Jesus did. That life and
that alone can atone for a sinful past. Let us pray.”

During the prayer that followed tears came into the eyes of the wounded
girl, but a choir of the angelic host seemed somewhere far away to be
chanting, and the words they spoke were clear and distinct:

“The blood of Jesus Christ his son cleanseth us from all sin.

“He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our
iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his
stripes we are healed.

“All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his
own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.”

They rang in her heart with triumph as she lifted her head for the
closing song, whose words she could not see because of the tears in her
eyes, and when it was over, and the benediction was spoken, she turned,
humiliated and sad, to go out of the house of God. Just behind her came
a clear, languid voice, drawling:

“Yes, wasn’t it a sweet sermon? Perfectly lovely. I just love to hear
Doctor Darling preach; he is so refined, and he makes one feel so
good--”

And out in the sunshine the young girl walked back to her little house
stricken, almost sick, with the experience of the morning. This was her
first experience of Modernism in a Christian church. Summer visitors in
Meadow Brook had complained that the minister there was old-fashioned,
and they really ought to have a young man who would be broad in his
views and educate the young people in up-to-date religion. But the
people of Meadow Brook loved Doctor Ballantine and his wife, and did
not want to see them leave. He had been there a long time and the
elders in the church all thought as he did, so until some of the
younger generation who had not been taught by him in the Scriptures
grew up he was not likely to be ousted.

Joyce had read a little about the state of things in the religious
world, but she had thought of Modernism as one thinks of leprosy, or
the starving Russians, as something far, far away and awful, to prevent
which one ought to give money and send missionaries, but which one was
never likely to meet with in daily life. Now, suddenly brought face to
face with it, she was shaken to her soul.

Not that the sermon of the morning had given her any doubts. It could
not have done that even if it had been strong in arguments and logic,
and not weak, garbled statements of half-facts she had known all her
life, for Joyce was a Christian, rooted and grounded in the Word, and
had lived too many years in a sweet communion with her Saviour to
have been shaken even a little in her sweet faith. No, it had made
her angry, tremblingly, impotently angry. She felt as if she could
not stand it that words like those should have been preached in a
Christian pulpit under the name of an orthodox faith, and no one put
in a protest. She longed to be a man that she might do something about
it, a prophet that she might cry out; a wise leader that she might come
to the people and tell them how the curse of God would be upon them if
they listened to words like those--how their souls would be lost--!

She sat down on her wooden box in her small home, going over it all
with sorrowing heart. She did not even take off her hat, so absorbed
and excited she was. She went over the Bible verses that she knew that
proved the minister had been wrong, verses that she had learned when a
child, and her heart began to swell with triumph over the wonder and
the joy of the salvation that was hers.

“He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, _hath_
everlasting life, and _shall not_ come into condemnation; but is passed
from death unto life.”

“For by the works of the law shall no flesh be justified.”

“For by grace are ye saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves:
it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.”

“Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according
to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was
given us in Christ Jesus before the world began.”

How her heart thrilled with the words as she said them over, and how
she rejoiced that she had been taught in the Word. Sunday after Sunday
during her little girlhood it had been the regular afternoon employment
for her and Aunt Mary to learn a chapter in the Bible, or a group of
verses that Aunt Mary had selected during the week on some special
topic. Sometimes she had done the selecting herself and had taken such
joy in finding out a group of verses on a certain topic. Now they came
flocking from her fine memory like a troop of strong angels sent to
protect her.

“Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his
mercy he saved us, by the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the
Holy Ghost; which he shed on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our
Saviour.”

How she wished she had her Bible that she might spend the afternoon
hunting out other verses! What else was there about the blood? Ah!

“Without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sins!”

“For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for
the remission of sins.”

“God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us. Much more, then, being now justified by his blood,
we shall be saved from wrath through him.”

“For if the blood of bulls and of goats, and the ashes of an heifer
sprinkling the unclean, sanctifieth to the purity of the flesh; how
much more shall the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit
offered himself without spot to God, purge your conscience from dead
works to serve the living God.”

She could remember the very afternoon when she learned that, curled up
on the foot of Aunt Mary’s bed while she took a little nap, in the days
when Aunt Mary was just beginning to be frail and had to rest more than
usual. And how proud she had been to think she had found this wonderful
verse all by herself. And now she had an inexpressible longing to take
that Bible verse to the minister who had preached that strange dead
sermon that morning and show him. Perhaps he didn’t know. Perhaps he
never had heard. But of course he must. And he was one of those men
they called Modernists, who were taking the heart and life out of the
faith of today, who were helping to fulfill the prophecies about the
latter days, when men would prefer teachers with strange doctrines.

She was half frightened at the thought. It seemed to her that she must
turn and flee back into the safe harbor of Meadow Brook, where dear old
Doctor Ballantine preached about the cross of Christ every Sunday, and
everybody knew and believed the old doctrines. It seemed as if perhaps
she had run away into danger and horror, and the tempter might be
preparing a snare for her feet.

She did not feel safe until she had dropped upon her knees and asked
for guidance and strength to keep true to Christ, even though she might
have to pass through a portion of the world where there was no faith.

As she rose from her knees it occurred to her that Elijah, the prophet,
had once got into some such a panic, and thought he was the only loyal
prophet left, and the Lord had told him he had yet five thousand other
prophets who would not bow the knee to Baal. There were very likely
many Christians in this town, and by and by she would go out and find
them.

So she got up cheerfully and went about getting some dinner. She hadn’t
a great appetite, for she had worn herself out for several days past,
and when she had eaten she lay down on the heap of papers and fell
asleep. When she awoke she realized that that paper bed was getting
pretty hard, and she really must do something about it tomorrow; one
could not sleep on newspapers indefinitely. She shook the papers out,
and crumpled them anew, until they had some spring in them again, and
smoothed it nicely for when she should come back that night, and then,
with a couple of crackers and some cheese folded neatly in a bit of
wrapping-paper and tucked in her pocket, she started out.

Her first object was to find a church. She wasn’t quite sure how she
was going to tell whether it was the right kind of a church from the
outside or not, without listening to another sermon, but she prayed in
her heart as she went that somehow she might drop into a place where
she would find help and comfort to her soul, and might, if possible,
find it without having to listen to more words such as she had heard
that morning. It seemed to her that it was disloyal to her Lord even to
listen to such things.

The day was wonderful, and the spring air was sweet with the breath
of flowers. As she walked down the pleasant streets the blueness of
the sky and the greenness of the grass made a kind of ecstasy for her
spirit. The little lazy clouds floating, the flight of a bird across
the blue, the redness of the maple buds on the trees, all gave her joy.
There were tulips in some of the yards she passed, red and yellow, pink
and white; and hyacinths made delicate the air, and she thought what a
wonderful God to make so many beautiful, intricate flowers, each with a
different perfume. Little blue crocuses were sticking up their gallant
buds from lawns here and there, quaint processions of blue and white
and yellow. The town was in its Sunday best, and everything promising
a gorgeous summer. One could not help being glad on such a day even
though one were all alone.

A church steeple loomed ahead and Joyce quickened her step. It was a
plainer church than the one she had attended in the morning and she
thought as she approached, perhaps here she would find a company of
live Christians who were awake to what was being preached in the other
church and would have the good old gospel. Her eyes eagerly sought the
bulletin-board posted up just outside the door. The hours of service
were there, the usual hours, but everything else was completely covered
by a large card announcing the Brotherhood Minstrel Show to be held on
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings of that week, tickets fifty
cents a night.

Joyce turned away disappointed. The minstrel show might be all right.
They had entertainments at home sometimes, of course, for the young
people, but people who were really alive to the terrible things that
were being preached in another church of their own town would surely be
interested in something besides minstrel shows. Of course they might
be, and just not have put it on the outside of the church, but she
didn’t somehow feel that here was her place of worship.

She walked on for at least a mile, passing, as she did so, out of one
suburb into another. She was interested in the pretty little bungalows
she passed, and in the finer houses when she turned to another street,
but she was looking for churches. Presently she came to another, a
smart yellow brick affair out on the street with the doors open and a
brisk air of business around the place. Groups of young people were
wending their way toward it, and going in the door. A large blackboard
outside the entrance announced the various activities of the week.
Monday evening there was a rehearsal for the Christian Endeavor
pageant, and all costumes were to be brought, Tuesday evening Class A
was holding a bazaar and supper for the benefit of the new basketball
team. Wednesday evening there was to be a lecture by a professor from
a famous university entitled, “Why I Know That the World is Growing
Better.” Thursday there was a choir rehearsal, and a meeting of the
Ladies’ Aid to arrange to coöperate with the Red Cross for the annual
fair, Friday there was a church social, and Saturday there was a
picnic in one of the amusement parks with a moonlight ride home in
automobiles. Joyce read it carefully through, searching in vain for a
word that would show the faith of these people of great activities, but
found nothing, not even a prayer meeting. Probably that lecture was in
place of one. Well, it might be all right, but she had been taught that
the world wasn’t growing better, and never would till Christ came to
make things over. Lifting her eyes above the blackboard, she saw that
the church bulletin announced the minister’s topic for that night, “The
Political Situation Today.” She turned away with a sigh. Well, it might
be all right, but it promised nothing from the outside. She walked on,
turning down another street.

Two hours she walked, keeping the general direction of her home in mind
so that she would not get lost. She found several little churches, all
more or less attractive in a way, but none of them giving any clue to
what was preached inside, and at last, with a heavy heart and weary
feet, she turned her steps homeward, coming back by a different street.

It was when she was within four or five blocks of where she judged her
little house must be that she came upon another church built of rough
stone, rugged and substantial, but beautiful in its simple lines. The
door was open and a burst of song from young voices greeted her:

  “What can wash away my stain?
    Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
  What can make me whole again?
    Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

Joyce turned in at the door as a bird flies home to its nest.




CHAPTER XIX


The man called Teneyke had decided to give his confidence to Cottar.
He had reached the limit of his detective powers and needed aid. All
research in the way of telephone books and directories of the region
round about Meadow Brook had failed to bring forth any one whose name
fitted the letters of the paper which he treasured carefully, wrapped
in clean tissue paper and further enshrined in a dirty envelope, in his
inside pocket.

He sought Cottar early in the evening in his own home, a dull little
clapboard house with a side gate and a brick walk. The front door was
always locked and one entered by the kitchen door at the side into a
room lighted by a kerosene lamp on a little high shelf, and misty with
the smoke of Cottar’s pipe. Cottar’s old wife was deaf as a post, and
went pottering round with a little shoulder shawl across her neck and
took no notice of anybody. When Teneyke came in Cottar signed to her
and she lit a candle and went up a shallow stairway into the wall.
One could hear her shuffling tread overhead. The two men waited till
the boards overhead stopped creaking. Then Cottar lifted his bushy
eyebrows, and let his beady, wise little eyes peer out speculatively.

“Wal, Tyke?”

“All safe?”

“All safe.”

Tyke got out the paper and unwrapped it. Cottar put on his spectacles.
Together they silently studied the writing. “oyce Radw.” It seemed
to mean nothing to Cottar at first. But Tyke produced a page filched
from a public telephone book. There were three R’s that might have been
possible, Radwan, Radwanski, and Radwell. The shrewd Cottar decided
that the first two were too foreign. The handwriting looked plain and
well formed, not as he thought a foreigner would write. Radwell might
be the name. He could think of no other. The first name they decided
must be Boyce, although that was a boy’s name and not a girl’s, and
would, if correct, throw them off the track altogether. Perhaps it was
a middle name. So they speculated.

Cottar made a careful, painstaking copy of the writing and folded it
away in his grimy pocket for further use.

“Well, I don’t figger it out _yet_, but there’s ways. If she’s a Meadow
Brook dame we’ll find her out. Just keep yer mouth shet an’ yer eyes
open an’ most things comes out. Gimme time.”

Came a tap on the door, and Bill entered:

“Man, I had a hard time findin’ ye!” he said, casting a furtive glance
about with his restless, bloodshot eyes. “Hey there, Tyke, I thought
you got pinched!”

“What, me! Think again, Bill. Take a slicker guy’n that cop to lay
hands on me. I double crossed him, I did. Seen Taney?”

“Yep. Got him hid in the Hazels down on the Point. Gonta watch all
night. Taney’s all right fer that. He’s on the job. Nothin’ won’t get
by him. We figger this would be the night fer another lot to land
there if they had any sorta greement about it. There ain’t no other
spot this side o’ the lights, an’ he’s bound to connect along this
coast somewheres. He ain’t goin’ fur away, you needn’t think. He’s got
his good buyers all around this part. No sir, he thinks he’s got us
buffaloed all right with that there two hundred bucks, an’ now he’s
figgerin’ to work it alone, the young devil!”

“Been to the cem’try, Bill?”

“Yep. Went this a.m. fore dawn. Jest light ’nough t’see t’spade.
Opened her all up. Nothin’ there but a bed of broken glass. Slick job!
Cleaned the whole thing out. Must think we’re takin’ nourishment out
of a bottle yet, we can’t see through that. Say, boys, whaddaya say we
take a little trip through the ole buryin’ ground up by the state road?
He’s bound to get another location fer his business, an’ that’s good
an’ lonely. I found out he’s got a sister an’ she’s got some kids. Be
a good idee to buddy up to ’em, Tyke. You’re good at that business.
They live down to Meadow Brook on Orchard Street, third house from the
corner, opposite to the garage.”

Tyke narrowed his eyes and nodded.

The next day Tyke happened along Orchard Street as Lib Knox was
starting to school.

“Yer uncle at home?”

She eyed him shrewdly.

“Whaddaya wanta know for?” she demanded, cold-eyed.

“Just wantta see him on a message.”

“Well, he ain’t in,” she said loftily. “You better leave the message.”

She started down the street with her armful of books, and Dorothea,
approaching from the corner, joined her. Tyke followed them and lounged
along beside them.

“Say, kid,” he said, bringing out the greasy envelope, “donno but I
will. I c’n confide in you. I see you’re a pretty good sort o’ kid.
Looka here!”

But Lib Knox was not the easily flattered sort. She eyed him with
suspicion, and looked coldly at the bit of paper he held out to her.
When she caught sight of the writing her eyes narrowed and she gave him
a quick, veiled glance beneath their fringes. Dorothea, behind her, as
ever curious, stretched her neck to see the writing also.

“Know whose name that is?” The man asked the question with alluring
mystery in his tone, as if he knew the name himself and had some
wonderful information to impart concerning it. But Lib was a smart girl.

“Don’t look like any name at all to me,” she said contemptuously.
“Looks like just a piece of writing. Where’d you get it?”

“That I ain’t tellin’ till I find out what you know about it. If you
can tell me the name I’ll tell you something your uncle would like real
well to know. Most like he’ll give you a box of candy if you tell him.”

Lib tossed her head angrily.

“My uncle ain’t that kind and I can get candy when I want it. I tell
you that ain’t anybody’s name at all. It’s just scribbling. Come on,
Dorrie, we’ll be late to school.”

But Dorothea had got a good vision of the writing at last.

“Why, that’s my cousin’s name!” she exclaimed eagerly, wondering if she
could possibly get that box of candy. “Joyce Ra--”

But a firm little hand was laid smotheringly over her mouth.

“Shut up!” said Lib Knox fiercely. “Don’t you know you mustn’t talk to
strange men on the street? Come on, I hear the last bell ringing--” and
she seized her young slave and dragged her at full tilt down the street.

Tyke stood still on the pavement, his red hair reflecting the morning
sun, and his unholy face broad with a leer of triumph. Let them go. He
had his clue, Joyce! Strange he hadn’t thought of that name before.
Even when he used the whole alphabet, somehow he didn’t figure out that
name. The rest would be easy to get. He sauntered down after the flying
children and noted the location of the school house. School would be
out at noon of course--or would afternoon be better? Ah, there was a
tall hedge across the way, an excellent point of vantage to watch as
the children filed out at the end of the day.

And so it happened, quite late in the afternoon after Lib Knox and
Dorothea had written their misspelled words five hundred times and
stayed in an extra half-hour for talking deaf and dumb language in
class, and when they had visited the public garage for an hour and
played with the five blind puppies that had recently arrived there, and
had said a lingering and fond farewell for the afternoon and parted,
that Dorothea started on her reluctant way home to supper.

As she turned the corner out of sight of Lib Knox, Tyke stepped up as
if he had just been walking down that way.

“Hello, kid,” he said in his insinuating way. “I jest been lookin’ fer
you. Bought that box of candy awhile ago an’ thought I’d like to give
it to you. You like chocolates, don’t you, kid?”

Dorothea quickly assured him that she did, her eyes round with
eagerness.

He produced a pound box tied with a red ribbon.

“Well, you’re a nice kid,” he went on. “I knowed it the minute I saw
you. So that girl was your cousin, was she? Joyce, wha did ya say her
name was? I ferget without the writin’ in front of me.”

“Joyce Radway,” eagerly supplied Dorothea, her eyes on the candy box.

“Yes, that’s it, Joyce Radway. Of course. How did I come to ferget
that? Well, now this Joyce Radway, she’s a great friend of that other
girl’s uncle, ain’t she?”

“Why, I guess so,” said Dorothea. “He came to the house to see her the
other night.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Yes, of course he would. Then your cousin is home,
ain’t she?” insinuatingly.

“No, she ain’t home, not now,” said Dorothea, annoyed, wondering when
he was going to give her the box. “She’s gone away.”

“Oh! She has?” his eyes narrowed as he watched her. “Did she go away
with him?”

“Oh, no,” said Dorothea garrulously. “She just went away by herself.
She was mad. Daddy scolded her, and she just went.”

“Yes?” said the young man ingratiatingly, fumbling with the red ribbon
as if he were about to untie it. “Suppose you tell me all about it, and
then I’ll give you the candy. You say your daddy scolded her? What for?
Didn’t he like the boys coming to see her?”

“Oh, no,” said Dorothea quite earnestly, trying to think how to answer
so she would get the candy quickly. “She never had any boys. It was
just the ’lectric light. Daddy said she burned it too much, and he
didn’t like her taking ’zaminations and all. Where’dya get the candy? I
saw a box like that down to the drug store.”

“Yes, that’s where I got it. It’s good candy. I suppose you’ll give
your cousin some when you get home.”

“Oh, she hasn’t come home. I couldn’t--” said the little girl with
virtuous satisfaction.

“Hasn’t got home? Why, where is she?” plied her questioner.

“Why, we don’t know. Daddy’s most crazy. Say, if you know where she is
you better tell me, fer there’s something ’bout her having to be home
for Judge Peterson to read the will and give us our house. Do you know
where cousin Joyce is?”

“Why, I might be able to find out, kiddie,” said the oily voice. “Where
do you live? You tell me where you live and I’ll let you know if I find
she’s in the place I think she is.”

“Why, I live right up there in that white house with green blinds,”
said Dorothea eagerly. “I wish you’d let me know tonight. I’ll come
out to the gate and wait for you if you will. Daddy would be awful
pleased with me if I told him where Joyce was. I think he’d get me a
new bicycle if I did.”

“Well, we’ll see what can be done,” said Tyke wickedly. “Here’s yer
candy, kid, and p’raps ye’ll hear from me soon.”

Tyke handed over the candy and Dorothea flew home, pausing behind the
lilac bush to extract one luscious mouthful from the box, then rushing
up to her room to secrete the rest where Junior would not find it,
under the mattress of her bed.

Tyke went on his evil way rejoicing. Shrewd little Lib Knox saw him as
he passed her house and scuttled behind the hedge, sticking out her
tongue behind his back as he passed, and thought she had frustrated
his intentions, while five blocks away Dorothea was gorging herself on
Dutch creams and wondering why Lib didn’t like that nice young man.




CHAPTER XX


Six weeks later found Joyce well established in her comfortable little
home, and spending her mornings teaching in a summer Bible School
connected with the church which she found that first Sunday evening of
her stay in Silverdale.

It all came about in this way:

Christian Endeavor was in session when she entered the church and an
enthusiastic set of young people were conducting it. The pastor sat
in front near the leader in pleasant accord with all that went on. He
seemed to be an intimate friend of every boy and girl present. Joyce
looked on wistfully. This was like home. Doctor Ballantine had been
like that with all the young people of the town.

At the close of the meeting he made several announcements. One which
interested Joyce was that there was need of another teacher in the
Bible School to take the place of Miss Brown, who had recently lost her
health and been obliged to go away for a year. He told them to remember
that it meant giving every morning for five days in the week for six
weeks to actual teaching and some time to preparing for teaching;
that there was a remuneration of ten dollars a week for the work; but
that no one need apply who was not a Christian, or did not intend to
be present at every session, or who had not had some experience and
preparation for teaching.

The pastor, by some magic, was at the door as soon as the meeting
was over, and took her hand cordially in welcome. She looked into his
grave, pleasant face and impulsively spoke the wish that had been in
her heart since she had heard the announcement.

“I’m so interested in your Bible School! I wish I could teach in it,
but I don’t suppose you’d care to try a stranger, would you?”

The minute she had spoken the color flooded her face, for she felt as
if she had been presumptuous, but the minister’s eyes lighted and he
smiled in a kindly way.

“Are you a Christian?” he asked, his pleasant eyes searching her face.

“Oh, yes,” said Joyce, with a proud ring to her voice as if he had
asked her if she were the daughter of some great man.

“Have you ever taught in public school?”

