The Shield of Silence Part 54

"Like h.e.l.l you have!" irreverently e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Cameron, pleasantly. "Why, Uncle Dave, you've got muscle all over you from fighting the demon in you, but you have no ugly scars. We can look each other in the eyes as we couldn't--if there were scars. It's all right, Uncle Dave. We'll get Mother here before long and have a bully time."

Martin could not speak for a moment; he was looking ahead to the time when he'd have only this boy and his mother!

"Well, what's up, Uncle Dave?"

"Bud, have you suspected anything about Miss Fletcher? Her health, I mean?"

"Yes. I've studied about her, too."

"And kept quiet, eh?"

"Sure! But, Uncle Davie, if we--" Martin blessed him for that "we"--"if we could get her outside of herself, it would do a lot for her. I've a hunch that you have let her get on the shelf. I wouldn't if I were you!

I know it may be necessary to keep her to rules, but she thinks too much about the rules; they cramp her. When Nancy marries--what then?"

"The Lord knows!"

"Where's that other girl--Joan?"

Martin's face hardened.

"Living her life. _Her_ life," he said.

"Anything--dirty about it?" Cameron asked.

"No. So far as I can find out, she's just taking what she calls _her own_."

"Well, why shouldn't she, Uncle Dave? By all that's holy why shouldn't a woman have her own as well as a fellow? Just because she was born to petticoats doesn't mean that she's born to all the jobs men don't want."

"There are certain things the world exacts of a woman, Bud."

"What, for instance, Uncle Dave?"

Martin considered. He was a just man, but he was prejudiced.

"Self-sacrifice, for one thing!"

"Who says so? Who benefits most by her self-sacrifice?" Cameron flushed as he rambled on. "We may split on this rock, Uncle," he blurted. "Think of my mother--I sort of resent it, because I _am_ a man, that we idealize virtues and plaster them on women when we know jolly well, if we lathered them on ourselves, we'd cave in under them. It's up to the woman! That's what I say. Let her select her own little virtues and see to it that she squares it with her soul and then men--well, men keep to the right and keep moving!"

Having flared forth, Cameron laughed at his own fireworks.

"Joan is selfish, Nancy quite the reverse." Martin's brows drew together. "Don't be an a.s.s, Bud!"

"What's this Joan doing?"

"Thinking she's gifted," snapped Martin.

"How is she to find out if she doesn't try? Is Miss Fletcher paying for the racket?"

"No. That's the rub. The girl's paying for it herself. Smudging herself doing it, too. A woman can't escape the smudge."

"Oh! well"--Cameron was tiring of it all--"it's when the smudge sticks that counts. If it is only skin deep, it doesn't matter."

"But--a woman, Bud--well, skin matters in a woman."

"Who says so? Oh! chuck it, Uncle Dave. Which shall it be--bed for an hour or a rarebit at Tumbles and then--on to the fight?"

"What time is it?"

"Eleven-thirty."

"Bud, let us have another look at our salvage before we choose; if we find them sleeping, we'll take the rarebit as a recompense for a night's sleep."

And together they went out into the night. Two tired men who had done a stiff day's work--but felt that they must make sure before they sought rest for themselves.

And Joan and Patricia faced the epidemic as so many of the young did--nothing really _could_ happen to them, they believed--and Chicago was not paying so heavy a toll.

"We'll take a little extra care with food and sleep and wet feet," Joan cautioned, "and I'll put off my visit, Pat, for awhile."

"And, Joan," Patricia said, laughingly, "keep your mouth shut in the street!"

The four little rooms were sunshiny and warm; Joan sang hour by hour; worked at her music and "made the home," while Patricia kept to her rigid hours and designed marvellous things in which other women revelled.

Since Nancy had gone South and her beloved was absent, Joan felt that her duty was to Patricia. Without being able to cla.s.sify her feeling she clung to Patricia with a nameless anxiety.

She taught the little dog to fetch Patricia's slippers to the living-room fire; she always had dinner ready when, tired and frail, Patricia appeared with that glad light in her eyes.

"You act as if I, not you, were going away, my lamb," Patricia often said; "but you are a blessing! And Cuff"--she leaned down and gathered the small, quivering dog in her arms--"and Cuff runs you a close second."

Cuff wagged his stubby tail excitedly. He was a proud creature, a proof of what could be done with a bad job, and he had all the sn.o.bbishness that is acquired, not bred in the bone. He slept on the foot of Patricia's bed and forgot back alleys. He selected tidbits with the air of one who knew not garbage cans, but he redeemed all shortcomings by his faithful love to her who had rescued him. The melting brown eyes found their highest joy in Patricia's approval, and a harsh word from her brought his diminutive tail between his legs for an hour.

It was April when Patricia came up the stairs, one night, laggingly.

Cuff was on the landing with his token of devotion. The girl picked him up, kissed his smooth body and went on, more slowly. Joan had the table set for the dainty dinner by the broad western window. She turned when Patricia entered.

"What's the matter, Pat?" she asked.

"Nothing, only Cuff is growing heavy."

"Are you tired?"

"Not a bit. What a wonder you are, Joan! That table is a dream with those daffodils in the green bowl. Old Syl was right--you put the punch in home!"

"There's chicken to-night, Pat. I plunged on the strength of what my Professor said to-day."

There were times when Joan wondered if Patricia was not insisting upon home more for her sake than her own.

"What did she say, Joan?"