Part 63 (2/2)

Nancy said it as if she were flouting all the foolish things any one had ever felt about Joan. Pride, deep affection, rang in her voice. ”This is Joan!”

Joan went slowly, smilingly forward. She saw Raymond's knuckles grow white and hard as his hands gripped the back of his chair. His eyes dilated, and for a moment he could not speak. Finally he managed:

”So this--is Joan!” and went forward to greet her.

”I reckon they will all get this shock,” thought Doris; ”what they have thought about the child ought to shame them. Emily Tweksbury was always a sn.o.b.”

Martin, from under his s.h.a.ggy brows, watched the scene curiously. He, like everyone else, was, unconsciously, on guard where Nancy was concerned. This frank surprise was gratifying for Joan, but it placed Nancy, for a moment, to one side.

Joan had never looked lovelier; never more self-controlled. She was holding herself, and Raymond, too, by firm will power. He must not betray anything--he owed her and Nancy that! There was no wrong. No suggestion of it must enter in.

In another moment the danger was over; the colour rose to Raymond's face.

”I--I hadn't expected anything quite so--splendid,” he said.

”You are very kind,” Joan had her hands in his, now; ”you see--I've been wandering in strange places; I am rather an outlaw and the best any one could do for me was to wait and let me speak for myself. I'm glad you approve!”

”I certainly do!” Raymond said, and gratefully joined the circle as it sat down.

As the time pa.s.sed the situation caught Joan's feverish imagination; she dared much; she was cruel but fascinating. She proposed, after dinner, to read palms--explaining that she and Pat had learned the tricks.

At the name of ”Pat” Raymond's grave eyes fixed themselves upon her.

Joan saw the firm lips draw together, and she paused in her gaiety, sensing something she did not quite understand.

In the living room by the fire Joan again grew witchy. She insisted upon proving her cleverness at palm-reading. Raymond dared not refuse, but he showed plain disapproval.

”It's rot!” Martin broke in, ”but here goes, Joan!” And spread his honest hand upon the altar.

Joan had a good field now for her wit, and she set the company in a merry mood. When she touched upon Martin's nephew, which, of course, she wickedly did, she made an impression.

”See here,” Martin broke in, ”this isn't palm-reading, you little fraud--you're trying to be funny trading on what you've heard but couldn't know for yourself.”

”That's part of the trick, Uncle David. Now, Nan, dear, let me have that small paw of yours.”

Frankly Nancy extended the left hand upon which glittered Raymond's diamond.

”The right one, too, Nan darling! What dear, soft, pink things!” Joan bent and kissed them. ”Such happy hands; good, true hands. Every line--unbroken. Running from start to finish--as it should run.”

”A stupid pair of hands, I call them.” Nancy puckered her lips.

”They are blessed hands, Nan.”

Raymond went behind Nancy's chair and fixed his eyes upon Joan--he was almost pleading with her to have done with the dangerous play.

”Aunt Dorrie?” Joan turned to her, ignoring Raymond.

”My hands can tell you nothing, Joan, dear,” Doris said; ”I've been a coward. See, my hands are flabby inside--the hands of a woman who has had much too easy a time. 'Who has reached forth--but never grasped.'”

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