“No,” said Joyce wistfully, “but I’ve been preparing to teach for
several years. I love it. I’m hoping to get a position near here
this fall. But I haven’t any credentials yet. I would have to take
examinations--”

“Come and see me tomorrow at my house. Any time. It’s right next door
to the church. If I don’t happen to be there Mrs. Lyman will talk with
you. It’s all the same. Can you come at nine o’clock? Well, I’ll be
there then. Glad to have you come. Perhaps the Lord has sent you in
answer to our prayer.”

So Joyce went to see the Lymans and as a result was engaged to teach
in the Bible School, which would begin as soon as the public schools
closed, and be in session for six weeks. She would have to be at the
church at half past eight and stay until half past eleven. The pay
wasn’t great, but it took only half her day and she loved the work.
She might be able to get something else afternoons occasionally to help
out. In the meantime she could live on that ten dollars if she had to,
and she meant to. As for the interval before the Bible School opened,
there would be something to do, she was sure. And, anyhow, the barrel
of meal hadn’t wasted yet, and she felt sure the Lord would take care
of her. Besides, she needed some time to fix up her little home and
make it liveable. One couldn’t just exist if one was working, one had
to have things tolerably comfortable for resting and eating or one
couldn’t do good work.

So she went back to her little house and sat down to think. The
conclusion of her meditation was that she decided to buy a saw.

Consulting Mrs. Bryant that Monday morning, she finally decided on a
trip to the city, and armed with minute directions about stores and
prices, she took the noon train.

Her first purchase was a Bible.

She had asked about a book-store where things would not be expensive
and Mrs. Bryant had named a second-hand place where things were very
nice and very cheap, she said. Joyce found a Scofield Bible, new and
clean, and scarcely used at all, it seemed. It had an inscription on
the fly-leaf, “To Mary, from Mother, December 25, 1922.”

Joyce felt a pitiful joy in buying that particular Bible. It seemed so
sorrowful that a Bible from a mother to her child should be lying out
in the open on a book-stall like that, and only two years after it was
given. What if it had been hers from her mother? What if it had been
Aunt Mary’s Bible! She fell to wondering about that other Mary. Was she
dead, or didn’t she care about the book? Were they both dead, mother
and child, in those two brief years? How did a precious, intimate thing
like a Bible get to be sold in a second-hand store? It seemed almost
indecent. Surely some relative or even a trustee who had to sell things
at auction would have had the decency to give a Bible to some friend
who would care for it, or to some mission that would use it for the
glory of God. So she bought the Bible and carried it tenderly with a
thought for its unknown owner and donor.

Joyce had a great many bundles when she had finished her purchases.
She looked at them in amazement when she finally settled herself in
the train once more for her return trip to Silverdale. She really had
spent very little money for all those big packages. She began to count
up. The Bible had cost fifty cents, and she knew it was very cheap. The
saw was a dollar and a half, but it was the best of steel. There was a
big bundle of gray denim for upholstery. She had got it at a reduced
rate by taking all that was left of the piece. Two or three yards of
flowered cretonne to cover her box dressing table. Perhaps she could
have waited for that, but it wasn’t good policy for her to seem too
poverty-stricken if she expected to get a position in school, and what
she bought must be the right thing so that she would not have to renew
it right away. She must make her little house look cosy if the minister
and his wife dropped in to call, or any of those nice young people at
the church should run in.

That big, bulky package with the handle contained a lot of wire
springs, some upholstery webbing, and twine, a long, double-pointed
upholstery needle, and several pounds of curled hair and cheap cotton.
This constituted Joyce’s venture. With it she meant to make a bed and
perhaps two chairs. Maybe it was foolish, and she ought to have bought
a cot for five dollars and let it go at that, but she would have had
to buy a mattress or something to put over it, and when it was done
it would not be so comfortable as one that she could make. For Joyce
had often watched an old neighbor of theirs in Meadow Brook who was an
upholsterer. She knew all the little tricks. She knew how the webbing
should be nailed on taut, how the springs must be sewed to the webbing,
and then tied down level, and the padding of cotton and hair put on the
top of that. She was sure she could do it, though she had never tried
it. Joyce was not beyond trying anything if necessity drove her to it.
She had once made a lovely feather fan out of chicken feathers and an
old ivory frame. She felt she could make a bedstead if she tried hard
enough. There was yet the frame to be dealt with, but she had her saw,
and anyhow, the springs and webbing and hair had cost but very little,
and it would surely be much more comfortable than a hard cot, besides
looking a great deal better in her room, and costing no more than, nor
as much as, a cot.

She had bought a few necessities for her wardrobe also, a couple of
remnants to make more thin dresses, a pair of fifty-cent slippers from
the bargain counter to save her shoes while she was working. In fact,
most of her purchases were from the bargain counters, a hair-brush and
comb, a change of undergarments and night wear, two pairs of stockings,
and some towels. What a lot of things one needed to live! And when she
counted up there was just twenty-four dollars and eighty-seven cents
left of her small capital. It made her gasp as she thought of the weeks
ahead before her engagement in the Bible School would commence, and how
was she to live? She must be very, very economical. But yet she need
not be afraid. The barrel of meal had not wasted so far. God would take
care of her, and her heart began to sing as she remembered how He had
brought her safely so far out of her difficulties.

Then when she got home she was hailed by Mrs. Bryant. Mrs. Ritter, down
the street, wanted to know if Joyce would be willing to come in and sit
with her sister for the evening. She had made an engagement to go to
the city with her husband, and now her sister was sick and she didn’t
like to leave her alone in the house. There was really nothing to do
but give her her medicine every hour and answer the telephone and the
door bell. Mrs. Ritter would be glad to pay her for her time, fifty
cents an hour was what she thought would be fair. She wouldn’t be home
till the midnight train, but Mr. Ritter would walk down with her after
they got back, so she needn’t be afraid to come home.

Joyce thanked Mrs. Bryant for speaking of her. She said of course she
would go, and went about her little house with shining eyes, singing.
The barrel of meal was filling up again. How wonderful! There would
be three more dollars! She had taken a good dinner in the city at an
automat restaurant which Mrs. Bryant had recommended, and she did not
feel the need of an elaborate meal that night. So she drank some milk
and finished her crackers and cheese, rolled up one of the remnants
with her scissors and thimble and thread, and started out to Mrs.
Ritter’s. If all went well she might be able to get another dress
started during the evening.

The next day she invested in some boards and went to work sawing. It
was rather rough work, and she got splinters in her hands and sawed
some of the joints a bit crookedly, but she finally put some very
creditable corners together, sawing off parts of each and dovetailing
them into one another as she had seen carpenters do, until she had a
good, strong framework a little over six feet long and thirty inches
wide, which was the size of the space in which she could put her bed
without running across the windows.

When she had satisfied herself that the framework was strong she began
nailing webbing across the bottom, interlacing it rather closely, as
she had seen old Mr. Carpenter do. When it was finished she lifted the
structure upon two boxes and sewed the springs into place at regular
distances.

It took two days to get those springs tied down satisfactorily on a
perfect level, and Joyce had several pricked fingers before she was
done, and was almost wishing she had bought a hard little army cot and
learned to enjoy it. But the third morning she covered the springs with
a layer of cheap cloth, then the cotton, and lastly the hair, covering
the whole with ticking. Then, with her big needle, she tied this down
at every three or four inches, until she had a soft, firm mattress,
fine enough for a princess. The work really, though crude in some ways,
was a great success, and one to be proud of, and when it was done she
put it on the floor and threw herself down upon it with a great sigh of
relief. Now, at last, she had a spot where the tired would be taken out
of her when she had worked to the limit of her strength, something to
look forward to when she came to her lonely little house at night after
a hard day.

By this time Mrs. Bryant had managed to do a good deal of talking in
the neighborhood about the bright young teacher who had come there to
live and was having a little spare time this summer to help people out
in an emergency, and several calls had come for her.

Once she had had to drop her hammer and saw and go to help Mrs. Smith
to finish canning cherries, and succeeded in being so satisfactory that
she was engaged to help with the strawberry preserves, gooseberry jam,
and currant jelly.

Mrs. Jennings, on the next block, heard of her and engaged an afternoon
a week at fifty cents an hour to take care of her children while she
went out to the club meeting, and sometimes an extra evening. During
these evenings she got quite a lot of sewing done, gradually acquiring
a complete little wardrobe of plain, simple clothing made all by hand,
but quite serviceable and pretty.

She met the gray-haired librarian of the Silverdale Memorial Library,
and was asked to come in and help with the new cataloging. This took
several afternoons and evenings, and meanwhile the furnishings of her
little home grew slowly.

Once she was called in for three days to take care of some children
while their mother went to the hospital for an operation on her throat;
and several times after that she went to help nurse some one in a
slight illness, where training was not required. She began to be known
as the “Emergency Girl,” and thought about putting out a sign and
getting a telephone.

Meantime, she had met a kindly old man who was on the School Board,
and had arranged to take examinations and put in her application for a
position should any be vacant for the next winter. This necessitated
the purchase of some books, and another trip to the second-hand
book-store.

She had been living most economically, getting one meal a day usually,
at a little restaurant among the stores where the tradespeople ate,
and good wholesome food could be had at most reasonable rates. This
gave her always something hot once a day. For the rest, she was living
on ready-to-eat cereals, fruit, bread and butter, and milk, or if it
rained too hard to go out she would cook an egg on her little alcohol
can and eat her dinner at home. It really cost very little to live when
one was careful. As for heat and light, she did not need either at this
time of year. A candle did for emergencies. The twilight was long, and
the electric light in the street was quite enough to go to bed by.
Often she was out at somebody’s house for the evening, caring for a
child or an old person while the family amused themselves in the city,
and there was always plenty of time then to read or study or sew.

So her life had settled into a pleasant little groove with interesting
prospects ahead, and still the “barrel of meal,” as she called her worn
little pocketbook, always contained enough to live upon and get the
real necessities, and sometimes a fragment or two of luxury. Winter was
coming sometime, of course, with need for heat and light, and she must
prepare for it too, but it wasn’t here yet. Still, she did not feel
that she had arrived at the point where she cared to let the Meadow
Brook people know where she was. Some of them might take it into their
heads to hunt her up on a motor trip, and she wasn’t just prepared
yet to show off her little house. Besides, she wanted to be anchored
firmly with a regular school job before she told any one where she
was. Well, she knew there were people in Meadow Brook who would gladly
have offered her a home just for Aunt Mary’s sake, and she was a proud
little girl and didn’t want to have anybody feel they must offer her
help. Besides, it wasn’t exactly loyal to the family to explain her
position at present, and she was one who would be loyal to her family
even if her family were not loyal to her.

So she went her various helpful ways, and eked out her small
necessities, with always something in the little brown pocketbook. Day
by day the little house grew more homelike and cosy.

The home-made bed was a wonderful success. Mounted on four solid little
square boxes six inches high, and nailed firmly to them, with a valance
and cover of gray denim, and cotton pillows covered with the same, it
seemed a luxurious couch. At night when the cover was removed it made
a wonderful bed. When Joyce finally attained a fluffy pink comfortable
made of cotton batting and a remnant of pink cheese cloth tied with
pink yarn, she felt that she slept in luxury. Sheets and pillow-cases
were not expensive when one bought remnants of coarse cloth and hemmed
them; and washing was not hard to do with the outside faucet and
drain so near. It might not be so easy in winter, but it was all right
in summer. And presently Mrs. Bryant made it still easier for her by
suggesting that she use the tubs and hot water in the laundry in return
for helping her out by getting supper once in a while when she had
company.

Gradually the little house in the side yard took on an atmosphere
of home. The two barrels, sawed in the middle half around, fitted
with four springs in the seats, and upholstered in gray denim with
padded backs and valanced standards, became two easy chairs, really
comfortable to sit in. Joyce was proud of them. She invited Mrs. Bryant
to take a seat in one when it was finished, and that good lady was
almost disposed to doubt the girl’s word when she told her it was made
out of a barrel.

“My grandmother made one,” explained Joyce, “and we always kept it
carefully. I often wanted to make one when I saw a nice clean barrel,
and now I’ve done it.”

“Well, I think you’re a wonder,” said Mrs. Bryant, after she had lifted
the valance and felt the sturdy barrel staves for herself. “Just a
wonder! You get so much more out of life than those flapper girls do!
I wonder they like to be such fools. I can’t see what the boys see in
them. My Jimmie don’t like ’em. He says, ‘Mother, you don’t know what
the girls are like nowadays,’ and I believe him. I’m sure I hope he
stays sensible and finds a girl some day that will be the right kind. I
was most afraid there weren’t any left, but now I’ve seen you I’m real
encouraged.”

The said Jimmie appeared at home one week-end from technical school,
where he was learning to be an electrical engineer, and kindly offered
to wire her little house for her, probably at his mother’s suggestion.
So, at last, she had light and a place to cook, and she saved enough
from getting her own dinners to buy a tiny electric grill, which gave
her great comfort.

One corner which she called her diningroom blossomed out with shelves,
on which little blue and white cups and plates, bought at the ten-cent
store, made quite a display.

She found a table and two wooden kitchen chairs at a second-hand store
one day and bought the lot for two dollars, painted them gray, and she
had a diningroom set. The box dressing table had long ago been decked
out in pink-flowered cretonne and made a commodious harbor for her
meagre wardrobe. By and by she would find a chest of drawers and paint
that gray also and then she would be fixed.

The only thing that really troubled her when she stopped to think
was how she was going to keep the place warm when winter came. And
presently that problem, too, was solved, for Jimmie, hearing of the
difficulty on one of his week-ends at home, suggested that he would
build her a chimney out of the big pile of stones on the back of his
father’s lot, with a fireplace of stone in the room. If that didn’t
give her heat enough in the middle of winter she could get a little
coal stove and set it up in one corner with a pipe into the chimney.
Thereafter every Saturday when he came home he worked for several
hours on the chimney, in return for which Joyce helped him with his
mathematics for the next week, so that she did not feel he was making
her chimney for nothing.

By the time the Vacation Bible School opened Joyce felt quite at home
in the church of her choice, and was growing shyly intimate with Mrs.
Lyman, the minister’s wife. They had given her the primary department,
and when she arrived at the church on the opening morning of the Bible
School, she found that there were forty-nine little midgets, not one
of them over five years old, all ready and eager to study the Bible.
Joyce, with reverent heart, set about her glorious task, praying that
she might be allowed to lay the foundation of belief in Christ and the
Holy Scriptures even while they were so young. She entered into her
work with eagerness and was inclined to spend even more time than she
was required in preparing for each day’s work, it was all such a joy to
her.

But, sometimes, when she lay on the soft couch alone in her little
toy house at night, and the streets were still save for the night
watchman’s whistle now and again in the distance, and the electric
light flickered softly over her white wall, and played tricks of design
on her curtains and draperies, she thought of the days at home with
Aunt Mary, and how different it all would be if her precious aunt could
have been with her here. How she longed to tell her everything that had
happened, and talk over each day’s doings just as she used to do. The
loneliness was inexpressible, and the tears would come. Then her heart
would go back to the dear home where she had spent so many years, and
familiar faces would come back, and little happenings, till she felt
as if she could not bear it, being away like this. And then she would
remember Nan and Gene and how hard the days had been before she left,
and knew that she had done the wisest thing in going, and that God had
set his seal upon her choice by prospering her in her way.

But always, when she had one of these times of retrospect, she did not
fail to remember the boy who had spent that happy day with her and Aunt
Mary in the woods so long ago, and to feel again the pain of that night
when she found him and knew that somehow he had been doing something
unworthy. Then she would pray with all her heart, as indeed she prayed
every night, for him, that he might be converted and get to know Jesus
Christ. Indeed, this was the great prayer of her life, the one big
desire that her heart had set above all other desires. And as the days
went by and she prayed for it, she grew gradually to feel that somehow
it would be accomplished. She might never see, might never even know on
this earth that it had been done, but she had faith to believe it would
be done because the Bible said:

“If ye ask anything in my name, I will do it,” and because He also
said, “It is not his will that _any_ should perish; but that _all_
should come to repentance.”

And so she came to feel that some day her friend would find the way,
and that perhaps, sometime in a heavenlier sphere, she would see him
again with the smile of a reconciled God reflected in his face. And her
heart was comforted.




CHAPTER XXI


Darcy Sherwood had dropped out of Meadow Brook life as completely,
apparently, as if he had died.

His old friends and associates did not realize it at first, thought he
was gone on one of his short trips, or had taken on a new operation
of some sort. Nobody ever seemed to know just what Darcy’s business
was, only that nobody ever spoke of him as one who had no business.
He was one who kept his mouth shut about his own affairs, and much as
his friends would have liked to ask him questions, they seldom did. If
they did they were surprised to find that, although he answered them
pleasantly, they had gained very little real knowledge of what they had
started out to investigate.

People talked about him, as people always will talk about those they do
not understand, and they said a great many things about him that were
not true, while things that they did not say or think about him, things
that were, some of them, worse than those they did think, were very
often true.

Darcy had a strange code of honor and of life.

He was the product of a naturally loving disposition left to come up
without much training, left to experiment with life for himself, and to
search out his own view of the universe and his own doctrines of right
and wrong. There were certain things he would not do though heaven and
hell were against him, because he had decided in his heart that they
were not right--not “square,” he called it. One was that he never
would harm a woman or a child in any way, directly or indirectly, if
he knew it; and another was that he must always help the downtrodden,
sometimes without regard to whether their cause was right or wrong,
according to law and public opinion.

With all this he had the unusual combination of being both extremely
clever as a business man, and entirely unselfish in his personal life.
Strong beyond most, he could walk among pitch when he liked without
being soiled, yet he often chose to play with that pitch and minded not
if others saw it on his hands, or misunderstood his actions. Beautiful
as the devil must have been before he fell, with dark eyes, bronze-gold
hair, inclined to curl, and a smile of more than ordinary beauty,
yet sad, too, with the sadness of the lost sometimes. Nobody quite
knew what it was about Darcy Sherwood that made them like him so, or
just what they so utterly disapproved of. And he went his way without
seeming to care which they did. Only little children and old women saw
the real Darcy, and won his rare confidence.

Darcy had a brother-in-law after his own heart, who knew how to keep
his mouth shut--not as clever as Darcy, not always so good, but much
richer in respectability, and most kind to Darcy’s sister, a good dull
girl who loved Darcy devotedly, but who never understood him. Sharp
little Lib was a product of this home and her uncle’s training. Where
she got her sharpness was always a problem to Darcy. Certainly not
from her simple-minded mother, nor yet from her somewhat commonplace
father. Yet Darcy was fond of them both, and respected their ability to
keep their mouths shut. It was something that Darcy had always taught
everybody, sooner or later, with whom he came in contact.

And now Darcy was gone.

“I’ll be away for awhile, I don’t know how long. Business trip. All you
know about it, Mase, see?”

Mason Knox nodded.

“I getcha!” he said, and went on cleaning the carburetor of his car.

After awhile his brother-in-law raised his head and gave Darcy a keen
glance.

“Anything gone wrong, Darcy?”

“No, Mase, nothing wrong. New line, that’s all. Been working on the
wrong dope, I guess. Going to try a new line. But first I’ve got
something to do. May take a long time. May be only a few days. Don’t
let Ellen worry. I’ll write if there’s any need.”

He went the next day. Mason Knox and Dan Peterson were the only two in
Meadow Brook who knew anything about his going, and that was all they
knew. When people began to make inquiries Mason Knox answered with: “I
couldn’t say. He might and he might not be back soon. That depends.”

When Dan Peterson heard that Darcy had disappeared from his usual
haunts, heard first through his own son, who was a devotee of the
baseball field on afternoons, he looked thoughtful, and wise, and went
and told his father.

And Darcy had a strange method of going. He did not take the train, nor
buy a ticket. He waited until night--no one quite remembered when they
saw Darcy Sherwood last, when it came right down to the question some
months afterward. Even the sharp-eyed Tyke, who was vigilant night and
day as soon as his eyes were open to the necessity, had somehow missed
his movements.

Darcy went at night, alone, without baggage or any impedimenta
whatever; first to the graveyard, where he took from a tangle of grass
and weeds under the hedge on the outer edge of the next field a pick
and shovel that came strangely to hand, and went silently and deftly to
a spot that he seemed to know well.

Here he worked for half an hour or more, lifting sod and soil from the
place and setting them aside, as if he had done it before, pausing now
and again to listen to a stir in the hedge or to mark the scuttling of
a wild rabbit. Then, after a longer pause than usual, there came the
sound of soft clinking, crashing; the gurgle of liquid coming through
a small aperture, yet muffled, as if it were flowing underground. For
a long time this went on, while Darcy stood watching the darkness,
listening to the distance, identifying each falling leaf and stir in
the shadows among the weird shafts of marble, and sighing cedars of the
cemetery.

After a time he put back the soil and the sods into place, laid the
pick and the shovel in the bed of a little creek just over in the next
field, where the water tinkled over it harmlessly and obliterated
all finger-marks from its handle; and then stole away down the road,
leaving behind, in the place of the dead, a strange, penetrating,
unmistakable odor, which by morning would be purged away and escape
into the elements.

