Joan went upstairs to the west wing chamber singing a gay little song--her own voice seemed to hold her to the safe, happy present--so she sang.

She paused at the door of her room to read the words carved there long ago by Sister Constance:

=And the Hills Shall Bring Peace=

It was like someone speaking a welcome.

"Oh! it is all so dear," Joan murmured, "how could it ever have seemed dull!"

Flowers filled the vases, and there was a small, fragrant fire on the hearth--a mere thing of beauty, there was no need of it, for the windows were open to the gentle spring day.

Joan slipped into a loose gown and then stood in the middle of the room leisurely taking in the comfort and joy of every proof of love that she saw.

On the desk by the window lay a pile of unopened letters--she took them up. They were the letters from Doris and Nancy which had been returned from Chicago. Pitiful things that had been so hopefully sent forth only to come back like blighted hopes!

For a moment Joan contemplated throwing them all on the fire. She did not feel equal to re-living the past. It was only by laughing and singing that she could hold her own.

But on second thought she opened the first one--it was from Nancy.

"I better have all I can get to begin on," she reflected; "it will save time."

She sat down in a deep chair and presently she was aware of combating something that was being impressed upon her; she was not conscious of reading it.

"Such things do not happen--not in life----" her sane, cautious self seemed to say. For a second Joan believed her tired brain was playing her false as it had during those awful weeks in the hospital. She closed her eyes; grew calm--then tried again:

Since you are not coming to see Ken now, Joan, I will try to describe him. You remember old Mrs. Tweksbury? Well, my dear boy belongs, in a way, to her----

Again Joan closed her eyes while a faintness saved her from too acute shock. She felt the soft air upon her face; she was conscious of that bewildered whine of poor Cuff. Vaguely she thought that he must be hungry; thirsty--then there was a moment's blank and--the sickening weakness was gone!

With the strength and clarity that sometimes comes at a critical moment Joan's mind worked fast and carried her where hours of quiet thought could not have done.

It was natural, of course, that Nancy should meet Raymond--the most natural thing in the world.

His loving her--so soon after what had happened! That was the thing that gripped and hurt. Joan tried to connect the date of that night in the studio and the one on Nancy's letter. She seemed powerless to do so--the time between was a blank; there was no time! Everything belonged to a previous incarnation.

With a shudder, Joan presently realized the insignificant part she had borne in Kenneth Raymond's life.

The humiliation turned her hot and cold. He had always held but one opinion of her; his loss of self-control had simply torn down the defences behind which he had played with her, amused himself with her, during the dull summer.

She was, to him, one of the women not to be considered, while Nancy was--the other kind!

Joan regarded, as she never had before, the freedom and safety of such girls as Nancy. She could realize the pressure, the favouring environment that surrounded so desirable a thing as this coming together of Raymond and Nancy!

She knew how the same force could blot such as she was supposed to be from the inner circle! How little they counted!

Oh! the bitterness of the knowledge that it was such girls as Patricia--as Raymond believed her--who were not free; who must s.n.a.t.c.h what they can from life and not resent what goes with it. They must--not care! Outside the code there was no real freedom--because there was no choice! It was a place of chains and bars compared to the other.

The waves of humiliation and shame swept over Joan, but each time she emerged she held her head higher.

"And he left me--to go my way and he went--to Nancy! He did not care!"

It was anger now; proud, life-saving anger. "If he had only cared!"

"And why--should he?" The thought was like a dash of cold water in her face.

After all, why should he? It _was_ only play until that awful night!

That was the revealing hour of real danger.

Clutching her hands, Joan went over every step of the way upon which Raymond had gone with her.

It had all been a mad escapade in that time of mistaken freedom. He and she had both been brought to the realization of the folly by a blow that had awakened them, not stunned them. They had been forced to acknowledge the danger hidden in themselves. It was in such whirlpools many were lost, but they----

And at this point Joan recalled, as if he were before her now, the look in Raymond's face when he gained control of himself!

Always, since that night, Joan had felt, when thinking of Raymond, that she never wanted to see him again. She knew that he had never held any real part in her life and he would always hold her back, as she might him--from proving the best that was in each other if they came into contact.

With this conclusion reached Joan had gained a secure footing. As a man, detached from herself and her past, she knew that Raymond was worthy of love and happiness, just as, in her heart, she knew that she herself was. But could others understand? Others, like Nancy?

While she had been buffeted on a rough sea, since that stormy night in the studio, Raymond had drifted into his safe harbour, sooner. There was nothing to hold him back--and here Joan began to sob in self-pity; in pity for all girls, like Patricia and her, who were so lightly considered.

"We do not matter!" she murmured. Then she dashed her tears away. "But we _must_ matter!"

She sprang up. She flung the letters upon the embers; she gathered Cuff to her bosom and--laughed!

It was her old, old laugh. The laugh that held in its depth, not scorn of life, but an appreciation of it.

"It's how we take it all, Cuff, my dear, just how we take it! And, Cuff"--here Joan held the little animal off at arms' length and looked into his deep, serious eyes--"I'm going to get the world by the tail again--_you watch me!_"

CHAPTER XXIV

"_O, friend never strike sail to a fear._"

Because the woman in Joan had not been hurt by her experiences, because it was only the wildness of youth that had carried her to the verge of making mistakes and then sent her reeling back, she reacted quickly. She was no longer the reckless, heedless Joan--the change made Martin frown.

He put full value on her cropped hair and thin body--he had grappled with the scourge, and he knew!

He presently found himself in friendly sympathy with this new, patient, tender Joan--they had much to say to each other.

Nancy was not so keen about the change. Joan had come back--Joan was putting into life all that it lacked. This was enough for Nancy! The spring days were dreams of bliss and she radiated joy.

"Ken will adore you, Joan!" she confided. "You see, he has a twisted idea about you just because you weren't with us all, but when he sees you, darling, he'll be on his knees before you as we all are!"

"I'd love to get my first view of him in that att.i.tude," Joan laughingly replied, "but on the whole, I'd rather take him standing."

During those waiting days, until Raymond came to marry Nancy, Ridge House quivered with excited preparation.