Joan's Enemies/Chapter 9

EXT morning Miss Gosling, having slept—or rather laid awake—on it, decided what she would do. Shortly after eight o'clock she craved admittance to her niece's room, and received it readily.

“Sorry to bother you, Joan,” she said easily, “but can you let me have fifty dollars in cash. I must get my little bank-account transferred to this part of the country.” She carried a check in her hand.

“Of course! You shall have it immediately after breakfast.”

“Well, it's such a lovely morning that I thought of going downtown at once. I've neglected some little things—still, I can wait.”

“No, no,” said Joan, to whom the pleasure of being able to oblige a fellow-creature was still somewhat of a novelty. “I've nothing like that in my purse, but—” She got up and stepped over to an old-fashioned bureau.

Shortly afterward Miss Gosling went downstairs with the keys of the safe and instructions to take what she required from the right-hand drawer. Her plan had worked admirably, and within a couple of minutes the mysterious letter was once more in the yellow envelope in the left-hand drawer.

O Griselda's wonderment, a week passed without producing any occurrence of the most mildly thrilling nature. Joan had a note from Lottie, sweetly apologetic for what the writer termed her silliness on that sultry evening; she and her mother were off to Atlantic City, after all. Mr. Stormont made two afternoon calls, but on both occasions the ladies were out. He left neatly worded notes written in the library, to which the housemaid, knowing him as a friend of her late master, admitted him readily. One of the notes begged Miss March's acceptance of the concert-tickets inclosed; the other asked for a donation toward a poor-children's Christmas treat.

Joan's refusal of the first request was as kindly as her granting of the second. She mentioned both to her aunt one morning at breakfast.

“He seems to be a nice man,” remarked Miss Gosling thoughtfully. “I think I should like to meet him.”

In the drawing-room some twelve hours later it became evident to the girl that her relative was nervous. On being pressed for a reason, the latter admitted that it was the “burglar business.”

“I do wish,” she added, “you would look again to see if the contents of your safe are all right, in spite of the shutters. I keep wondering in the night—”

Joan did not argue. “Come along,” she cried good-naturedly. “I'll make the inspection at once.”

They passed to the library. From a discreet distance Miss Gosling witnessed the counting of some money; she also saw her niece take out and put back the inclosure of the yellow envelope.

“You must have a room upstairs, Aunt Griselda,” Joan said.

“I'm quite satisfied now, and shall sleep well where I am,” said Miss Gosling, and changed the subject. She did have a good night—the last she was to enjoy for some time.

N the next evening, which was the ninth following that of the first closing of the shutters, the two were finishing dinner when the maid brought Joan a card and the intimation that “the owner” awaited her convenience in the library.

Miss Gosling saw her niece start, flush, pale, and flush again.

“Impossible!” exclaimed the girl. A moment later she regained command of herself, if not of her color. “Very well, Kate,” she said quietly. “I will see the gentleman presently.”

“I hope,” Miss Gosling ventured when the maid had retired, “it is nothing disagreeable, Joan. If you like, I'll see the gentleman and polish him off.”

Joan smiled now. “Perhaps you may see him later, Aunt Griselda. I was taken by surprise, not horror. Will you excuse me?” She went quickly to the library.

By the table was standing a tall, bronzed and weather-beaten young man with darkish coloring and exceedingly fine gray eyes. His left hand was heavily bandaged.

For what seemed a long space of time, Joan, halting just inside the door, returned his gaze. Two years ago they had been friends—good friends. What had the long separation done to them that neither had ready a greeting for the other?

At last he came toward her, and she went to meet him.

“Joan,” he said hoarsely, “how wonderful to see you again!”

“Oh, Douglas,” she cried, “I don't understand, but I—I'm so glad—”

Their hands met, but at the contact their gazes wavered, for it was borne on both that the thing they had cherished silently for two long years was not friendship, but love.