Down in the road he paused, where he had encountered Joyce, and for a
moment let his soul feel all that he had felt then--the delicacy of her
hallowed touch, the thrill of her presence so near him, followed by
the scorching shame that she should find him here, and by her question,
with its piercing meaning, its wise conclusion, its sorrowing rebuke.
The deep, wonderful look in her eyes as the flashlight revealed his
identity to her, of recognition and of hurt surprise--he felt it all
again! The tone of that voice that from his childhood he had treasured
like the beautiful song of a bird in the holiest place in his heart. It
was almost as if he suddenly felt that for a moment God was looking at
him through her eyes, and he too saw himself as God saw him, and did
not like it.

There was more to it. There was a kind of recoiling in horror from
himself as he suddenly saw that in what he had been doing he had been
untrue to himself and to his code. He had respected himself for the way
he had kept to his self-made laws, and now his self-respect was broken.
He could not go on and any more take satisfaction in what he had been
doing.

He stood there in the darkness with bowed head and went over it all
again, as he had gone over it a thousand times since that night when
he had seen her go from him into the dark, and the thought of her had
driven him forth on this quest. Then, still, with bowed head he went on
down the road.

A strange thing happened to him. He seemed to think as she must have
been thinking, to know at each turn of the road what she would have
done, which way she would have turned.

He knew that she had slept in the hammock, for he had sent his
colleagues away, and taking another way about to overtake her, had
seen her enter the gate, and watched her through the night until she
stole away in the gray of the morning. So far he knew her way and could
follow the trail.

But when he reached the streets of the little town beyond and must
choose between houses and turning corners it was not so plain. Yet he
had resolved to leave no clue unfollowed, no spot where she might have
turned unsearched.

He had a plan to make his search complete. He would make a map of each
day’s wanderings, note each house and corner and way of egress, choose
the most likely and search it to the end, then come back and choose
the next. It seemed, perhaps, the work of a lifetime, yet he did not
feel that he would be long in finding her. There was something in his
soul that told him he would find her. He had to find her and tell her
what he had been doing, and that he never would do it again. He had
to absolve his soul from that before her eyes. He could not lift up
his head and respect himself again unless he did. She had stood like a
young saint within the shrine of his heart, and now he felt cast away
from the presence of all that he held really holy in the world.

So he went step by step over the way that Joyce had gone, his clever
judgment quickly deciding which corner she would have chosen, where she
would have paused, and how gone on again. And Joyce would have been
surprised to know how far he traced her very steps.

It was not until he reached the city that his way became bewildering.
He had dropped into a number of homes on his way where people lived
who often visited in Meadow Brook, and casually, as if he had had an
accident on the road and needed to borrow water or a tool for his
car, which he had left out of sight down the road, he would put one or
two keen questions that would make him sure she had not passed that
way while these people were about. And so his little note book became
filled with tiny tracings of maps, with streets and corners noted, and
each turning that he had not followed marked for returning some day in
case his quest was not successful.

He thought much as he took his way on foot through the world, and
began to feel himself a pilgrim on a holy quest, not a knight, for
his self-confidence had been too badly shaken for that. He had not
so much the feeling that she needed him and he could help her to her
inheritance if he found her, as he had the need of her in his soul.
It seemed sometimes that he could not live until he had unburdened
his soul by confession to her and had told her he would sin that way
no more. He wanted her restored confidence, her clear-eyed smile, the
feeling that she was his friend, though ever so far away, that there
was something sweet and true between them. He had never thought of her
as his in any way except as a guiding star, but now that he had lost
that star, his life seemed all awry, as if he could not go on without
her, as if all was darkness and horror, that she should think of him as
one so unworthy.

As he thought out his pilgrimage before him it occurred to him that the
churches should be his goal. He knew that she always went to service,
to prayer meetings, and Sunday School, and morning and evening church
gatherings. There was his key to the situation. If she were still in
the land of the living, if nothing evil had befallen her, she would be
at some place of worship at the time appointed. And so, when a bell
from some steeple rang a call to worship, he would pause, and wait, and
watch the worshippers till all were in, or if he passed an open church
door he would enter, sit down and gaze about until he had searched
every face, and was sure she was not there. Then he would quietly get
up and leave. Seldom did he hear the service that went on about him,
seldom pretended to listen. He was there but for one purpose, and he
had no time to waste. Words indeed passed through his consciousness as
they were spoken, in story or song, but they left no impression there.
He was not a scoffer at religious things. They had simply never touched
him. He stood on the outside of them. Except for that one afternoon in
his life when he had sat in the dim aisles of the grove and listened
to Mary Massey reading the story of the blind man, he had never really
taken heed to the Bible. Oh, he had heard it read in school, of course,
and now and then in a service that some strange fancy carried him to as
a boy, never in Sunday School, for he had not been sent there, and it
was not a place he would have chosen to go because it meant confinement
in the house when one might be out-of-doors. He had always been a
law unto himself and he was rather proud of the fact. Now a great
depression was upon him because he felt he had not kept his own law. It
was Joyce’s clear eyes, her keen question, that made him see that in
breaking the law of his land, he had broken also the law of that inner,
finer self. It was in his thoughts of her that he came to see that
there was always something behind a law, it was never just a law.

What was that in Mary Massey’s prayer so long ago?

“Help us for Christ’s sake to have our eyes open to sin, so that we
shall always know when we are not pleasing Thee.”

It had been long years since he had heard that first and only real
prayer of his lifetime, for other prayers that he had happened to hear
had meant nothing to him, but the words of this were as clear to him
as if it had been heard only yesterday. He pondered on the words as
he walked down the highways on his search. “To have one’s eyes open
to sin, so that one should always know--” That had been his trouble.
Strange! He had prided himself on never making mistakes, on keeping
his code in mind, and yet what he had been doing had not seemed to be
hurting any one, and it was not until that clear-eyed girl had been a
witness of his deeds in the darkness that he had felt the conviction.
There had been something like that in the story her aunt had read. He
wished he had a Bible that he might find it and read it again.

The desire grew upon him as the days went by, till the next time he
reached a city he searched out a book-store.

It was a little dusty book-shop in a back street, with a kindly old
gentleman in spectacles in charge, and when Darcy asked for a Bible he
looked at him over his spectacles with a smile and asked what type of
Bible he would like. Darcy didn’t know. Did they have different types?
He had supposed a Bible was a Bible.

“Aren’t they all alike?” he said with a troubled frown. “I want one
that has a story of a man that was born blind and was healed. Would
that be in them all?”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” said the man happily, trotting away and returning
with an armful of Bibles. “I’ll find it for you. There’s a concordance
in the back of this one. This is a very good Bible--Scofield Bible,
you know. Has notes and explanations. Good binding too, though it is a
little expensive. Let’s see, let’s see, blind man, blind man--_born_
blind--yes, here it is, one of the Gospels. I thought so. John nine,
sir--” and he handed over the open page to Darcy.

Standing in the little dusty book-shop, with the daylight fading and
the street lights beginning to blink out here and there, the young man
read the old story over again until he came to the last words of the
chapter: “If ye were blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say, We
see; therefore your sin remaineth.”

Like a spear it thrust conviction to his soul. Yes, he had not been
blind. He had been proud of his ability to see, to be a law unto
himself--and he had sinned against all that was best in himself.

He bought the book and went out into the dusk, pondering. He went to
a hotel and read the story over again and turned the pages aimlessly
to find more about it, but in his soul there grew that knowledge of
himself that brought a sense of sin. So far it was only sin in the eyes
of the girl who stood to him for all that was pure and holy in the
world, but it was sin, and the weight of the knowledge of it lay like
a burden upon him. His smile grew grave whenever it appeared, and his
eyes took on their sad wistfulness. People looked after him sometimes
and thought how strangely sad he looked for a young man as fine and
strong as he seemed to be.

The next time he entered a church in his search the preacher was
reading the Bible, and the words he read caught Darcy’s attention.

They seemed to be stranger and sweeter than any words he had ever
heard. It reminded him of the place where Jesus heard that the blind
man had been cast out and He came to find him. The words were these:

“Behold, what manner of love the father hath bestowed upon us, that we
should be called the sons of God: therefore, the world knoweth us not
because it knew him not. Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it
doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that, when he shall
appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is. And every
man that hath this hope in him purifieth himself, even as he is pure.”

So far he had been listening with deep interest. It seemed like what
would have been written for Mary Massey and her niece. They were pure.
They lived their lives according to what would please God. That was the
dominating principle of their existence. He listened wistfully. They
were so far removed from his world. He had never counted himself in
with them, never expected to be nearer to them, except that one bright
day in his childhood; but they had always lingered like luminaries
in his sky, and always he had felt that if he had been born into a
different walk in life, among Christian people like them, he would have
belonged to them, have chosen them for his life-long companions if they
had been willing. He had known even as a child that he did not belong
with them--known that he could not fit, and kept away. Yet he had never
been able to feel satisfied with other people; always there had been
a silent aloofness in his manner, except with little children, among
whom there was no such thing as class.

He had named this thing that separated them “class” in his thoughts.
Now he began to see that it was something else. It was sin. It was
right and wrong that had separated them all these years. They were not
people who stopped at class. There were no social classes in their
eyes, else they would not have companioned with him that glorious day
so intimately. He had come to know, years back, that education had
something to do with separations, and he had taken pains to study and
read, and make himself acquainted with the best literature, and now he
no longer felt that he would be separated from them in that way. But
this thing that was back of it all was sin--had been sin all along.
Perhaps if he had gone there, as that woman with the dear eyes had
asked, he would have learned to know sin and not have been wise in his
own conceit. Perhaps he might even have come to be in the same world
with them.

But the words were going on and they struck him sharply:

“Whosoever committeth sin transgresseth also the law; for sin is the
transgression of the law.”

Yes, he was a transgressor of the law. He had broken the law of the
land. That had never seemed a sin before. It had been only a matter
of getting away with it. The sin would have been in being discovered,
to his mind. Everybody else was doing it, some doing it bunglingly,
and not getting away with it. He despised them. He had gone into it
more for the game than the money. He had known he could do it without
discovery.

But he had not gotten away with it. He had been discovered. And by that
girl! Not only that, but by the girl he most honored in all the earth!

If he had been asked at the start whether he would like to have her
know what he was doing he might not have thought much about it, but
when her eyes looked into his with their question it was to him as if
the great God had asked him: “What are you doing?” It was like the
question that the Lord God called in the garden in the cool of the
evening: “Adam, where art thou?” only Darcy did not even know that
story, knew Adam only as a hazy being of history or mythology, he could
not have told which.

But he knew God’s voice when he heard it, even though it spoke through
the voice of a woman--the woman he loved.

Suddenly, he knew that too. He loved her. He had loved her all along.
That was why he was going after her. She was lost and he was finding
her. And somehow it was beginning to dawn upon his soul that he would
not find her until he had found the God she loved, and set this thing
right which was wrong with himself, if there was any such thing as
setting it right in this crooked world.

And then, if Darcy Sherwood had not been bound to find Joyce Radway and
bring her safely home, he might have felt that life was not any longer
worth living; for all the laws by which he had lived, and all the
principles by which he had stood, were crumbling beneath him like the
sands of the sea, and he felt himself stumbling in the darkness.




CHAPTER XXII


About this time the School Board in Silverton were sitting in solemn
conclave, deciding who should take the vacant position in the Primary
Department of the Public School, left vacant by the sudden death of the
woman who had taught that department for the last twenty-five years.

The position had been open since spring, and filled temporarily by
pupils from the Normal School, most of whom had not proved satisfactory
to some one on the Board, although three who had made formal
application for the position were now under consideration.

“Well, I have a new name I’d like to present,” said Mr. Powers, who had
just entered late, and had not heard the wrangling over the three names
by their various advocates. “She’s a pippin, too, and I think you’d
better take her.”

“Oh, now, Powers, don’t get in any more names. We’re having trouble
enough as it is,” laughed a member who was in a hurry to get home.
“Let’s put these three to a vote and be done with it. I make that as a
motion--”

“I object,” said Mr. Powers. “This young woman has fine
recommendations. I took the trouble to look them up. She’s teaching
over in Lyman’s church at that summer Bible School he’s so crazy about,
and he says she’s the best teacher he ever had. Gets the kids and all
that! Don’t have a bit of trouble with discipline, and has ’em right
with her from the word go!”

“Where does she come from?” growled one of the men, who was trying to
get his candidate voted on.

“Why, she lives in the little land office down on Bryant’s lot. Mrs.
Bryant can’t get done talking about her, how much go she has, and what
she can do. She’s bought that building and had it moved there. Has a
lot of initiative and all that, and is right there in an emergency. It
seems she saved their house from getting on fire just by keeping her
head. I say that’s the kind of girl we want in our school.”

While he was speaking the new superintendent entered.

He had just been called to fill the vacancy caused by the old
superintendent’s being called to a city school. He was young and
good-looking and they all stood somewhat in awe of him. He had a grave
manner and seemed to know just what he wanted. They all rose to greet
him.

“Professor Harrington, we’ve just been trying to get this primary
teacher decided upon,” said one man. “Powers here is holding us up by
presenting a new name. Don’t you think we’d better just stick to the
three we’ve decided upon and tried, and pick one of them? At least we
know what they are.”

The young superintendent turned toward Powers.

“Who is the person in question?” he asked, looking straight at Powers
and trying to find out whether he thought a recommendation from him
would be worth the paper it was written upon.

“Why, her name is Radway, Miss Joyce Radway,” said Powers. “I’d like
to have you see her, professor. She certainly is intellectual-looking
and all that. I had the pleasure of watching her teach this morning
over in the Roberts Avenue Church. They have some kind of a religious
summer school there to occupy the children during vacation, and the
pastor tells me she is the best teacher they have.”

“I shouldn’t think a minister would be a very good judge of what was
needed in the public schools,” piped up the advocate of one of the
other applicants.

“Well, this one is. He’s making that school a success, I can tell
you--has something over five hundred kiddies there regularly every day,
and crazy about the school. He won’t have anybody there that isn’t a
cracker-jack teacher--”

But the attitude of the superintendent suddenly drew the attention of
the speaker. Professor Harrington was sitting alert, all attention,
interest in his eyes.

“Did you say her name was Radway? Joyce Radway? There could scarcely be
two of that name, I should think. It is rather an unusual name. If it’s
the Miss Radway I know, I should say have her by all means. I’ve been
hunting for her for the last two months, only gave it up because I was
called here. Did she come from Meadow Brook, do you happen to know?”

“Why, I don’t know, I’m sure. I didn’t ask about that. But I can find
out. Suppose I go and bring her!”

“Do,” said the professor. “I’d like to see if she is the same one. She
certainly gave promise of being a rare mind. I had the pleasure of
looking over her examination papers--”

But Powers had already seized his hat and gone out the door. There was
a special reason why he wanted to “put one over” on the men who were
sponsoring the other candidates, and he didn’t mean to lose a single
chance. He went at once to the school telephone and called up Mrs.
Bryant, asking her to ask Miss Radway to be ready to come back with him.

And so it was that Joyce, summoned from her preparation of the
Bible-school lesson for the next day, hurried into a pretty little blue
voile she had just finished and was ready when Mr. Powers arrived to go
before the School Board.

In a few minutes, she stood, at last, before Professor Harrington, who
had wasted many precious hours of his time, to say nothing of telephone
charges and letters, trying to locate this special teacher, and when
she finally stood before him he looked into her clear blue eyes and
said to himself, “That’s the girl I want.” And aloud, to the School
Board, he said gravely:

“I feel sure, from what I know of Miss Radway’s work, that she is
eminently fitted to teach in our school.”

Joyce lifted astonished eyes to the fine, scholarly face and didn’t in
the least recognize him. But she had sense enough left in spite of her
perturbation not to say so, and in a few minutes she was dismissed from
the room and the vote was carried in her favor.

The fact was, every man of them was prepossessed in her favor so soon
as he looked into her eyes, and the three bobbed-haired candidates
hadn’t a chance, with her on the spot.

“But I thought she was a cook!” said one wife when her husband got home
from the School Board meeting and told her about the election of the
new teacher. “Mrs. Powers told me she got dinner for her one night
when she had company.”

“I asked Powers about that,” her husband answered. “It seems she just
did it to help them out when she first came, while she was looking for
a job. Powers said he never tasted such cooking. His wife offered her
twenty-five dollars just to stay and cook dinner on Sunday for some
guests and she wouldn’t do it.”

“Well, I don’t blame her. Mrs. Powers is very unpleasant to get along
with, all the maids say. But it does seem strange to hire a cook to
teach in the school. I think we’ll send Genevieve to a private school
this fall.”

“No, we won’t send Genevieve to any private school, not if I have
anything to say about it, and I guess I’d have to pay the bills. Not
while I’m on the School Board either. How do you think that would make
me look?”

“You could resign. You could say you didn’t approve of having cooks
teach our children.”

“Well, I do approve. It’s a pity Genevieve couldn’t learn to cook too.
I’ve seen this girl and I want my children under her. I count it a
privilege to have them under her. I like her looks. She doesn’t paint
her face, nor bob her hair, nor wear clothes way up to her knees. And
she doesn’t wear dangle-dangles in her ears, nor pull out her eyebrows.
She wears neat, sensible, pretty things and looks like a good girl, and
that’s the kind we want our little children under. That Miss Harlow
you wanted me to vote for makes eyes at every man that comes near her,
married or single. This girl tends to her business and knows what
she’s about. I voted for her, and I mean to stick by her. Now! I want
it understood that she is _not a cook_. She may know _how_ to cook,
but that talk about her being a cook doesn’t go another step from this
house! Understand? If it does, there’s going to be a big overhauling
somewhere.”

“Oh, of course, if you’ve taken her up,” said his wife disagreeably.
“It seems she has all the men on her side even if she doesn’t make eyes
at them.”

“She doesn’t need to. She’s a good girl and she doesn’t want ’em; and
that’s the kind the children ought to have.”

So Joyce was established in the Primary Department of the Silverton
School, under the very immediate supervision of the new superintendent,
who paid her marked attention from the first, to her evident
embarrassment.

Joyce was not averse to having friends, nor to going out and having
good times like other girls, but it happened that the very first thing
this luckless young man asked her to was a dance, and she had to tell
him she didn’t dance.

Joyce didn’t like to go around flaunting her principles, and never
talked about those things unless she had to, but he argued the question
with her. He certainly wanted to take her to that dance. But when it
came to arguing, Joyce just smiled and said she was sorry to seem
ungracious, but she didn’t care to learn to dance. Well, would she go
to an orchestra concert in the city with him then? Yes, she said she
would enjoy that. So they went. But he, poor soul, felt himself called
upon to bring Joyce into a better way of thinking about the dancing, “a
more modern view,” he called it, and they certainly did not get on very
well.

Then he told her how he had hunted for her in Meadow Brook, and how he
had admired her from seeing her just once; how she was different from
other girls, that was what he admired about her; and Joyce looked up
with a smile and said:

“Then why are you trying to make me over just like all the rest?” He
looked at her a moment embarrassedly, and then began to laugh.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t believe I do want to. I like you
just as you are.” After that they talked about books, and summer, and
the beautiful meadows about Meadow Brook, and they seemed quite good
friends. He asked her why she ran away, and she said evasively, that
it was hard for her to stay where she and her aunt had been happy so
many years, and she felt it would be better for everybody if she went,
and went quietly, without waiting to bid all her dear friends good-bye.
She saw he had not been intimate with any of her intimate friends, and
rightly surmised that he had not heard anything peculiar about her
going.

It did occur to her that he might write back sometime and speak about
her to some one, but it seemed rather unlikely; and she was going to
write home pretty soon anyway, so she thought no more of the matter.

A very pleasant friendship sprang up between Joyce and John Harrington.
Not that there was anything sentimental about it, as yet. John
Harrington might express his admiration of a girl, but that was all
until he was quite sure of himself; also quite sure of her. It was
one thing to run after a new teacher with all his heart. It was quite
another thing to commit himself personally. Harrington was a most
judicious young man. He would not have been called to take charge
of the Silverton School if he had not been. He was well satisfied in
his mind as to his own feelings toward Joyce, but it was not yet time
to commit himself. Joyce needed molding and modifying. She needed
modernizing somewhat before she would be fitted to become the wife of a
superintendent. So he set himself to mold and modernize her.

Joyce was simple-hearted and happy. She loved her work, and she was
having a good time. The superintendent did not pick her out to focus
his entire attention upon her and make her an object of jealousy,
therefore she enjoyed the occasional trips to the city to hear some
fine music, and the constantly kindly helpfulness of the young man
as her head in the school. Things were going well with her, and she
thanked God every night.

Somehow, however, with Harrington’s advent there had come so many
new things that her time was more than filled. The letters she had
planned to write to Meadow Brook were still unwritten, and the more she
thought about them (usually at night, after she had got to bed, and was
reviewing the day), the harder they seemed to write. How to explain her
going, what to say about Nan and Gene. It would be so disagreeable if
Nan should take it into her head to come after her and coax her to come
back and live with them. Nan hated housework, and she could not help
knowing that she was valuable to her in that way. No, she was not yet
ready to write home.

So the days drifted by, full of hard work, and pleasantness. She loved
her young pupils and they loved her. Often they invited her to their
homes, and here she met many pleasant people who showed themselves as
more than friendly. She could have spent every evening in a merry
round if she had chosen. But, here again, the fact that she was a very
old-fashioned girl, and neither danced nor played bridge nor mah jong,
nor could be persuaded to learn, set her apart, and saved many evenings
for reading and study and necessary sewing. People tried to persuade
her at first, laughed at her, and cajoled her, but she remained sweetly
firm, yet without preaching to them, and they finally, good-naturedly,
let her alone.

Sometimes she had little gatherings of two or three people in her wee
house, and served them chocolate and delectable little cakes, or Welsh
rarebit or hot pancakes made on her little electric grill. Harrington
was occasionally included in these gatherings, but she never received
young men alone. She told them they could not come without some woman
friend with them. They laughed at her old-fashioned ideas, but they
went away and found some quiet elderly friend and came again. Joyce’s
home began to have a reputation all its own, showing a girl could live
alone and yet keep free from all the unconventions of the modern world.
If any one grew troublesome there was always Mrs. Bryant to whom she
might call, and Mrs. Bryant understood and always happened in whenever
she knew Joyce had a caller who might want to stay alone.

So the fall passed and the winter entered in.

Jim had finished the chimney and fireplace, and the little room was
warm and cosy, even on a bitter November evening with the wind howling
outside.

It had not taken Harrington long to find out which was the most
influential and intellectual church in the community and to connect
himself with it. Thereafter, he set about bringing Joyce to go with
him sometimes. He felt if she could but listen to the wise and modern
thoughts of this most learned divine, who preached at his chosen
church, it would be easier to win her from some of her narrow views.
But when he asked her to go to church with him, one evening, she told
him she could not leave her own, that she had asked her Sunday School
class to go with her that night. When he said, then they would go the
next Sunday night, she looked at him with her clear eyes and said:

“I’m sorry to have to say no again, but I cannot go to that church at
all. That minister dishonors my Lord, and I do not feel I can ever
listen to him again.”

He told her it sounded pharisaical for a young girl like herself to
set up to criticise a man of the minister’s years and standing. Didn’t
she know that the great denomination for which he stood was back of
him, and that they knew better than she did, a young girl with little
experience? Besides, what about that Bible verse that said you mustn’t
speak evil of dignitaries? She had been taught by dear old-fashioned
people, and it was beautiful to look back on such an upbringing, but,
of course, it wasn’t progress to stay just where her forefathers had
stood. She ought to go on to higher realms of thought. It wasn’t
Christian to stand still. Things were not as they used to be. Science
and art and everything else had progressed and grown, why should not
religion? Men had learned more of God, and grown wiser. They had
learned that He was not the same God their fathers had supposed.

Her answer was to look at him steadily with rising color, and repeat:

“‘Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and forever.’ And I’m not
speaking evil of dignitaries. I’m telling you he dishonored my Lord.
The Bible says, ‘From such turn away.’”

“Oh, now, don’t you think you are pressing a point too far?” he said.
“Of course Christ is the same, it’s our views of Him that have changed.
We have grown, and are able to see Him in a bigger, broader sense, as a
grand example for the whole world; not just a little personal God who
attends to each detail of our life.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t care much about Him if He wasn’t personal,
and didn’t care for the details of my life,” she said. “I take great
pleasure in that verse: ‘He knoweth the way that I take,’ and ‘The very
hairs of your head are all numbered,’ and ‘Fear ye not, therefore, ye
are of more value than many sparrows.’ And my God isn’t a little one,
either, because He attends to all the details. He wouldn’t be a God at
all if He didn’t.”

“I certainly wish I had your memory,” said the young man with a look of
admiration. “You have a fine mind. You would have made a good lawyer.
But I hate to see you so narrow. It isn’t like you in other things to
be narrow.”

“Enter ye in at the strait gate,” began Joyce thoughtfully. “For wide
is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many
there be that go in thereat; because strait is the gate and narrow is
the way that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.”

“And so you are actually priding yourself on being narrow!” He spoke
almost angrily. It was annoying to have her so stubborn, so ignorant of
modern ideas, so bound by these old traditions.

“No,” she said sadly. “Those are not my words. They are my Lord’s. I
didn’t make them. I’m only telling you why I’m narrow, as you say.”

“Well, if you’d only go to a respectable church, and hear some really
good teaching along intellectual lines I feel sure you are bright
enough and open-minded enough to give up these silly, pharisaical
ideas. They are really too egotistical for a sweet young girl like you.”

Joyce lifted her eyes sadly to his.

“You don’t understand because you can’t,” she said. “Your eyes are
blinded. There are a great many people like that nowadays. I didn’t
know it till I came away from Meadow Brook. I didn’t understand what
the verse meant when it said that the natural man could not understand
the things of the Spirit. Now I know. You can’t understand because you
haven’t been born again.”

The young man made an impatient movement.

“Oh, I dislike that phrase. Please don’t use it. It’s so ridiculous to
talk that way in this age of the world.”

“Jesus Christ used it,” said Joyce quietly.

“Well, it isn’t a thing to be talked about,” he said crossly. “How
should you set up to say I’m not ‘born again’ as you say it?”

“Because you don’t understand. Because you can listen to a minister
who doesn’t believe that Jesus died to shed His blood to wash away our
sins. Because you can listen to a man who can dare to say that they
called Jesus divine because they couldn’t think of any other word to
use, and who said the blind man only thought he was blind, and Jesus
just waked him up to open his eyes and use them. I heard him say
all those things, and I can’t go and listen to him any more. It is
dishonoring my Lord to hear him.”

“Well, I think the person that brought you up was awfully to blame,”
he said with contempt in his voice. “To saddle anybody with as many
hidebound doctrines as you seem to have is a sin. Whoever it was will
have to answer for it some day. You have an unusually fine mind, and if
you would once give up these foolish legends and prejudices with which
your mind is filled you would be a brilliant woman with a great future
before you.”

Joyce stood up and looked at him gravely, her eyes brilliant, her
cheeks flushed.

“I may not be a brilliant woman,” she said sweetly, “but I certainly
have a great future before me. I’m going to live and reign with Jesus
Christ some day, and I don’t really think it matters so very much
whether I’m brilliant down here or not with that in view. But you’ll
have to excuse me from any further talk on this subject. You have cast
a slur on my faith and we really haven’t anything in common when you do
that. I _know_ my Christ, and you don’t seem to. I must go now.”

She swept out of his office, whither he had summoned her on pretext
of consulting her about some of her scholars who were to be promoted.
There was something so final about her going that it quite depressed
him, and after a night’s wakefulness he went to see her, and had the
good grace to apologize to her, and to say he would like her to try and
show him what she meant by her faith.

“If you will come to the church where I go you will find out much
better than I can teach you,” she said, for she did not more than half
believe that he wanted to know.

So he agreed to go with her the following Sunday evening, and she began
to mention his name in her prayers as she knelt in the moonlight in her
little room. “Dear Father, show me how to make him understand,” she
prayed. But always her prayer ended with: “Find Darcy please, and don’t
let him lose the way home, for Christ’s sake.”




CHAPTER XXIII


Matters had come to such a pass in the Massey home that Eugene and his
wife scarcely had a pleasant word to say to one another, and Nan spent
much time in weeping.

She had ransacked the house to find some papers of her mother-in-law’s
that would prove that the house was theirs, but had found nothing.
On the contrary, there were letters and papers that showed that both
Gene’s mother and his aunt had always known that the house belonged
to Joyce. There were also references to “money” and Nan began to fear
that Gene and she would have nothing. Gene’s business wasn’t very good,
and it had been growing worse of late, because he was so distracted
by this matter of the will that he scarcely gave any attention at all
to it; and Nan was running up terrible bills which she dared not tell
him about, hoping every day that Joyce would turn up and matters would
straighten out. But Joyce did not return, and every day the bills grew.

At first, when she found them, Nan considered burning these letters
that said so much about the property, but after reading them carefully
over again, she was afraid to do so, lest somehow that would be only
making a bad matter worse. What if Joyce knew of these letters and
should return some day and demand them? So she purchased a strong
metal box, locked them therein and hid them among her own private
possessions. If they were ever demanded she could say she had put them
away for safe-keeping. If they were not, and it came out that the
house was theirs after all, she could easily burn them sometime.

But things were going from bad to worse, and after two of the tradesmen
whom she owed had visited her, demanding their money when she had none
to give them, she decided that something radical must be done.

So she dressed herself in deep mourning one day and went to call on the
minister.

There were dark circles under her eyes and a sad droop to her lips.
She carried a black-bordered handkerchief and asked to see Doctor
Ballantine privately.

Mrs. Ballantine took her into the study, and Nan addressed herself to
him with instant tears.

“Oh, Doctor Ballantine,” she said, stanching the flood with her
handkerchief and sinking into the offered chair, “I’m so miserable and
unhappy! I simply had to come and see you!”

Doctor Ballantine put up his pen, and slipped a blotter over the
sermon he was just finishing for the morrow, and expressed himself
sympathetically, wondering anxiously what had happened. Had this
woman come to tell him of some great tragedy or to confess her sins?
Alarm filled his heart, and instant premonitions of danger to Joyce.
Somehow Nan was not the kind of woman that one would ever think of
in connection with any religious convictions. It never even entered
the good man’s heart that she had come to inquire about her soul.
Afterwards he thought of this with some wonder and self-reproach.

But Nan recovered from her brief emotion and began to talk.

“It’s about my husband’s cousin, Joyce Radway,” she stated, and the
good doctor was instant attention. “You see, we haven’t heard from her
since she went away.”

“Is that so?” said Doctor Ballantine with startled tone. “Where is she?
Perhaps you would like to have me write, or telegraph to the minister
there to learn of her safety. Are you afraid she is ill?”

“Oh, we don’t know--” wailed Nan, breaking down again. “We don’t even
know where she is. She hasn’t told us!”

“You don’t know? She hasn’t told you? Why,” said the minister, half
rising from his seat, “that’s not at all like Joyce to leave you in
anxiety. Didn’t she tell you where she was going?”

“No,” sobbed Nan. “No, she didn’t tell us. She just walked out of the
house without saying a word, and never came back. We thought of course
she would come back pretty soon. She always did before when she got
upset or angry--”

“Upset? Angry?” said the puzzled minister. “What, may I ask, what do
you think she was angry at?”

“Oh, nothing at all, just a little thing. You know Joyce has a fearful
temper. Or perhaps you don’t know it. Those quiet, mild people never
do show up what they are till you come to live with them. Of course I
don’t blame poor Joyce. She had to be on such a strain all the time
poor mother was ill. She wouldn’t let a person but Joyce come near her,
and it was almost more than the girl could bear. I sometimes used to be
afraid she would go out of her mind before the end came, there were so
many demands made upon her. And a young girl like that wants to have a
good time, you know--”

“That doesn’t sound like Joyce--” The minister spoke gravely. “She was
devoted to Mrs. Massey. You haven’t known her as long as I have. She
was only a tiny child when I came here, you know, and Mother and I--we
loved her. She was like our little one that was taken away.”

“Yes, I know, she was attractive,” Nan hastened to say, mopping her
eyes daintily. “And she liked to pose as a dutiful daughter. Still, you
know, Doctor Ballantine, a girl likes a good time. I knew you thought a
good deal of her and were interested in her welfare and all, and that’s
why I came to you. I haven’t told my husband I was coming. I don’t know
what he would say if he knew. He’s very proud and independent, and he
feels this thing keenly. But I just thought I would come to you to see
if you couldn’t help find Joyce. You know her friends and know her so
well. I thought you might know some place to look for her that hasn’t
occurred to us. We have been here so short a time. But you mustn’t tell
my husband. You must promise me that before we begin.”

“It’s never a good thing for a woman to hide a thing from her husband,”
said the minister, still gravely. “Mrs. Massey, my advice to you is to
go home and tell your husband you have spoken to me before you tell me
anything more about it. Then if he wishes me to be in your confidence
further we can go on from there.”

“Oh, Doctor Ballantine!” broke out Nan afresh with frightened tears. “I
couldn’t possibly do that. You see he is so sensitive about it because
it was his words that made Joyce angry. He told her, very kindly--he
always speaks gently in his family--and I was right in the room when he
did it. I heard every word. There wasn’t the least reason in the world
for her to get angry, only she was just in the mood for it. She’s very
temperamental, you know. He asked her to please not let her electric
light burn all night, that the bill had just come in and was pretty
large, and we must all try to remember and turn the lights out whenever
they were not needed. Now you know there wasn’t anything in that to
make a girl get furious and stamp her foot and fling herself out of
the kitchen in a pet. I was just putting on dinner when she went, and
I thought of course she would come back pretty soon. She always did
before. But this time she didn’t. I suppose she must have been waiting
for us to come out and coax her back, but we thought it wisest for her
not to run after her, for we had noticed ever since Mother’s death that
she showed a tendency to get into a huff and stay there, and we thought
if we just went quietly about and ignored her temper she would come out
of it sooner. That’s the way we always do with the children.”

She paused for encouragement, but the Doctor, with set lips and stern
eyes, was watching her, saying nothing. Nan began to catch her breath
again in a trembling sob, and went on:

“When it began to get dark I got worried and told Gene he simply must
go out to the barn and bring her in. It was too damp and chilly for
her to stay out there after dark. That was where she always went when
she got in a pet, and we expected, of course, to find her in her usual
place. But when Gene went out with his flashlight there wasn’t a trace
of her anywhere, and he came back all upset.”

She paused to observe the impression she was making, but the minister’s
face wore a mask of dignity and she hurried on.

“I wouldn’t tell you these things, of course, for it is terrible to me
to reveal the little weaknesses of my husband’s family, but I must tell
some one and get some help, for I am nearly crazy. I sometimes think my
husband will lose his mind. He is naturally very fond of Joyce, for she
was brought up like his own sister, you know, and he is almost breaking
under the anxiety----”

The minister said nothing to help her.

“We have searched the world over, every place we can think of, and no
trace whatever of her. It is almost like the case of Charlie Ross, and
now Gene can’t sleep at night, he is so anxious----”

She paused and wiped her eyes.

“I want my husband to get the detectives at work after her, but he
keeps hoping we shall hear. He simply can’t bear the publicity of it
all, and for my sake especially. So I decided this afternoon to just
come and confide in you. You’re so wise and kind----”

The minister arose with that compelling look that makes a caller arise
also.

“Mrs. Massey,” he said, “I wish there were some comfort I could give
you. I will think this matter over, and will talk it over with my
wife. I never keep anything from my wife, but be assured it will go
no further. Meantime, I advise you to go home and tell your husband
what you have done. There is nothing to be gained by keeping it from
him, and I most certainly cannot enter into any plan whatever to help
without his full knowledge and sanction. Meantime, of course, Mrs.
Ballantine and I will consult, and if there is any one that we think
might help in this matter we will let you and Mr. Massey know. I don’t
mind telling you that we have been anxious about our young friend
even before you came. It seemed so utterly unlike Joyce to go off in
that way without a word to us. She--is not like that. There must have
been--some reason--something more than you have stated--perhaps more
than you understood--perhaps some misunderstanding on her part. Really,
Mrs. Massey, Joyce _is not_ like that. I have known her a long time--”

“That’s what I say, Doctor Ballantine. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m
just afraid to mention it to my husband, it would be so perfectly
terrible to him to think of such a thing in connection with his family,
but sometimes--sometimes--I’ve really been afraid--now, of course, I
wouldn’t want you to mention this even to Mrs. Ballantine--unless you
simply have to--but sometimes I’ve been afraid that Joyce was--losing
her mind.

“Now I know you’re shocked, but I simply _had_ to tell you, and I
thought if you could just kind of quietly inquire around among the
insane asylums in this neighborhood, and see if any young person has
been brought in like that--You, being a minister, can get entrance into
these places--”

“Mrs. Massey!”

The minister’s voice was stern. Nan hardly knew him.

“Mrs. Massey, nothing like that has happened! Joyce Radway has never
lost her mind! She is too filled with the spirit of Christ for that.
She is too much God’s child. There is nothing like Jesus Christ to keep
a mind sane and steady. Don’t ever utter that thought to any living
being again!”

Nan cringed as she stood by the study door. His voice was almost like
the command of one who had authority over her.

“Oh, are you _sure_?” she managed to say weepily. “That’s such a
comfort. That thought has tormented me night and day, perhaps Joyce was
shut up in some awful insane asylum--”

“Hush!” said the doctor sternly. “That could never be. She may have
fallen into some danger, or be sick in some hospital, but never that!
She is God’s own child.”

Nan slid out of the door like a serpent, rebuked, murmuring:

“Well, I’m glad I came, you’ve given me so much comfort!” but she
walked down the street with angry eyes and set mouth. Her mission had
been a failure so far as winning over that old dolt was concerned. What
a fool he was over Joyce! What a fool everybody was over her! What did
they see in her anyway to be so crazy about? She couldn’t understand.

Nevertheless, as she drew toward her own home, meditating on her recent
interview, something in her heart told her exultantly that she had
not failed entirely, for she had managed to give a different coloring
to the situation, much as the old minister had hated to accept it. He
would think it over, and he would presently come to be uncertain, and
perhaps to half believe what she had told him. And when later, other
developments occurred, he might give credence to the thoughts which she
had put into his mind. Nan was not extremely clever, but, somehow, the
devil in her shallow heart comforted her with this, and the hope that
some day, if trouble really broke, Gene would thank her and be proud of
her for having prepared the way for a creditable story that would not
reflect upon them.

By the time she had got supper ready she was quite pleased with her
afternoon’s work. She had planted the seed in Doctor Ballantine’s
subconscious mind and it would grow. By the time he told his wife
it would even so soon have begun to grow. She need not worry about
developments. Perhaps even Gene would never have to know that she had
had anything to do with it.




CHAPTER XXIV


So far Lib Knox had resisted all attempts to be friendly with Tyke. He
had tried candy, a little white kitten, and a fox terrier poodle, but
Lib only turned a cold shoulder.

Even the day when he arrived in a motor cycle with a side-car and
offered her a ride he almost failed, although he could see that it went
hard with her to refuse. It was when at last he told her that she was
afraid, and dared her to come with him for a five-mile spin, that she
finally yielded. Lib never could take a dare.

Seated in the chariot, she surveyed her comrades with superior
arrogance and enjoyed to the full her triumphal departure from the
district where she lived. But once out on the highway, Tyke let out
all the power and shot through space as if he had suddenly taken leave
of his senses. Lib gripped the sides of her car and sat erect, her
eyes bulging, her white lips set in a frightened smile. She was badly
scared, but she was game.

For several miles he tore away at this mad pace, seeming to graze
telegraph poles, almost telescope automobiles, and just escaped killing
men and dogs. Then he slowed down and turned into a side road where
there was comparatively little traffic, a cross-road leading to another
highway.

Lib, breathless, still gripped the car, obviously speechless.

“Now, look here, kid,” said her captor, bending toward her
insinuatingly, “you thought that was fast, didn’t you? But that ain’t
a continental to what I kin do with this here brig. Why, I kin go so
fast it’ll take the hair right off’n yer head and leave yer bald like a
old man. It’ll take yer breath outen ya, so’t’ya can’t speak right fer
a week, an’ it’ll maybe sweep ya right out in the field and leave ya
fer the crows ta pick. An’ that’s what I’m agonta do’ith ya kid, ef ya
don’t tell me where that doggone uncle of yourn is hanging up. See? I’m
givin’ ya time till I get ta that there highway out there t’consider.
Ef ya don’t come across with what I want y’ll be slung like a arrow
through the air, an’ ya won’t know yerself. Y’ll wonder where’s yer
daddy an’ yer ma, and yell like a little baby, but it won’t do no good,
fer nobody can’t hear ya when yer goin’ like a wild cat. Now, what say?
Are ye givin’ me the necessary information, ur shall I let ’er go?”

Lib was gripping the sides of her car with small, wiry fingers that
were white and tense. Her little freckled face was white beneath its
tan, and the bronze-gold of her bobbed curls ruffled above eyes that
were wide with fear. She swallowed to get her voice, and suddenly her
sharp little lips trembled into an impish grin and she trembled out
tauntingly:

“G-g-go ahead! I-l-l-like it!”

“The devil you do!” roared Tyke angrily. “I’ll give ye enough then,
you little runt you,” and they shot into the highway into the midst
of the worst traffic they had yet seen. Tyke was so angry he could
scarcely see where he went, and he let out the power till they seemed
to be but a streak in the air as they flew along to what seemed like
destruction. It seemed to little Lib of the fiery heart that she was
aging as she went, that if she ever stopped she would be old and
tottering, that her hands were numb and her face stung with the wind,
and she was cold to her soul through the thin little clothing she wore.
But she gave no sign, as the car went on and on, and miles of trees
and meadows and houses and towns shot by in the flash of an eye. Lib
wondered if it would go on forever. And then, just as she thought she
could not hold on another minute, as she wished she might drop from the
back and be crushed into insensibility by the fall, and never come to
life again any more, because her heart hurt so in her breast, and her
eyes were going to cry (which to Lib was the worst thing that could
ever happen to her, that she should be weak enough to cry)--just then,
when things could not have gone on any longer and she exist, they came
to a road leading into the woods and the motor cycle slowed down and
bumped into the rough road and up a hill into dense woods, suddenly
coming to a standstill.

Tyke turned upon her with an evil look.

“You little devil, you!” he said, glaring at her with the glare of one
who had been baffled.

Lib was too frightened to speak, and her teeth were chattering with
the cold, but she lifted her game little face toward his evil one
and suddenly stuck out her tongue and made an impish face at him,
expressing all the hate and loathing of her little courageous soul. The
man looked down at her astonished, blinking, scarcely believing that
such daring could come from a baby.

“I c’d kill you, you young ’un--” he muttered.

“I don’t see what good that would do,” said Lib unexpectedly, her
quick mind intrigued by the situation. “You couldn’t find out where my
uncle lived by killing me, could you? It isn’t written inside my head
anywhere,” and she laughed a ghoulish little laugh made all the more
weird by the tremble of her voice.

“Well, I’ll be----”

But Lib was gathering strength with her breath as it returned.

“I never said I wouldn’t tell you where my uncle was, did I?”

The man was speechless. Could it be that this mere infant was kidding
him? Not scared at all, but just putting one over on him? He stared at
her in bewilderment. Lib, eying him, knew that she had gained a point.
She summoned voice again.

“But I ain’t going to tell you till I get back home again. If you had
asked me polite like a gentleman when you first took me, I might uv;
but now I shan’t tell ya a thing till I’m back home. Come on, get a
move on. I’ve gotta get back and study my spelling fer tomorrow. Can’t
you get through this road or do ya have to turn around?”

The nonchalance of her! Tyke couldn’t help but admire it while yet his
anger smouldered. It was for all the world like her cool, collected
uncle, white and calm under fire. He was amazed, but somehow, he was
conquered.

“You swear you give it to me straight ’f I take you home?”

“I don’t swear,” said Lib coolly. “It’s naughty. My mother doesn’t like
me to.”

Tyke grew black and swore under his breath.

“I ain’t takin’ no nonsense!” he lowered. “You gimme that address ur
I’ll kill ya yet, I swear I will.”

Lib was getting her second wind. She eyed him furtively. She was not
nearly so frightened now. She was trying to think what to do.

“Well, it’s up in Canada somewhere,” she said, “a name that begins with
a Q. If you’d start the car home I could mebbe think. Quebec. That’s
it. I never can remember that name. But I can’t think of the street
until we get back home. There’s a street there by the same name. You
run back and I’ll show you where to find it. It’s 737 that street. Now,
will you take me back?”

The motor began to rumble again.

“You tellin’ me straight, you little devil?”

“Sure!” said Lib, settling back and trying to still her teeth from
chattering and her weak little knees from trembling, “Let’s go fast
again like we did. I’m getting hungry, and my mother won’t like you if
you keep me away so long.”

Tyke glared at her, but he put on his goggles and started toward home.
When they reached the edge of the town Lib sat up straight and directed
his movements.

“You go up that street and down the first turn to the right,” she
said. “No, it was the next street I meant, I guess.” She studied the
street-markers thoughtfully, the while she made him go past the houses
of her most intimate friends, and enemies, casually greeting them as
she passed by in this her triumphal procession through her own domain.

And so when she had traversed them all, the streets of those she wished
to impress, she exclaimed, “Oh, yes, there ’tis! State Street. That’s
it. 737 State Street. Now, you c’n let me out here if you please. My
mother don’t like me to be out with strangers and she mightn’t be nice
to you.” And Tyke wisely let her out and went on his way wondering,
saying over to himself:

“She’s a little devil, but she’s a tough one. She’s a tough little
nut, that’s what she is. I wonder now if she’s makin’ a monkey out o’
me! Guess I’ll get some gas and take a try at Canada. Better to tend
to such business myself. ’Taint safe to trust ta ennybody these days.
Wonder now ef I could get a warrant. Guess not, seein’ it’s Canada.
He’s a sharper all right. He lit out to a safe place all right with his
dame. Guess I’ll have to go up. No other way. Have to put one over on
him somehow and get him back where we can do something under the law of
the United States.” He swelled himself proudly at that as if he himself
were a worthy citizen. Then he went to one of his haunts to prepare for
the journey.

       *       *       *       *       *

In her little nightgown beside her bed little Lib Knox knelt down
for perhaps the first time in her life to pray. She had not wanted
her supper though there were griddle-cakes, and Lib dearly loved
griddle-cakes. But she had something on her mind, and her primitive
soul took the old, old way to the only Power she knew for help.

“Oh, God,” she prayed, “that’s a bad man after my uncle, please, and I
don’t know where he is. Won’t you just please take care of him? I don’t
know what he wants, but Uncle Darcy ought to be told he’s coming, and I
don’t know how to do it. Won’t you please try. I s’pose you can see in
the dark and know where he is, and if you’ll just please hide him when
that man comes I’ll be glad, and I’ll try to do something for you.”

She half rose in the darkness, shivering in her little thin gown that
was too short for her growing length. Then she slid down on one knee
again and spoke in a whisper:

“And say, God, you knew that was a lie I told, didn’t you? That about
Quebec? I just got it outta my geography lesson we had today, you know.
I thought I oughtta tell you, seeing you’re going to help. You won’t
mind a lie for once, will you? You see I had to or he mightta killed
me. You wouldn’t a wanted me killed, would you, God? Or else why did
you make me? Besides, what would mother ’uv done? So please won’t you
kill that naughty man if you can. If not, keep him away from me anyway.
Good night.”

Having paused a moment with a crown of moonlight on her little rebel
curls, she crept into bed and was soon asleep.

The next morning Lib awoke very early, and, procuring a paper and
pencil from her geography, which she had placed under her bed the night
before, she wrote in crooked little handwriting:

  “Dere Unkle Darcie:

  “Ther is a bad man cums hear to find out whar yo ar. He tuk me a rid
  on a motrsikle. I didunt lik it but I didunt let hym no. He thretend
  to kyl me if I didunt give hym yor adres, so I maid upp one and he
  brot me hom. I wisht that yoo wud cum home so I cud tak ker of yoo. It
  is offul hard takan ker when I dont no wher yoo ar.

  “I wisht yoo wer hear. It is lonesum. From Lib. P.S. I was skard, but
  he didunt no it.”

Lib had found an envelope in the table downstairs, and she sealed her
letter and took it to her father to address, but her father shook his
head.

“I don’t know, Lib. Uncle Darcy didn’t leave his address. He’s
travelling, I reckon. But we’ll send it where he goes sometimes.”

And so the letter started on its warning way to Darcy.




CHAPTER XXV


The winter had come on, introduced by a long and brilliant autumn, and
Joyce was so engrossed in her work that she scarcely realized how long
it was since she had left Meadow Brook.

In addition to her work she had become deeply engrossed in Bible study.

In one of her trips to the city she had discovered a Bible School of
national renown, and found that she could so arrange her schedule as
to make one or two evening classes a week possible. Thereafter when
she was not actually busy with her school work, or doing some little
helpful thing for somebody else, she could be found studying her Bible.
It had become a fascination, this searching for new riches in the Book.
She had always enjoyed studying it, but never before with such a hunger
for it as came now. Day by day gave her new wonders, a new opening up
of the revelation of God to His children.

When Professor Harrington asked her to go somewhere with him he
frequently found that she had another engagement in the city. Becoming
curious, she finally took him to one of her classes, with the result
that he entered into a lengthy argument with her all the way home,
trying to persuade her to give it up. He informed her that it was
ridiculous for her to waste her fine mind being led by men who ignored
the simplest principles of science, and pinned their faith to a book
that was so old that no one could be sure who wrote it, or where it
came from. He told her that a person was a fool to swallow whole the
teachings of men who denied geology, zoölogy, science in every branch;
who taught that the legends of Scripture were actual truths; and who
dared to enter into the occult and profess to have spiritual relations
with the Maker of the Universe; who even descended to the ridiculous
and marked out the future from the mystical writings of the men they
chose to call prophets.

When he reached this point Joyce sat up straight in the train, her
cheeks glowing, her eyes bright, so that those sitting near must have
noticed her, and said:

“Stop! I cannot listen to any more of your talk. You and I simply have
nothing in common----!”

He saw that he had offended her, and sought to make his peace. He
apologized and said they would speak of something else, and for the
remainder of the half-hour that the late train took in dragging from
station to station till it reached Silverton, he made himself most
fascinating, telling in his best style of a trip he took to Switzerland
the summer before.

Ordinarily Joyce would have enjoyed this with all her eager young mind,
visualizing the beautiful descriptions and putting herself there almost
as if she had experienced it herself. But now she only sat quietly,
looking straight ahead, a withdrawal in her manner, a look in her eyes
as if she saw something that others could not see; an air that showed
she was thinking deeply about something, and her thoughts were not
following his words.

He was piqued and mortified. He could not believe that she would
not yield to the things that she had often enjoyed before in his
conversation. In fact, it had been a source of much pleasure to him
to tell her of rare experiences he had had in travel and watch the
flush of her cheek and the glow in her eye as she enjoyed it with him.
It cut him that he could not reach her, that she had withdrawn her
friendliness. It mortified his pride and his sense of superiority. And
most of all it hurt him in his self-love. Perhaps he would have named
it love for her, for he had come during the winter to recognize that
that was what he felt for this girl; and seeing that was the case, he
was the more determined to mold and make her as she should be to fit
his walk and station in life. Albeit, his love for any one was merely
another name for self-love. He wanted her and her love merely to make
himself more complete for himself, and so he was really in love with
himself all the time.

For the rest of the ride Joyce was absolutely silent, and when they
alighted at the station and started toward her home she said nothing,
and she walked a trifle apart from him and ignored the arm he offered.

In a sudden yearning for his heart’s desire, he took her hand and drew
it within his arm, holding her hand in a firm warm grasp and speaking
with a new tenderness.

“Joyce, don’t you know why I have spoken to you as I have? Don’t you
know that it is because I love you, because I cannot bear to see your
brilliant mind filled with such twaddle, such nonsense, such rot----!”

“Stop!” she cried, wrenching her hand away from his clasp. “Don’t you
ever dare to speak such words to me again! Don’t dare to talk about the
wonderful words of inspiration in that way. It is blasphemy!”

“Now, my dear child----” he began, trying to get possession of her
hand once more, “you have wholly misunderstood me. The words of
Scripture are just as beautiful to me, and just as sacred in their way
as they are to you. It is a mere difference of the way of looking at
them. Now I----”

“Mr. Harrington, I am not interested in how you look at the Bible.
I would rather not hear you tell about it. You have filled me with
horror.”

“Are you not interested that I am telling you that I love you?” he
asked in deep impassioned tones. “I am asking you now to be my wife?
Cannot we put these trivial things away and be one in spirit now?” He
leaned toward her gently and tried to capture the little gloved hand
once more.

But Joyce quickly put her Bible in it and drew away from him.

“No!” she said. “No. We could never be one in spirit or in anything
else while you deny the inspiration of the Scriptures and call those
wonderful expositions that we heard tonight rot and twaddle and
nonsense. You are one of those people that it warns against in the
Bible: ‘Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy, and vain
deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world,
and not after Christ.’ It also says: ‘Avoiding profane and vain
babblings, and oppositions of science, falsely so called.’”

“Now Joyce, please don’t quote Scripture at me. Let us drop that. If we
love each other those things will settle themselves by and by. Let us
talk a little while about ourselves. Tell me, you love me, Joyce, don’t
you? I’m sure I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

“No,” said Joyce frankly, “I don’t think I do. I don’t think it would
be possible for me to love any one who thought of the things that are
the most precious to me in the way you do.”

“But, those things aside, you really in your heart love me? Tell me you
do, Joyce. I long to hear you say the words. Just speak out your own
true heart. Once that question is settled, the other things will all
fall in line.”

“I can’t put those things aside, Professor Harrington. They are a part
of my soul. Nothing counts without them.”

There was a long silence. They had almost reached Joyce’s little home.
He suddenly turned her about.

“Let us walk back down this next street. It is not late, and if you
will not let me come into your house, at least we can walk a little
longer. I must have this question settled tonight. I cannot let this
separation go on between us any longer.”

“The question so far as I am concerned is settled now,” she said firmly.

“But Joyce, if it were not for this difference? Suppose I thought as
you do, would you say yes?”

Joyce hesitated. Theirs had been a pleasant companionship in a way.

“I cannot tell,” she said thoughtfully. “It would have made so much
difference, I cannot tell how I would have felt.”

“There!” he said triumphantly. “You see, I was right. You do love me,
only you are so filled with this fanaticism that you won’t let yourself
see it.”

“You are mistaken,” said Joyce gravely. “I have never even considered
it, because from the first of my acquaintance I have known that you
were this way.”

“This way? _What way?_” he asked sharply. It hurt him to have her
criticise him now, when he had declared his love for her. Joyce thought
a moment.

“You do not believe. You do not understand the things of the Spirit.
You base whatever faith you have on the wisdom of men, not in the
power of God. Haven’t you ever heard that the wisdom of this world is
foolishness with God?”

“We are talking around in a circle,” said Harrington crossly. “I was
speaking of loving one another. From the moment I laid eyes upon you I
knew that you were mine. Does it mean nothing to you that I came after
you when I did not even know who you were? Does it mean nothing that
the vision of your face stayed in my heart----”

“From the moment I laid eyes on you I knew that you were not mine,”
said Joyce suddenly. “It is getting very late. Hear! The clocks are
striking twelve. I must go home this minute!” Her heart had suddenly
gone into a panic. She wanted to get away by herself and think. Life
was a strange thing. Was this man going to insist on being in her life?

Harrington, deeply offended, led her to her home in silence. She bade
him good night and received a stiff good night in answer. He stalked
away in the moonlight, a handsome picture of a man with a rising
future, and much that was good and beautiful for a maiden to think
upon. Yet she turned into her little warm room as to a haven, and
knelt down by her couch.

“Oh, my dear heavenly Father! Keep me. Don’t let me get bewildered by
things. I don’t want to love any one now, please. And I know he isn’t a
right one to love.”

From that night forth she unconsciously ceased to pray for him. It
seemed somehow as if her duty were done there, and it was not for her
to further seek his salvation. It seemed almost to her as if he desired
her soul’s destruction, so determined had he been to drag her away into
his world. It almost frightened her when she thought about it. For
several days thereafter she kept to herself as much as possible when at
school.

For several days Harrington maintained a grave aloofness toward her,
did not come to her room, nor appear in the hall when she would be
likely to be about. When he needed to give a message to her he sent it
through one of the seniors, or wrote a stiff note signing himself J. S.
Harrington.

Joyce felt that she was being punished, and managed not to have to go
to the office at all that week. She never had been a frequenter of his
office at any time, however, so that was scarcely noticeable.

But one morning he happened to pass her room quite early, before
scarcely anybody had entered the building, and he heard her singing
softly to herself as she put the arithmetic problems on the blackboard
for the day.

  “And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
    And He tells me I am His own;
  Oh the joy we share as we tarry there
    None other has ever known--”

The words were the words of a hymn, he knew, one of those he had once
criticised as being “emotional twaddle,” yet there was something
exquisitely lovely and dear in the way she sang it, the perfect
confidence of her soul in that One in whom she trusted expressed in
those simple words. He glanced at her wistfully as he passed the door
and took in all the slender grace of her pose, as the white fingers,
holding the chalk, made rapid lines of figures on the board. The sun
made a bright background of beaten gold, outlining the lovely head, and
he glanced back wistfully. Here was a rare girl indeed. Why, in this
age of progress, should it be that such a choice flower of womanhood
should be tainted with a primitive fanaticism? It was as if she were
a flower left over from the Victorian age, out of place in a world
that had grown beyond her--exquisite, yet impractical. How could she
possibly hope to get on in the world with such notions?

In the calm reflections of the night--of several nights--in which he
had lain awake and gone over their last conversation, he had chided
himself severely for going so far. He simply must not let himself
go again, not until he was sure that he could make her over. Never
would it do for him to hamper his future with one who was so utterly
unadaptable to life as he found her up to date. It simply would ruin
his career.

Yet that afternoon he made a special trip to town to find a certain
book, one written in the vague modern shibboleth, sweet and mystical,
with the emphasis on loving one another, and being able to see the good
in everybody, and the next morning, with a perfect rose just coming out
of bud, she found it lying on her desk. No name, just the rose and the
book. Of course she knew who put them there, but if she had not, his
smile and greeting as he passed her in the hall would have told her.
And that day she prayed:

“Now, Father, help me. Keep me.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When Tyke came back from Canada there was vengeance in his eye. It
had not taken him long to find out that there was no such street and
number as Lib had given him, but he did not turn about and flee home
without first examining every inch of the city where there might be a
possible clue to Darcy. He went to the General Delivery and asked for
letters for Darcy Sherwood. He even stood for hours behind a pillar in
the post-office and watched the comers and goers, hoping to find Darcy
among them. He walked over the city in daytime and at night, examined
its haunts and amusements, looked over the hotel registries, and
searched in a number of places where it seemed likely to him he might
find his former partner, but no trace did he find of Darcy.

The first meeting with his three friends after his return was not very
satisfactory. They chided him for his absence, derided him for going to
Canada at all at the instigation of a sharp child, and charged him with
trying to serve his own ends by the delay. They even went so far as
to suggest that perhaps he was in with Darcy himself and this was all
a big bluff. Tyke drew off and fairly bellowed at them in his wrath,
and finally settled down to a plan which he said would bring things to
a climax within a week. The four heads were bent together long over a
paper on which Cottar was jotting down suggestions for Tyke to act
upon. It was Tyke, after all, who was made to play the part out in the
open. And once, while they were talking in a little shanty far away
from the town, with a bit of a candle in an old lantern for light, and
their paper spread out on a rough box, there came a face at the window,
a long, white, thin old face with only two teeth, one above and one
below; a long heavy wisp of snow-white hair straggling over a high
yellow forehead, and watery, faded eyes, yet keen, watching them. It
ducked down when Tyke lifted his head once and looked nervously that
way as a twig rubbed up and down on the roof in the wind from the old
apple-tree outside, but the eyes peered up again and watched long and
silently, listening; and crouched when the men put out the lantern and
stole away into the night. It was only old Noah Casey, harmless and
wandering about again, escaped from the poor farm, and travelling some
of the old roads of his youth. Nobody minded old Noah, though he gave
them a start now and then.

He was following a voice now, the voice he had heard loudest inside
the shanty, the voice of the one with the red hair. Crouching low, he
stole from tuft to tuft of the marshy grass, a thing of the night, old,
flighty, his worn garment colorless like weathered wood, his wisps of
hair blowing like gray clouds about his mild, anxious face from under
the tattered felt hat. A bent old gnome in the dark, with something on
his mind.




CHAPTER XXVI


Along in the early spring one night just as Eugene and Nan were about
to retire, the telephone bell rang and a man’s voice asked if Mr.
Massey was at home, and if he could see some one on important business
connected with his cousin Miss Radway.

Eugene was immediately excited, and fairly shouted into the telephone,
demanding to know who was speaking.

“That’s all right, pard. I ain’t tellin’ all I know over the wire.
Alone now? I’ll drop around. This is absolutely Q. T. you know.”

Nan stood trembling in the doorway, white-faced, frightened.

“You go to bed!” ordered Eugene, trying to still the excitement of his
own voice, and getting up to pace the room nervously. “Go to bed, I
say!” he roared as Nan still stood in the doorway watching him.

There was a wild look in his eye that made her afraid of him sometimes.
He had been hard toward her ever since she falteringly told him of her
visit to the minister, and he had looked at her as if she had been a
viper and answered her only:

“You FOOL! If you could only learn to keep your mouth shut! Yes, weep.
WEEP! That’s your line! Oh, why did I marry _a fool_?”

Since that day Nan had kept much to herself, had not ventured to take
any part in the frantic search for Joyce that was still going on in a
stealthy way. Now, at the look in her husband’s eye, she vanished,
sobbing softly to herself, went hurriedly up the stairs and flung
herself noisily on the bed. A moment later she rose stealthily, removed
her shoes and prepared to listen to whatever went on downstairs. Her
heart was beating so wildly that she had to put her hand on it, it
almost hurt.

Eugene forestalled any attempt on her part to listen by closing the
doors of the sitting room, and her only possibility of finding out
anything lay in the back staircase or in watching out the window.

The night was dark and a ghoulish wind was roaring about the house, a
real March night with dark clouds driven across a starless sky. She
could not even see the stealthy figure like a flat shadow that slid
across the open space before the door and flattened against the side
of the house some minutes before the knock that echoed so slightly she
almost thought she was mistaken. She heard the door open and blow shut
with a gust of wind, and there were voices, low murmurs, that was all.
She strained her ears to hear, for she felt sure Gene would not tell
her anything. He said she was a fool and he could not trust her.

Downstairs, in the sitting room, Tyke stood flat against the wall
by the door and ordered Gene to pull down the shades. This done, he
selected a seat in the darkest corner of the room and motioned Gene to
a seat in front of him.

“You plumb sure thar ain’t no one lis’nen in on us?” he asked, eyeing
the various doors.

“Positive,” said Gene, eyeing his caller suspiciously. This man of
course wanted money, and he wasn’t a very pleasant-looking customer.
Perhaps he ought to have sent for a policeman and had him in hiding.
Yet there might be something he would not have wanted a policeman
to know. No, rather take the chances himself. He glanced nervously
toward the telephone to make sure he could reach it from where he sat
in case he needed it. Nan, of course, would be worse than useless in
an emergency. Still, perhaps he had made a mistake in sending her to
bed. However, he felt pretty sure she would manage to find a cranny to
listen, and when he heard a soft creaking on the back stairs and saw
Tyke start nervously, he made no move.

“It’s only a mouse in the wall,” he said. “Go on.”

“Well, I came here purely out o’ kin’ness,” began Tyke ingratiatingly,
his eyes roving from door to window and back again. “I’m ’war I’m doin’
a dangerous thing; an’ I’m riskin’ m’life. The man we gotta deal with
is a desp’rate feller, an’ he wouldn’t stop at nothin’. We gotta work
still as death ur we won’t get nowheres. Now, to begin, ’bout how long
uv you ben sure your young woman relative was kidnapped?”

“Kidnapped!” said Gene with a start. “Kidnapped. Yes. Why--” Then
it was money the man wanted. “Why--I’ve been coming slowly to that
conclusion for sometime. Haven’t been able to prove it yet of
course--That is--” Here, he was telling too much himself. He oughtn’t
to tell this man anything. He ought to let the man do all the talking.

“Well, I kin,” said Tyke, unconsciously raising his voice a trifle.
“Got four good witnesses ’sides myse’f to prove it in court. Know the
very day an’ hour when it happened. We all seen the body, and one of
us seen him buryin’ her.”

“Body!” exclaimed Gene, jumping up, white to the lips. “Burying!”

“Sit still, man! Keep yer shirt on! We don’t get nowheres carryin’ on
with them highstrikes. Somebody might be round an’ hear ya. You can’t
never tell. You gotta learn to keep quiet ef you wantta hear what I got
ta say.”

“Go on,” said Gene with dry lips and stiff articulation. The horror
of it froze his senses. In spite of him his mother’s face came
reproachfully between him and the stranger. What had he done to Joyce?
How had he been responsible for all this that had happened to her? He
was not a bad man. He did not want her inheritance at the expense of
her life. He was merely a selfish man. This girl was his own blood and
kin, and he was responsible for her safety. Fear sat upon his face.
What might not come to him when the town heard this?

But the stranger was asking him a question.

With an effort he pulled himself back to attend.

“Just when did you say you seen her last? April? Twenty-four? Yep.
That’s the day. Long toward evenin’ wasn’t it? She went down acrost
lots to her yants grave, didn’t she? What say? You didn’t know that?
Oh, I thought--well, it don’t matter. That’s where she went, and he met
her thar. Must uv had a date. He was waitin’ there for her. You see we
was doin’ some work there round a lot, in the cem’try, me an’ a couppla
others, an’ when we got back home we found we hadta go ’nother place
next day so we walks back t’get our tools we’d lef’ hid. Seein’ there
was somebody there seemin’ to be feelin’ bad--she was cryin’ real hard,
an’ he was coaxin’ her--we didn’t like to intrude, so we set awhile
under the hedge thinkin’ he’d get away. We knowed him, ya know, a great
one with the dames. They always fall fer him, no matter what they are!
Pretty soon we see ’em walk away down a piece to the road jes’ as we
thought they would, only she was talkin’ fast, an’ cryin’. Still we
didn’t think nothin’ of it, knowin’ him an’ all, till suddenly we seen
him pick her up strugglin’ and chuck her into a autymobile he had
standin’ there, an’ fore we could sense what was goin’ on they was off
down the road.

“We talked it over an’ we come to the conclusion it was just a little
quarrel they was havin’ an’ none o’ our business. But two days after
that Billy he missed one o’ his wedges, an’ he reckoned he musta lef’
it up to the cem’try, so we all decides to walk up, bein’ a pleasant
evenin’, jus’ fer the walk. On the way we talked about the girl we’d
seen an’ decided to look at the headstone an’ see if we could make out
if she was a relative of ennybody we knowed. I ain’t from Meadow Brook
myself but I got frien’s buried up there. But when we come in sight o’
the cem’try we seen that there car thar again, jus’ in the same place,
kinda hid like behind the alders, backed down off the road, an’ we
listened, an’ heard the ring of a spade. We thought that was queer, an’
we clum the bank an’ stole round to the back of the cem’try where we
could see. We hadta go awful still, cause he stopped every now an’ agen
to listen, but we fin’lly got where we could see, an’ he was diggin’ a
grave!”

Gene caught his breath and Tyke sat watching him cautiously to see just
how far he could go with his tale.

“Thur was a long bundle did up in a carridge robe layin’ on the ground,
and bime bye when he’d dug a long time he turns around and he listens,
an’ then he snaps on his flashlight, an’ turns back the cloth an’ there
was ’er face, jes’ as plain, same girl as we’d seen settin’ on the
grave, only dead as a door-nail. Her face shone bright in his light
an’ we couldn’t make no mistake. Then he covers up her face an’ snaps
off the light and rolls her into the hole, an’ we could hear the dirt
bein’ shovelled down in again, an’ me an’ my pards were weak as little
babies. We couldn’t do nothin’, jes’ lay in the grass there an’ never
moved till we hear his autymobile chuggin’ down the road. We was most
too scared to speak then. An’ we got away acrost the fields an’ never
come home till mornin’ we was so plumb scared.

“We was tryin’ to figger out what to do, but next thing we heard the
girl had went away visitin’, an’ we figgered it out that what you
didn’t know wouldn’t never make you all feel bad, so we kep’ our mouths
shet. But here lately, I ain’t ben sleepin’ well. Keep a dreamin’
I see that there girl with her purty white face a cryin’ out to me
fer justice to be done on that there feller, an’ I made up my mind I
wouldn’t hold back no longer, I’d tell you the truth, an’ you kin do
what you like about it. My han’s is washed clean, enyhow. But if you
all want ter prosecute him its a clear case of murder in the first
degree, an’ we’ll all stan’ by ya.”

“But you haven’t told me who the man is,” said Gene, his breath coming
fast and his eyes taking on a wild look. “Murder! Think of it! To one
of our family!”

“Why, I ’sposed you knowed a course. Ain’t he ben comin’ here to see
her? I knowed he was here the night after he took her away ’cause I
seen him myself, follered him to the gate. Fact, there ain’t been much
happened to him sence that I ain’t knowed ’bout. Had him watched, ya
know. Can’t take no chances with a feller like that. Why, his name is
Sherwood. Darcy Sherwood. Great baseball pitcher. Often had his name in
the paper. That kind takes the girls ya know.”

“Darcy Sherwood! Of course!” said Gene. “Where is he now? I’ll get out
a warrant for arrest tonight.”

“Well, that’s the rub,” said Tyke uneasily. “You see he got away a few
days back. He’s ben keepin’ close, and been away a lot, but he musta
got onto it that we had him spotted fer he made tracks fer Canada.
I follered him up there, but found he’d left, given a wrong address
an’ all that. But he’s back somewheres in this neighborhood. I’m sure
o’that. You jes’ wantta put it in the han’s of the p’lice an’ you’ll
get yer party all right, all right! Better not tell who yer witnesses
are till ya get him safe an’ sound in jail, though. He mighta got onto
the fact of who we are an’ cleared out.”

Gene’s mind had run rapidly ahead of the visitor’s words. He was
thinking fast what he had to do.

“We must dig up that grave and find the body,” he said, speaking
rapidly. “You can locate it, of course.”

“Sure. We can locate her all right; but it ain’t no use diggin’ it up.
Didn’t I tell ya that part? This other party, this fourth man I was
speakin’ of fer a witness, he ain’t one of my bunch at all. He was
just goin’ through the medder adjoinin’ next night after the burryin’
an’ he heard a sound of a spade and he steps to the hedge curious
like to see who was diggin’ a grave that time o’ night, it was still
kinda light, an’ he sees this feller diggin’ her up, an’ presently he
takes up the big roll an’ carries it away in a car. Got scared likely.
Thought somebody was onto him, an’ didn’t dast leave her there. My man
went an’ looked in the hole after he was gone an’ there wasn’t nothin’
there but broken glass. After that we went too, an’ it’s all true just
as he sez. So he’s got away with it all good an’ slick. He’s an awful
slick feller. I knowed him back in France. I got an idea where he may
have hid her though. There’s more’n one graveyard round these diggin’s.”

Late that night Eugene let Tyke out the back door, and he stole away
into the mists like some creeping thing to hide. But Eugene walked the
floor all night, his white face drawn and pinched, his eyes bloodshot
and looking like hidden fires. There was something more than revenge
working in Eugene Massey’s heart. There was conscience. One cannot have
a mother like Mary Massey without having to suffer for it some time or
other, if one has wandered away from her teachings.

And all night long Nan lay in her bed with wide-open eyes and tried to
piece together the few words she had overheard from her perch on the
back stairs, and make sense out of them--lay and dreaded the coming of
the morning.




CHAPTER XXVII


One evening late in March Joyce was coming out from the Bible School
on the way to her train. She had omitted the second class that evening
because she had papers to correct when she got home and it would keep
her up very late if she waited until the late train.

As she came into the street a gust of wind caught her hat and flung it
along the pavement. She darted out after it, and after quite a race
captured it, but not till several large drops of rain had fallen in
her face. She turned to hurry toward the station. It was not a long
walk, and she usually preferred to do it on foot rather than to wait
for trolleys, which were few and far between on that side street. But
it was all too evident that a storm was upon her. Dust and papers
and litter were being blown along in the gutter, and the wind lifted
in wild swoops and banged signs and shutters and any loose object in
sight. People hurried to cover, umbrellas were raised and lowered
quickly, or the wind seized them and turned them inside out. People in
automobiles hurriedly fastened on side curtains, and the street was
almost deserted in a trice.

Joyce turned to see if a car was coming, but none was in sight. She
held her hat, and ducking her head, hurried on as fast as she could
fly, but at the second corner the wind took her and almost tore her
from the sidewalk. It was with difficulty she regained her footing and
huddled by some steps with her hand on a building to steady her. Then
the rain fell in torrents, and she turned and scurried blindly into an
open doorway a few feet away.

Other people had taken refuge there also, they were crowding in and
Joyce was pushed with the throng inside the door, not knowing what kind
of a place she was entering. But there were other women in the company,
caught in the storm as was she, so she was not frightened. Before she
had opportunity to look around and know where she was a burst of song
broke about her:

  “Free from the law! O happy condition!
  Jesus hath bled and there is remission!
  Cursed by the law, and bruised by the fall,
  Christ hath redeemed us once for all.

  “Once for all, O sinner, receive it!
  Once for all, O brother, believe it!
  Cling to the cross, the burden will fall,
  Christ hath redeemed us once for all.”

It was a religious meeting of some sort, right there in the heart of
the city!

She pressed in at last where she could stand behind the last row of
chairs next to the aisle and see the platform. A piano was there and a
girl playing the hymn. A young man was playing on a cornet, and there
were singers and some men seated in chairs behind a low desk table.

She forgot that she was missing her train in her deep interest in the
meeting, and her own voice joined eagerly in the old hymn she had known
ever since she could remember:

  “Now we are free--there’s no condemnation,
  Jesus provides a perfect salvation:
  ‘Come unto me,’ oh, hear His sweet call,
  Come, and He saves us, once for all.”

Her eyes swept over the congregation. Men and women and children were
there, people of plain dress, mostly, some young giddy children of the
street, some old men in worn garments, a few tired-looking women, not
many mighty. Back by the door, caught as herself in the storm were
a few better-dressed people, in luxurious furs and velvets, people
obviously amused at their surroundings, as they would have been equally
amused if they had dropped into an opium joint for the moment, or a
travelling circus, or a Hindoo temple, or any other alien environment.

But Joyce felt that she had dropped in on home and her heart went out
in the song:

  “‘Children of God,’ oh, glorious calling,
  Surely His grace will keep us from falling:
  Passing from death to life at His call,
  Blessed salvation once for all.”

The congregation rustled into their seats with the closing chorus and
gave Joyce a full view of the people on the platform. A man with a good
voice that could be heard out in the street was speaking now. He said:

“Before you go home I want you to listen to somebody else a moment. A
dear brother came to me tonight wanting to tell me what Christ had done
for him, and I have asked him if he will tell you what he told me. He
says he is not a public speaker, but when I put it to him that he might
help somebody else he consented.”

Some one stepped to the front of the platform and began to speak. A man
just in front of Joyce rose up at that instant and put on his overcoat,
and she could not see the platform for a moment, but the voice rang
into her soul like a song of long ago.

“I don’t like to talk about myself,” said the speaker, “never did, but
when your leader showed me a verse in my new Bible that said: ‘If thou
confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and believe in thine heart that
God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved!’ I had to do
what he asked, because I _believe_, and I want to _confess_.”

Joyce’s heart stood still with wonder and then went flying on in great
glad leaps and bounds. There could not be two voices like that one.
She stretched her neck to see, and when the man ahead of her sat down,
there was Darcy Sherwood standing on the platform, with a new grave
look upon his face, and he was saying the most wonderful thing:

“I’ve been a sinner all my life, but I never knew it until one day God
sent a woman to look into my eyes and ask me what I was doing. I was
in the bootlegging business then and doing pretty well. It had never
occurred to me that there was anything like what you’d call sin about
it. But it began to seem as if somehow God had got into that woman’s
eyes and was looking at me. I saw that the breaking of the law of the
land that had been made for the good of the land was a sin. I was a
law-breaker and I was a sinner. And somehow that sin grew until it was
the heaviest thing I had to carry around.

“I gave up bootlegging right away that night, but somehow that didn’t
seem to make any difference. The sin was there just the same and it
grew heavier and heavier on my soul. I never knew I had a soul before
that.

“I heard a Bible story read long ago about a blind man, and there was
one verse I always remembered. It said: ‘If ye were blind, ye should
have no sin: but now ye say, we see; therefore your sin remaineth.’

“I began to see that was just like me. I had always prided myself on
seeing what was right and doing it. I had been a law to myself. But now
I saw that was all wrong. I had no right to make my own laws. There had
to be somebody wiser than I who could make the laws for everybody.

“I bought a Bible and began to read, and presently I began to see that
there was something else back of it all that I hadn’t got at all yet.
There was something bigger than federal laws. I had broken the law of
the land and I could go and pay the penalty of that and wipe it out,
but there was a higher law, a law of the universe, that my spirit had
been breaking, and I didn’t see any way to wipe out that debt, pay that
penalty. In fact, I didn’t know that higher law, and how was I to keep
from breaking it?

“Then one day I came on a verse that said: ‘And this is his
commandment, that we should believe on the name of his son Jesus
Christ.’

“There it was! I hadn’t been doing that, and I was a sinner. I could
see how God would be very angry with me about that. God, to be a God,
holy and good and all that a real God would be, and I a little creature
setting up myself to not believe on Him! It really seemed a reasonable
offense. As I thought about it, it seemed greater than killing anybody,
or robbing a bank, or forging, or any of the things we count sins in
the world. It seemed--well--so contemptible in me. And the more I felt
it, the more I didn’t like the feeling, and I kept on reading my Bible.

“My Bible is a pretty nice kind of a Bible. I suppose you all know
about it. It is called a Scofield Bible and it has little explanations
and notes here and there that lead you on and that let you in on the
meaning of a word in the original Hebrew or Greek, and make it a lot
plainer to a beginner like me. By and by, after I had worried about my
sin a lot, I found that I didn’t need to worry at all--that my sin had
all been prepared for, and the penalty paid; that Jesus Christ had set
me free from the law of sin and death, and all I had to do was accept
my pardon and go out unburdened.

“Well, there isn’t much more to tell. I took it. You better believe I
did! If you had been as unhappy as I was you wouldn’t have wasted a
minute in taking a pardon like that. Why don’t you, by the way, if you
never have? It pays. I’m here to tell you it pays _above everything
else I’ve ever tried_. If you don’t see it, just try it anyway, and
you’ll find out.”

The audience rose to join in the closing hymn, and during that and the
benediction Joyce’s heart was in a tumult of joy. She could not see the
platform because the two men who stood in front of her were unusually
tall, and some people had come in and were standing in the aisle beside
her, crowding her from her position, but the instant the benediction
was over she set herself to get up that aisle somehow. However, she
might as well have attempted to throw herself out to sea when the tide
was coming in. It was impossible to make any progress, and finally she
slipped into the back seat and decided to wait. She must see Darcy at
any risk, no matter if she lost the next train. She must tell him how
glad she was!

There was a crowd around the platform. Likely people had come up to
speak to him. His words rang over again in her heart as she waited,
her eyes lighted with a great joy. At last the crowd thinned and she
managed to work her way through and get to the front, but as she did
so she saw several men going out a door back of the platform, and when
she arrived there was but one man left up there, seemingly a janitor,
picking up the books. Her heart sank.

“Oh, can you tell me where the speakers have gone? I must see one of
them a minute, that last man, Mr. Sherwood!” she cried eagerly.

“Him? Oh, he went while they was singin’, lady, hed to ketch a train. I
showed him the way to the station. Good, wa’n’t he? Beats all what the
Lord does when He gets a chance at a soul--”

But Joyce had gone, down the aisle with swift steps, out into the
street where it was still raining briskly, and the water pouring along
the gutter in deep angry tides. She paid no heed. She fled along on
winged feet, across the water, down another block; wet and breathless,
she arrived at last at the station.

She did not glance at the clock to see if she had missed her train; she
hurried out to the gates, and scanned every entrance to a train, but
the man was just closing the gate and slipping down the sign for the
New York express, which was moving away in the distance, and there was
no other train sign up except her own, the last one out to Silverton
that night. She glanced at the clock. There were three minutes before
it left. She cast a despairing glance around. He was probably gone on
that train to New York and she had missed her chance of telling him how
glad she was. She must go home of course. She would be in a terrible
predicament if she missed that train, and had to stay in the station
all night, for she had no money for lodging and would not have known
where to go if she had. And there were her examination papers.

The guard had his hand on the gate and his eye on the clock. She
hurried through the gates and onto the train, sinking into a seat just
as the train began to move, and feeling a rush of bitter disappointment
so deep she could hardly restrain the tears.

Yet beneath it all, as she put her head down on her hand and tried to
control her feelings, there was a deep gladness. Her prayers had been
answered. Darcy had found the way home. The horror of that night in the
cemetery was all cleared away. She had her friend once more, whether he
ever knew it or not.

Afterwards, while the wheels were turning in a drowsy tune, and the
sleepy passengers, with closed eyes, were trying to snatch a bit of
rest on the way, her heart woke up and began to tell over to her every
word that he had spoken, every precious look that showed his heart was
changed, every intonation of the voice she had known so long. And to
think the Lord had used her to make him listen to God’s voice! Oh, it
was too dear, too wonderful!

The look of glory stayed on her face the next morning as she came
blithely through the hall at school and met the young professor.

“You look as though you had fallen heir to a fortune,” he said sourly,
as though he begrudged her her happy heart.

“Why, I have,” she said brightly and smiled.

“Can’t you share it?” he said wistfully.

“I’m afraid not,” she said gently. “It wouldn’t share. You wouldn’t
understand.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t?” he said crossly.

“Oh,” she tried to explain. “It’s just--that I’ve heard from home.” Her
eyes were all alight.

“Oh!” he said rudely, and turned away.

“There’s another man in Meadow Brook,” he told himself gloomily. “I
must do something about this right away. I’m a fool, but I can’t help
it.”

At recess time he entered Joyce’s classroom with a smile and handed her
a newspaper still in its wrapper.

“Here’s a paper from Meadow Brook that just came in the mail. I thought
perhaps it might interest you. There’s a boy in High School there who
persists in thinking that I’m interested in their baseball team, and
every time they win a game I get a sheaf of papers. Of course they
don’t interest me. I hardly remember the names of people there any
more. I was there so short a time.”

Joyce thanked him and put the paper in her desk for a leisure moment,
going on with the blackboard exercise she was writing. Harrington was
disappointed. He had hoped she would open the paper in his presence,
and he might perhaps get some clue to her interest in Meadow Brook,
but she was as cool and disinterested as a lily. Well, he must find a
way to keep her in his company, there was no other way. It was against
all his principles to be too attentive until he felt she was worthy of
his position, but there seemed to be no other way, with her. It was
perhaps, after all, a proof that she was really worth while that she
held herself aloof. Or could it possibly be subtlety? No, he decided
not. Her religion was genuine, and that would preclude subtlety. Well,
at least her method had shown him his own heart, and now he must find a
way to win out, for it was getting toward spring and he must have this
matter settled before he went away on his vacation. He had an eye to
another larger school with better pay. It would be an advantage to him
to have it known that he was engaged to a personable young woman. It
was a wealthy community, where he was hoping to be called, and Joyce
would shine in such society with a little tutoring from him, always
providing of course that he could rid her of her ridiculous fanaticism.




CHAPTER XXVIII


That morning Darcy received Lib Knox’s letter.

He was passing through a city where he had been in the habit of
receiving mail, and he stopped to see if anything was in the box for
him, and to pay his box rent and give it up. There he found the letter.

His face grew tender and stern as he read. Dear little brave Lib. Well
he knew who the bad man with red hair must be, but how did Tyke ever
find out Lib? Some deviltry somewhere. But one thing was certain, he
must abandon his plans and go home to protect her. He would take Tyke
out in the open somewhere and give him a lesson if necessary.

He glanced at the date on the letter and frowned. Already he had been
in ignorance too long. There was time enough for any number of things
to have happened to Lib, and well he knew that Tyke was a bad man.
To the warning concerning his own welfare he paid no heed whatever,
passing over Lib’s solicitude for him with a tender smile.

More alarmed than he cared to own even to himself, he studied up
time-tables and took the first train that would make connections for
Meadow Brook. He must tell Mason to look after Lib better. They were
too careless with that child. As soon as his quest was over he must try
and do something about Lib. She wasn’t being brought up in the right
way. She wasn’t being taught right and wrong. She was too much on her
own, just as he had been. That must all be changed.

So he boarded the train for home, and on the way he closed his eyes
and tried to exercise his new power of prayer. What he was praying for
was that he might find Joyce Radway, and as the train rumbled along he
began to think to himself that perhaps, after all, he had been a fool.
He had got interested in his quest as a quest and had not remembered
that it might by this time be unnecessary. For aught he knew she might
have reached home.

Still, there was Dan Peterson. Dan always knew about where to find him
within a few days, and there had been no word from Dan all along the
line.

He closed his eyes and tried to pray. He was just learning to pray, and
since he had read the promises to those who prayed and believed, he had
spent much time upon this one petition: “Oh God, help me to find Joyce
and keep her safely.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was dark when Darcy reached Meadow Brook. He had come by a way of
his own and had not seen any one he knew. He took the short cut across
by the railroad and in at the back gate, and so entered the house from
the kitchen door.

His sister was sitting by the diningroom table with her head upon her
arms, crying in the dark. Lib was standing with her face flattened
against the window-pane, the slow tears coursing down her cheeks. Darcy
reached up and turned the light on, blinking at them wonderingly. His
first startled thought was that Mase must be dead. He put out a hand
gently and laid it on Ellen’s bowed head. Good, simple Ellen!

Ellen lifted her head and saw him and screamed, dropping her face down
again upon her folded arms and breaking into renewed sobs. But Lib ran
to him and threw her arms around his neck, burying her wet little face
on his shoulder.

It was so he learned what had come to him, sitting in a diningroom
chair beside his sister with his hand upon her bowed head and little
Lib in his lap, her face against his breast, sobbing as her mother told
the story brokenly. Mase, she said, was out trying to see a lawyer and
find out what to do. But there wasn’t anything to do. Everybody said
there wasn’t anything to do. The case was all against him.

Darcy took the blow straight with white, stern face and steady eyes.
The hand that held little Lib’s did not tremble and his voice did not
shake. The thing he was thinking was:

“Now I shall have to stop hunting for Joyce. Oh God, take care of
Joyce!”

But he opened his lips and said: “Well, Ellen, don’t take it so hard!
It’s all in the day’s work, and it’ll all come out in the wash. Anyhow,
Ellen, I’ve found a new line. God isn’t forgetting any of us and you
just put that away and think about it.”

Ellen sat up and wiped her eyes and stared at him. This was strange
talk from Darcy, and yet it was like him. She broke out afresh with
indignant tears that they should fasten a crime so heinous on this
beloved brother. She was engulfed, overwhelmed by the shame and
disgrace that had befallen them. She was old enough to have remembered
their gentle mother who always tried to keep them “respectable.”

“Never mind, Ellen, don’t cry any more. Give me a bite to eat and I’ll
go out and see what can be done.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t go out!” cried Ellen, and little Lib gripped him
fiercely. “You mustn’t! They’ll get you. They’re looking everywhere for
you.”

“That’s all right,” said Darcy cheerfully. “I’ll help them. I’ll go and
give myself up.”

And go he would in spite of all their efforts. He went away whistling
down the street, just as he always did when he was at home. Whistling!

So first he went to the police headquarters and walked in as he had
done many a time before, and they stared at him:

“I understand you’re looking for me?” he said, gravely with a new
dignity about him they scarcely understood.

“Yes,” said the chief, embarrassedly, almost deferentially, for Darcy
had been almost like one of themselves. “Yes.”

“Well. Here I am.”

They scarcely knew what to say to him. They treated him like a
gentleman, a stranger. It cut him the way they went about it. They
were not his friends any more. It seemed that they were afraid of him,
as if they did not know how to take him. They had been prepared for
rebellion, subterfuge. He gave none. He was his old grave self, with
the old winning smile as he met them, his eyes upon them with the old
question in them, the wistfulness. It disarmed them. They would have
rather had to fight with him.

And by and by he asked to see Dan Peterson. He would find out if he had
any friends left.

       *       *       *       *       *

Joyce did not remember the Meadow Brook newspaper again after she had
put it into her desk, for almost two weeks. It lay under a pile of copy
books that were awaiting marks and she had been too busy to get at
them. But one morning during study period she found time and drew them
out and there was the newspaper. She took it out and was about to throw
it in the waste basket, realizing how much out of date it must be. Then
a longing overcame her to see some of the old familiar names again, and
she slipped off the wrapper and decided to take just a moment to look
it over before throwing it away.

It was well that the top of her desk was raised and that the eyes of
her young pupils were occupied with their work, for the letters that
met her gaze flaring across the top of the paper in the blackest of
type made her gasp and turn white. They almost shouted at her as she
read:

  “BASEBALL IDOL IN TROUBLE!

  DARCY SHERWOOD WANTED ON CHARGE OF ABDUCTION AND MURDER OF JOYCE
  RADWAY

  Who left her home in Meadow Brook one year ago and has not been heard
  from since.”

The article went on to state that there were eye-witnesses to the
murder and burial of the girl who were willing to testify in the case.
It was also rumored that Eugene Massey, the cousin of the murdered
girl, had located the grave and exhumed the body which had been
identified by portions of clothing worn when Miss Radway left her home.
Meantime, Darcy Sherwood had also mysteriously disappeared, some said
to Canada, and a reward was offered for any knowledge of him; although
it was also stated that the detectives had been right on his track for
months, and could easily locate and produce him when he was needed.

For a moment Joyce thought she was going to faint. It went through her
mind to wonder if Harrington had known what was in the paper when he
gave it to her and took this way to let her know it. But she rejected
the idea instantly. His manner had been too pleasant and altogether
intimate for that. He was one who could never brook a thing like this
publicity in an intimate friend. His life was too well ordered and
conventional to make it possible to treat a girl just the same as ever
if he knew anything like this had been connected with her name. Her
next impulse was to hide the paper where no eye could ever see it. She
folded it quickly into a thick square and stuffed it into her handbag.
As she did so its date caught her eye, and her heart froze within her.
It was more than two weeks back. What might not have happened in that
time? Darcy in such awful trouble and she, the only one who could help
him, chained to these children.




CHAPTER XXIX


Joyce cast a helpless look around at the busy little figures behind
their desks. She glanced at the clock. It was only half past nine.
There was a train to the city in three-quarters of an hour. She must
make it. She would have to go home for money, too, and to change some
of her things. She must get some one to take her place, and she must
manage it so that no one would ask her any questions. Her brain seemed
fairly burning up with the rapidity of her thoughts.

Miss Beatty was a retired teacher who lived not far away and who
sometimes substituted when a teacher was ill. Would she be at home now,
and free? And how could she get out to telephone her?

With fingers that trembled so that she could hardly move her pencil she
wrote a little note to the teacher of the senior high school class and
sent it by one of the children. It read:

“Dear Miss Clayton: Can you let me have Mary Grover to keep order for a
little while? I am obliged to be out of the room.”

Mary Grover appeared in three or four minutes. Meantime Joyce had
summoned her senses and picked up everything she did not want to leave
in her desk, and slipped out to the telephone booth in the hall. She
dared not take the time to run across the street to the drug store for
more privacy. While she waited for her number she prayed that the Lord
would arrange the way before her. Her head was throbbing so that she
could scarcely see, and her heart beating wildly. She did not dare to
think except just about getting to the train. It seemed if she did,
that she would have to cry out and shout the horror of her soul at what
had happened.

Queer that at such a time our breathless minds will pick out
trivialities and dwell upon them. During that tense moment while she
waited for her answer it came to Joyce how Professor Harrington would
smile in his cynical way if he knew what she was doing, and ask her,
didn’t she think Miss Beatty would be at home just the same if she
didn’t pray? Then Miss Beatty’s precise voice echoed reassuringly over
the wire. “Yes? Ellen Beatty at the phone!” and Joyce, with a thrill of
triumph, spoke in her trembling voice:

“Oh, Miss Beatty, I’m so glad you are there! I hope you aren’t busy.
This is Miss Radway at the school. I’ve had bad news from home and I
must catch this next train. _Could_ you take my place?”

“Why, yes, I think so,” answered the kindly voice. “I’m very sorry----”

But Joyce cut her off quickly:

“Oh, thank you, then. Will you come over at once? I’m leaving
directions on the desk, and Mary Grover is with the class till you get
here. I haven’t a minute. Good-bye.”

She wrote a hurried note to Harrington there in the telephone booth:

“I have had bad news from home and must go at once. Miss Beatty is
taking my place. Did not want to disturb your class, and had not
a minute to wait. Will telegraph if I cannot get back tomorrow.
Sincerely, Joyce Radway.”

She slipped back to her own room and despatched this note by another
delighted child, got her hat from the dressing room and got away before
Harrington had had time to even open her note. She ran all the way
home, hastily changed her dress, put a few things into her little brief
case that she had bought at a bargain counter to carry her papers in
back and forth to school, and arrived at the station with three or four
minutes to spare and a tumult in her heart that demanded an opportunity
to cry.

Those three or four minutes seemed longer than the whole preceding
three-quarters of an hour, and she walked to the far end of the
platform and kept her eye out toward the street. She somehow had a
feeling that Harrington would not like it that she had not consulted
him before going, and she was almost sure if he could make it that
he would come down to the train. But it had happened that Harrington
was busy with three guests from another school, committeemen sent out
to size him up, and Joyce’s note lay harmlessly on his desk for half
an hour before he even had an opportunity to read it. Even then his
mind was so filled with wondering if he had made the right impression
that he scarcely took it in except to be annoyed, for he had purposed
taking the guests in to Joyce’s room to show it off, intending later,
if matters developed sufficiently to whisper a suggestion that she
might be the future Mrs. Harrington. It was very annoying of Joyce not
to consult him. He would punish her for that by coldness for a few
days. She was altogether too prone to take matters into her own hands.
That’s what came of having an independent religion that taught one to
think in unconventional lines. He had no thought of her trouble. He
didn’t take that in. But Joyce was riding away into the morning and
facing the awful facts that had called her from her work. Facing the
possibilities that might be ahead of her.

Suppose they had found Darcy and had the trial! There had been time
enough for that she supposed. Supposing they had convicted him! But
how could they when it was all false? Still, if such things could be
published in the paper when they were not true, what might not happen?
Law was a strange thing. Would they have hung him? Or electrocuted
him? Did they do those things so soon after the trial? The paper had
spoken of eye-witnesses. False witnesses of course. How could they be
true since the thing never happened? And what was Gene doing in it all?
The paper had spoken of Gene. She hardly dared to get it out again and
read it over lest some one should read it over her shoulder. It seemed
so terrible to see Darcy’s name in such connection. Darcy who had just
given himself to Christ, who had made over his life. And this to meet
him at the outset. It was enough to make some lose their faith. Not
Darcy. Oh, not Darcy! She cradled the thought of him like a child in
her prayers as the miles crept by and the morning went on.

By and by the train stopped suddenly with a jerk and a groan and after
one or two attempts to creep a few steps, lay there for a long time.
She remembered dimly that some such thing had happened on her way
up. She wondered idly if it were a part of every day’s journey? Her
impatience leaped ahead anxiously. Oh, if she were only there!

At last the train started on again and suddenly she realized that she
must plan what she would do when she got there. Should she go home and
send for the police, or should she go and try to find Darcy? She had
no idea where he lived now, and if he were at home he would probably
be in jail unless he had been able to prove that he was innocent. Then
suddenly she thought of Judge Peterson. He would know what to do. He
was a judge. She would go straight to his house. Afterward she would
have to go home and explain her absence and what she was doing, she
supposed, but that could take care of itself. She had Darcy now to
think about.

She had hoped to get the noon train from the city out to Meadow Brook,
but when she reached her home city her train was so late that there was
no Meadow Brook train till quarter of two. Then her impatience could
wait no longer and she called up Judge Peterson’s house.

At first she could get no answer, but just as she was about to give up
in despair a gruff voice said: “Hello! Dan Peterson at the phone?”

“Oh,” said Joyce in a relieved little voice. “Then is the Judge there?
I would like to speak to him a moment please.”

“No. He isn’t here. He’s over at the court house. Everybody’s over
there. I just happened to run home for some papers. Who is this?”

“This is Joyce Radway,” Joyce’s voice was all of a tremble. What if she
should be too late after all. What if the trial was days ago?

“What! Joyce! Oh, _Glory_! Is that really you, Joyce? Where are you? In
town? Say, take the ‘L’ and I’ll meet you at Sixty-third Street with
the car. You’re wanted here, you certainly are. And say, you there yet?
Say, don’t talk to anybody on the way out! Mind that! What’s that? In
time? Oh, sure, the nick of time. Couldn’t be better. All right. Get a
hustle on. I’ll meet you.”

Joyce hung up the receiver and hurried out to the elevated train, her
heart beating high with hope.

Dan dashed out to his car and rattled over to the court house, sent a
note up to the Judge’s desk and waited by the door. The message came up.

  “Say, Dad: The dead has come to life. Have her here in half an hour.
  Where do you want me to bring her? Here or over home?

                                                                 Dan.”

The message came back with one word written across the back:

“Here.”

But a light flashed from the eye of father to son as Dan turned to dash
out again.

Dan almost upset a small, forlorn figure pressed close to the swinging,
leathern doors, with woebegone look and white, tear-stained cheeks.

“Hello there, Kid, did I hurt you?” He paused in his wild rush to set
her on her feet again. “Why, little Lib Knox, is this you?” he said
tenderly, discovering her identity and the tear streaks on her cheeks.
“This is no place for you, child. Come on, take a ride with me.”

But Lib drew a sigh of sobbing and held back.

“No, I gotta stay here,” she said. “I gotta stay here an’ help my Uncle
Darcy.”

“Come on, then an’ we’ll help him.” He swept her under one arm and
marched away, she wearily resisting. “Listen, Kid, I’ve got glad news.
Wait till we sail an’ I’ll tell you who we’re goin’ after.”

Lib suddenly relaxed and looked in his face. There was no mistaking the
light in Dan’s eye. He had really some glad news. Lib climbed into the
machine and sat back wearily, a poor little sinner with all her spirit
gone, and allowed herself to be led away from the scene of her sorrow.
Things had been going hard in there where Uncle Darcy was with the bad
red-haired man. She knew it by the stern look on his face when the door
swung back and she got a glimpse. She knew it by the leer on Tyke’s
evil face, and by the smug exclamations of the ladies who sat in the
back seat and the knowing winks of rough men near the door. She knew it
by the hard set of the old Judge’s mouth as he eyed the witnesses, and
by the way he worried them with questions now and then like a cat with
a mouse. If anything could be glad now, Lib was ready to believe it.

When they had swung the second corner beyond the court house Dan leaned
down and whispered:

“Now, Lib, do you know who we’re going after? Guess?”

“God, I guess,” said Lib drearily. “I guess that’s all’s could help my
Uncle Darcy any. I heard the men say he was as good as hung now!” She
caught a sob with a gulp and let the big tears roll down her worried
little face.

“Well, I guess God had something to do with it,” allowed Dan
comfortably. “He generally does. Cut out that weeping, Lib. That’s not
like you!”

“But it’s all my fault!” she sobbed out, utterly broken at last. “It’s
’cause I went and took that ride with that nasty red-haired man in his
motor cycle. He--he--he made me tell where Uncle Darcy was.”

“Why, how did you know where he was?”

“I--I--I _didunt_!” wept Lib. “I made it up. I told a _lie_. I said he
was in Canada. And I told God it was a lie, huh-huh-huh!” she sobbed.
“But it didunt do any good. God didn’t like it.” Dan put one arm around
her gently.

“There now, Lib, that’s all nonsense. You did a brave thing and it
didn’t have a thing to do with your uncle’s trouble. It probably only
held the man off a little longer. Besides, there’s no need for you
to worry any more. Listen. Who do you think we’re going after? Joyce
Radway. She’s down at Sixty-third Street Station waiting for us now. I
just talked to her over the phone.”

Lib Knox sat up as straight as a pipe stem and her eyes got round and
great behind their tears:

“Then He _did_ hear!” she said in an awestruck tone.

“Who heard?”

“God heard, away up in heaven like they said in Sunday School. I didn’t
believe it but now I do. But I tried it anyway, and He heard. I ast Him
would He please bring her back to life again and He’s done it!”

Dan pressed the little hand he held and said huskily:

“Yes, Kid, He’s done it. I guess there was more than one asking for
that same thing. Well, here we are, and--There she is!”




CHAPTER XXX


The trial had been going hard with Darcy, as little Lib had surmised.
Even the old Judge had been crabbed in some of his orders, and thrown
anxious glances among the witnesses searching in vain for some ray of
hope. He loved Darcy and things seemed to be going against him.

Not for one minute in his heart of hearts did Judge Peterson believe
that Darcy Sherwood was guilty of such things as he was being charged
with, and when he stood up straight and handsome in the prisoner’s box
to answer to the question: “Guilty or not Guilty?” he had admired the
straight, clear look with which he faced the roomful of curious enemies
and anxious friends. Slowly Darcy had swept the room with his glance as
if searching for one on whom he could rely. Anxiously his eyes rested
on his sister Ellen, sitting huddled behind her handkerchief, and on
the little shrinking Lib, looking so fierce beside her, surprisedly
on the minister and his wife, taking in their kindly faces, something
true and real about them. He knew they were Joyce’s friends and he
liked their being there. There was nothing hostile about them. Then
his gaze wandered to the four men huddled together in a corner with
Tyke spreading himself as their leader, making loud mouthed remarks
and casting furtive, sidelong glances, keeping his eyes away from the
prisoner. Darcy took them in half amusedly, wholly comprehending,
almost a smile of contempt flitting across his face, before he turned
deliberately and faced his enemy, Gene, and looked him keenly down
with a cold, righteous glance. Then he turned back to the Judge and
said quietly, “Not Guilty, Your Honor,” as if there had been no pause
between the question and the answer. The Judge found himself watching
the boy and wondering where he got his poise, his cool calm look, that
might almost be described as that of peace.

From the start Darcy sat in his place and watched each actor in the
little scene before him as if he were somehow outside of it all,
detached from the whole thing, as if the outcome were of little moment
to him, only the persons.

Darcy had not asked for a lawyer. In fact, he had refused one. He would
not ask anybody to help him, nor tell anything that would give a clue
to where he had been or what he had been doing. He had told them he
would plead his own cause when the time came.

So the evidence went on. Witnesses were sworn in and testified to the
most unpleasant details in a well constructed tale of horror. Tyke was
clever, but Bill was sharp, and what the two of them could not think
out the canny Cottar did. They had left no question unprepared for, no
weak places in their line of evidence. They even had an old flashlight
of Darcy’s they had found where he had left it last at one of their
meeting places, and most carefully had they preserved it without
handling that the finger prints might be observed. Obligingly Darcy put
out his fingers for the impression, that smile of half amusement on
his lips. So well he understood the revenge that was working all this
elaborate network of lies to catch him.

Yet as the evidence went on he began to realize how cleverly it had
been done, and how only a miracle of some kind could save him. He
sat gravely watching it all, listening. Now and then jotting down a
note for his own reply when his time came, but for the most part,
gravely listening, and the day went on and blacker grew the evidence
against him. The excitement in the court-room was great. There were not
wanting gruesome details and Darcy’s face grew stern and his soul sick
within him. To think that Joyce should, through him, be mixed up in a
loathsome mess like this! He would rather have died a thousand deaths
than to have had her name connected in such wise.

The spectators were strained to the highest point. Nan, heavily veiled
and weeping, was most affected. When it came her turn to testify she
told of the beautiful relation between herself and Joyce, but said that
Joyce was very secretive and went out a good deal evenings, staying
late. Once during Bill’s blunt testimony she screamed and fainted and
had to be taken out, but insisted on coming back again. And hourly the
look of suffering grew on Darcy’s face, as if the ordeal were actual
physical pain. But once, there was a little relaxing of the strain,
when old Noah Casey took the stand, and was asked to swear that he
would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

He climbed into his place and laid a trembling, knotted hand upon the
book, but when they asked him to swear he smiled about upon them and
shook his head.

“My mother taught me not to swear,” he said serenely, while the four
who were sponsoring him frowned and cursed beneath their breath.

He stood there looking about on the throng, his quick bright eyes
travelling from one face to another, half suspicious of them all, half
frightened like a wild thing of the woods. And when the people laughed
he laughed with them at himself. The difficulty about the oath over,
he told his story, eagerly, somewhat like a child, in short hurried
sentences, his bright eyes still hurrying over the audience, his long
nervous fingers fingering the brim of his old felt hat. “I was going
acrost the medder--” he began, “ahint of the graveyard--” and Gene’s
lawyer helped him out with questions. “You saw a bundle on the ground
like a human body--” the bright eyes focused on the lawyer an instant.

“No, it was broken glass. Leastways that’s what I thought I saw. They
tell me--” The lawyer hurried into another question, and the Judge
interrupted:

“Suppose you look around, Noah, and tell me if you can see the man you
saw that night digging in the graveyard?”

The bright eyes focused on the Judge, and then turned quickly toward
Tyke. The lawyer hastened with his assistance.

“Was it this man, Noah?” he pointed to the prisoner.

Noah Casey turned around toward the box where Darcy sat and saw Darcy
for the first time:

“What! _Him?_” he asked, pointing with a long finger at Darcy who
regarded him with a grin of friendliness.

“Why, no, that’s Darcy Sherwood. I know _him_. I’ve knowed him since
he was a little tad. Oh, no, it wa’n’t Darcy. _He’s_ a good boy. He
wouldn’t do such a thing. The man I saw had red ha--”

But Gene’s lawyer raised his voice:

“Your Honor, I am disappointed in this witness. Mentally he does not
seem to be quite all that I supposed--”

“Undoubtedly--” said the Judge under his breath, and Noah was hustled
off the scene.

But the afternoon came on and somehow the false witnesses were making a
pretty good case of it against Darcy. The Judge’s eyebrows were drawn
in a heavy frown and his breath came quick and deep. Those who knew him
well knew that he was troubled, and it was just then that Dan’s note
was handed up.

No one but Darcy noticed the twinkle that came in the Judge’s eyes, and
he wondered and tried to puzzle it out. The Judge was his friend he
knew, and wanted to see him cleared, but surely all hope was gone. The
evidence was all on one side. Why prolong the agony? It almost seemed
as if the Judge were trying to keep the case going, trying to make
time. He asked the most trivial questions and tripped up the lawyer
again and again, holding a witness far beyond necessity.

All at once the Judge drew a long breath and a light came in his eye.
He sat back as if he were done, and ordered that the prisoner be
allowed to speak for himself.

The leather door at the back of the court-room had swung noiselessly
but that moment, and little Lib had entered, straight and beaming, and
behind her walked a lady, and Dan Peterson. Darcy gave one glance and
then arose, and there was a new light in his face. It was almost as if
he had come to a triumphant moment, instead of being about to plead for
his life in the face of indubitable evidence against him. Those who
were watching noticed with a shock that he actually had a kind of smile
on his face, and a look of something--could it be peace? What utter
nonsense! Perhaps he was going out of his mind. Any one might, having
to listen to such a list of his own horrible crimes!

But Darcy was speaking in his quiet tone:

“It almost seems a pity to add anything after such well established
evidence as you all have heard. If I didn’t know I wasn’t guilty I
would almost think I was after listening to what has been said. So I
won’t try to argue in my own favor. I see Miss Joyce Radway herself has
just come in, and I’m going to ask if she may come up here and tell you
whether I ever abducted her, or murdered her, or buried her.”

Then indeed there was a great stir in the court-room. People stretched
their necks to see, and rose up in their seats, but the Judge commanded
silence. Under cover of the confusion Tyke attempted an escape, but was
stopped by order of the watchful Judge.

Joyce came to the front of the room, proudly escorted by Lib who held
her hand to the very witness stand and then stood by with glad eyes to
watch her.

Joyce turned and faced the excited throng, then looking toward her
old friend, Judge Peterson, she spoke in clear, ringing tones that
everybody could hear:

“Your Honor, I haven’t seen Mr. Sherwood but once since I left home a
year ago to go to Silverton and teach. Mr. Sherwood does not know I saw
him then. He was making a speech in a religious service in the city
where I happened to be one evening, and it was a good speech too. I
wish you could have heard it. I tried to get up to speak to him but the
crowd was so great that he was gone before I got to the platform.”

She turned her face toward the court-room a little more, looking down
at the seats where the witnesses sat, and noticing with startled eyes
the man of the loud voice who had addressed her as “girlie” on that
memorable morning one year ago.

“I don’t know what you have been trying to do to my old friend, Mr.
Sherwood, or where you got such utter lies. I went away from Meadow
Brook because I wanted to teach and I knew my relatives were opposed to
my doing it. I did not realize that I could be misunderstood or make
trouble for anybody by doing so, but my going certainly had nothing
whatever to do with Darcy Sherwood. We have seldom seen each other
since we were school children together, and he has always been most
kind and gentlemanly to me whenever I have met him.

“I happened to see an old copy of the _Meadow Brook News_ this morning
and read to my horror what you were saying about him and me. It made
me sick that my old friends and my relatives could allow such an
awful charge to be made on such a man as Darcy Sherwood. I had to get
somebody to take my place in school while I came here, and I was afraid
I wouldn’t get here in time before you did something dreadful you could
never be forgiven for. But I’m glad I came, and I’m--_ashamed_ of you
all.”

If any one had been looking at Darcy then they would have seen a
wonderful look in his eyes, but everybody’s attention was centred on
Joyce. There had not been such a sensation in Meadow Brook in years as
the dead coming to life just in time to save a tragedy.

The Judge stood up and addressed Darcy. His voice was trembling. He was
very unjudgelike in his manner.

“My boy, you are free from the charge and the court dismisses the
case.” He was smiling and there was something like a mist in his eyes.

Darcy inclined his head slightly.

“Your Honor, I thank you. I am glad to be exonerated from a crime that
I did not commit; but I want to ask your permission now to confess to
one that I did. I want to take the penalty, whatever it is, and be
cleared in the eyes of the law forever.”

The court-room grew suddenly hushed. People who had risen and begun to
adjust wraps and pick up their gloves sat down again. All ears were
strained to hear every word.

“You have my permission,” said the Judge looking instantly grave
and anxious. “Is the attorney here to take down the confession? Mr.
Robinson--”

There was a little stir in the room while the attorney came forward,
and then Darcy went on:

“For several months prior to the time last spring when I left town I
had been in the bootlegging business.”

“Oh!--Ah!” were whispered here and there with nods of previous
conviction from people who had been half disappointed to have the trial
turn out so well.

“I gave it up because I had come to feel that it was wrong. I confess
it now because I want to pay the penalty of what I have done. Judge,
I will be glad if you will put this through as soon as possible. I am
ready to take what is coming to me.”

The Judge bowed gravely. There was no denying that he looked relieved.

“This will have to go through the regular routine of course,” he said,
“but it can be run through quickly. Mr. Robinson, you get the items,
number of cases sold and so on; prepare the indictment, and we’ll try
to get it through tomorrow.”

The Judge straightened up and looked about him, his eyes resting on the
four witnesses, holding their hats ready for a speedy departure, and at
that moment the district attorney jumped up briskly.

“Your Honor,” he said. “I ask that these four witnesses be held for
perjury.”

A murmur of satisfaction went rippling over the court-room as people
rose to go out.

People were rushing around Joyce as she came out, still escorted by
little Lib, proud as a small peacock. Nan was the first to envelop her
in a smothering embrace, weeping copiously upon her neck with loud show
of affection. Many old friends lingered, waiting just to watch her dear
face alight with the relief and triumph of the moment. The minister and
his wife were close behind Joyce and eagerly asked her to come home
with them.

“No,” put in Nan decidedly, “She’s coming to her _own_ home of course.
Everything in your room is just as you left it, _darling_--”

Joyce couldn’t help smiling at the affectionate appellative.

“For pity’s sake get rid of that awful child, and come on,” whispered
Nan loudly. “Don’t let her hang on you like that. Let’s get out of this
terrible crowd! How curious people are! Come on home!”

Poor little Lib dropped Joyce’s arm as if she had been shot, but Joyce
quickly caught the little cold hand and drew it back close within her
arm, her own warm fingers keeping the little hand clasped tight.

“I want her here, Nan. She is my dear little friend,” said Joyce
pleasantly.

“For mercy’s sake! You always had such queer friends, Joyce,” she
laughed disagreeably. “Well, never mind, bring her along, only come on!”

But Dan Peterson’s hand was on Joyce’s shoulder.

“No, Mrs. Massey, Joyce is coming with us. Father wants to see her
right away at home,” and off he carried Joyce and Lib in his own big
shiny car, while Nan tried to hide her chagrin by taking to herself
reflected glory, and trying to make a little social hay while the sun
shone.

Joyce went home with the Petersons and was presently sitting in Judge
Peterson’s library, learning about her inheritance, and being prepared
for the reading of the will which was to come after supper as soon as
the Masseys could be summoned to the hearing.

But all the time her mind was on the listen, and she was hoping that
Darcy would come. Surely, surely he would come and speak to her, just
thank her or something. He had been busy with the attorney when she
left the court-room, and had flashed her just one gorgeous smile as
she looked back at him. Had she been mistaken? Surely there was a
promise in that glance, that he would see her again. She wondered why
everything seemed to have suddenly gone so flat. She ought to go back
of course on the night train and be ready to teach on the morrow, but
her heart was not willing to go--not yet--and Judge Peterson presently
settled the matter by saying that she would be needed the next day for
the technicalities of the settlement of the estate.

So she sent a telegram to Harrington:

“Will be back to teach Monday morning. Cannot possibly come sooner.

                                         (Signed)       J. Radway.”




CHAPTER XXXI


The will was read at last.

Gene and Nan, glowering in the corner of Judge Peterson’s comfortable
library, learned with dismay that their part was only a small patrimony
which Mary Massey had in her own right. The rest, house, and meadow
lands, and money enough to keep her comfortably were all Joyce’s left
her by her mother from her own father’s estate.

It had been her mother’s wish that Joyce should not know that she had
anything but herself to depend upon until she grew up. She felt that
so she would the better come up unspoiled and independent. So she had
placed the property in her sister’s hands in such a way that unless
Mary Massey died Joyce would not know that she had anything until she
came of age. Judge Peterson was the other trustee of the property and
was to use his own discretion about telling Joyce in case of her aunt’s
death before her majority. But during the interval of Joyce’s absence
from Meadow Brook Joyce had come to her majority, so there was no
longer any hindrance to her entering into her inheritance at once.

Mary Massey had not told her son the whole thing for reasons of her
own, but she had left a letter explaining the matter to him, and
reminding him of what she had always told him, that she had very little
to leave him, but commending Joyce to his tender care, and saying she
had little fear but that Joyce would always be generous with him.

Gene and Nan arose silently when the business of the will was
concluded. They had a look of withdrawing. A hurt, stricken look.

Joyce sprang up and went over to them, saying eagerly:

“Of course, Gene, you’ll stay in the house.”

“It’s your house,” said Gene. “Of course we’ll get right out.”

“Please don’t,” said Joyce earnestly. “At least not unless you don’t
want to stay, of course. The house was your mother’s home. All these
technicalities of law don’t change the matter a mite to me. I know Aunt
Mary expected us all to live there, and she knew I would say so. Even
though it is mine it’s just the same as yours. Besides, I’ve another
little house of my own in Silverton and I presume I shall go back there
and go on teaching. I should not be happy doing nothing. The house may
have been bought by my father’s money, but it was made into a home by
your mother’s loving care, and it’s yours as much as it is mine. As
long as you live I want you to feel you can live in it if you want to.”

“You could sell it,” said Gene, still independently, “or rent it. I
will pay you rent,” stiffly.

Joyce laughed.

“No, indeed. You won’t pay me rent. If you try to I’ll pay you for your
mother’s love and care. How would that be? And I don’t want to sell
the house. I love it. I like to think it’s there for me to come home
to now and then. And Nan, you don’t need to feel hampered there. You
can arrange things just as you like, just as if it were your own. Just
treat me like a sister, that’s all, and share with me in what there is.”

“I’m sure that’s very generous in you, Joyce,” said Gene, feeling a
sense of shame over the way he had always treated her. “We’ll think
about it. Aren’t you coming home with us now?”

“Why, I’ll be down tomorrow, I guess,” she said pleasantly. “I want to
get all these papers signed and everything fixed. I must be back on my
job Monday, you know.”

“I shouldn’t think you’d have to teach now,” said Nan, an envious note
in her voice. “Why don’t you just telegraph them you aren’t coming
back, and quit?”

“Why, that wouldn’t be honorable,” laughed Joyce. “And besides I like
it. I wouldn’t leave the kiddies for anything till the term is up.”

“You’re a queer girl,” said Nan speculatively. “I don’t see why you
don’t just want to have a good time.”

“Why, I’m having a beautiful time,” said Joyce, wide-eyed. “I’m doing
what I’ve always wanted to do.”

They went home, and the evening passed and still Darcy did not come.
Joyce began to wonder if he were not coming at all. If, perhaps, she
might be going to have to write him a note or call him up or something;
for she did not mean to go back to Silverton without telling him in so
many words how glad she was that he had found her Lord.

Joyce spent Friday in going over her things in the old home and packing
up what she wanted to take back with her to Silverton, but she went
back at night to Judge Peterson’s. The minister and his wife came in to
call that evening and they had a beautiful talk, but all the time Joyce
was listening for a step that did not come, and wondering. Was Darcy
still shy? Surely he would come just once after all that had happened,
after she had come home to make things straight and set him free.

She thought she heard the minister speak his name as they were about
to leave, talking to Dan Peterson over by the door, and Dan said,
“Yes, tomorrow,” that was all. She wanted to ask, but something held
her back, and no one mentioned Darcy. Was it his second trial that was
coming off tomorrow she wondered?

She did not sleep well that night. She kept waking and thinking of
Darcy. Was he going to have to go to prison after all for bootlegging?
It seemed so hard now that he had begun his new life. She wished she
dared ask about the law.

The next morning at the breakfast table she followed a sudden impulse
and told the Judge and his wife all about Darcy’s speech in the meeting
on the night of the rain. Dan had gone into the hall to answer the
telephone and when he came back he tiptoed in and stood by the door
quietly, as if some one were praying. His eyes were down and his face
looked strangely tender as if he were hearing a miracle. Neither the
Judge nor Dan were much on religion, but Mrs. Peterson was a saint if
there was one, and her face glowed with joy over the story. The old
Judge cleared his throat three times before he growled out the words:

“Yes, Darcy’s all right, Darcy’s all right.” His glasses seemed to be
blurred and he had to take them off and polish them before he could see
right again. “He needn’t have confessed that at all. It was all over
and forgot. But still, I like him better for it. Great stuff in him!”

Then Joyce summoned courage.

“Will he have trouble again, with this other trial? What will be the
penalty? Will he have to go to prison?”

“Oh, no, oh, no! Nothing like that,” said the Judge hastily. “Oh, no,
he’ll just have to pay a penalty. Probably about five hundred dollars
or something like that, according to the amount of stuff handled. Know
how much it was, Dan?”

“About,” said Dan gruffly.

“Great boy, Darcy!” said the Judge emphatically. “He’ll be all right
this morning. Case comes off before noon, doesn’t it, Dan? Where’s my
note book?”

“Yes, before noon,” said Dan, and then they both went out and Joyce,
with relieved heart, went to singing and playing on the old tinpanny,
yellow-keyed square piano, singing with all her heart, the song they
sang that night in the meeting:

  “Free from the law, O sinner, receive it,
  Free from the law, O brother, believe it--!”

and Mrs. Peterson, up in her room making her bed and plumping up the
pillows, said to herself happily:

“Bless her dear little heart. I wish we could keep her here.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Darcy came home with Judge Peterson at noon to lunch. He seemed a new
Darcy. His face was alight, and his smile was joyous.

He did not talk much during the meal, but what he said rippled with
humor, and kept them all in gales of laughter. The new gravity that was
upon him when he was silent sat well there, and gave him an air of one
who had found a solid foundation.

As they arose from the table he looked at Joyce and said in a tone that
every one could hear:

“Miss Joyce, it’s a gorgeous afternoon and I thought perhaps you’d like
to take a walk through some of the old paths. I have something I’d
like to tell you, and if you don’t mind being seen in company with a
law-breaker like me we might stroll down to the old woods.”

Joyce looked up with her face flooded with glory: “Oh, but you’re not
under the law now, you know,” she said brightly.

“No, not in any sense, thank the Lord,” said Darcy reverently. “Not
even under the law of the land.”

They walked down the long, smooth road together past the bridge and
round the turn, and there on the hill before them lay the woods in all
the beauty of the springtime verdure. They had been talking of the
trial, Darcy telling her all that had gone on before she arrived, and
also of the second trial where he had paid the fine and been set free.
But now, at the turn of the road, they stopped and looked. The scene
was so lovely, one could but exclaim at the beauty of the hillside. The
fields were green and dotted with violets where they walked, and all
about were spicy odors of the spring, with exquisite perfumes in the
making. Before them rose the woods, pale greens stippled with red buds
on their tips, and a background of darker pines. And now they spoke of
Aunt Mary and the day they had spent together.

As they entered the woods frail anemones scattered their pathway, and
hepaticas, blue and white, met them in groups where maiden hair hid,
and little curled fern fronds stuck up through the black mould. As they
walked down that pine-strewn path, flower broidered and dim, each was
conscious of the last time they had passed that way. They had gone out
from that arched silence a boy and girl, they were reëntering man and
woman.

For a few moments neither spoke. Then Darcy, as if he were treading
holy ground:

“It was here you sat when I first saw you.”

Joyce flashed him a golden look.

“And you there?” she pointed. “I have always wanted to go there and sit
myself,” she said, “with my feet hanging over that rock.”

“Let’s go!” he said, and caught her hand.

He helped her down to a comfortable spot, where the mossy rock shelved
over the water, and the little brook babbled over bright stones in a
quiet, musical way.

Sitting there he told her of the deep experience of his heart. Of how
that day and the story of the blind man had lingered with him all those
years, until he came to understand that he was blind, and he was a
sinner and needed a Saviour. He told her how her eyes had pierced his
soul, like the thought of God searching him, and how he had finally
surrendered. He spoke of the peace and joy that were his now, and of
his Bible.

And then Joyce told him how she had come in out of the rain and heard
him talking, and tried to reach him and failed.

The sun dropped lower in the west and the long shadows came within
their sweet retreat. Finally, they sat in silence, just listening to
the birds, and the tinkle of the water, feeling how good it was to be
here after the years.

Suddenly Darcy began to speak again:

“Joyce, I’m going to tell you something. You may think perhaps
I oughtn’t to tell you, that I have no right to speak of such
things--that I am unworthy. But somehow I think you ought to know.
After I’ve told you I’m not going to presume upon it. I know as well
as you do that I’m unworthy. But I’ve loved you all my life, and it’s
kept me from a great deal that I might have done if I hadn’t. I never
dreamed of you as mine, not in any material sense of the word. I always
knew I wasn’t big enough and good enough for you, but I’ve kept you
like a shrine in a temple, a place to worship at. You can’t know what
it’s meant to me. I’m telling you this because it’s the only way I can
thank you for what you did for me. You saved my life, and I want you to
know that all that a man has to give a woman, that I have given to you.
There will never be any other girl for me!”

Joyce’s head was turned away. She was trying to keep the blinding joy
of her heart from leaping to her eyes.

“And you refuse to let me give anything back to you?” she asked in a
little faltering voice.

“What do you mean, Joyce?” He lifted his eyes and looked at her
anxiously.

“I mean, does it mean nothing to you that I have loved you too, ever
since the day we were here last?”

He caught her hand.

“Joyce! Do you mean that? You loved me all that time? But of course you
did not know me, did not know that I was--”

“I loved _you_,” said Joyce firmly. “And I love you now. I didn’t know
it was that when I came home to save you, but I guess it was there all
the time only I hadn’t told myself about it--yet--”

“Oh, Joyce, my darling!”

He gathered her close to his heart and closed his eyes in an ecstasy of
joy.

“It makes me feel so humble!” he said at last looking into her eyes.
“To think that I, a sinner, a law-breaker--”

She laid her fingers on his lips.

“‘For ye are not under the law,’” she quoted softly, “‘but under
grace.’ Have you forgotten that He puts His righteousness upon us?”

       *       *       *       *       *

They came back from their walk in the twilight with the stars looking
down upon them and a new moon shining in a clear sky, but they did not
see it. They were walking hand in hand and talking of many precious
things.

The Petersons had been waiting dinner for them almost an hour, but they
were serenely unconscious of the fact.

They went to church the next day and sat in the old Peterson pew, side
by side, with the Judge and Mrs. Peterson and Dan, for the delectation
of all eyes, but they didn’t know that either. They were as happy as
any two people could be in this world.

Monday morning, with the first ray of light, Darcy was up and at his
car, and before the people of Meadow Brook had begun to think about
waking up he and Joyce were on their way to Silverton. Joyce had around
her shoulders her gray fox neckpiece. Nan had ostentatiously thrown it
out the window in the gray of the morning when they stopped there for
Joyce’s trunk saying: “Here, Joyce, you’ll need this. It’s chilly. I
had it put carefully away for you in camphor all winter.”

They had the road to themselves for the first two hours and Darcy’s
racing engine flew out along the road as smoothly as perfect steel and
well oiled bearings could make it. They drove into Silverton at ten
minutes to eight, and went straight to Joyce’s little house to leave
her trunk, much to the wonder and delight of Mrs. Bryant who hadn’t
known what to make of Joyce’s absence.

Joyce was wearing on her finger a splendid diamond. Darcy had routed a
jeweller friend out of bed late Saturday night to get it, and paid for
it with a check that almost cleaned his bank account out entirely, but
he wore a look on his face of utter happiness.

They drove up to the school house five minutes before the bell rang,
and Professor Harrington stood on the steps talking to a teacher. Joyce
was still in her new spring suit and pretty, becoming little hat, with
the gray fox around her neck, and Harrington felt his resolve slowly
melting away from him. How could one be cold to a girl who looked like
that? She certainly was stunning in those clothes. He had thought all
along that clothes would make a big difference. But who the deuce was
the big, good-looking giant who brought her.

And then the giant stooped and kissed Joyce, and he frowned.

“Was that your brother?” he asked as Joyce came flying up the walk
afraid she was going to be late.

Joyce lifted a saucy face and smiled:

“No, Mr. Harrington,” she said sweetly. “That is the man I am going to
marry. Have you time to come down and meet him?”


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained from the original.



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