The letter had remained in her pile of morning mail, beside her plate. Later, it had been tucked into her portfolio. She had read it again, in bed. Well, it was no concern of hers, whether he made good or not. At least, he was out of Joyce’s calculations … One questionable friend less to worry about.
Helen was awakened with a start, as the door of her room was cautiously opened far enough to admit the flushed face of Joyce.
“You Joyce?”
The door was closing, slowly, cautiously.
“Sorry, darling … Good night!” came in muffled tones from beyond the door.
“Come in, dear!” called Helen.
There was a considerable delay before the door opened again. Joyce came in, jerkily, all but asleep on her feet, dazedly rubbing her forehead with the back of the hand in which she clutched her crumpled hat; the other groping, uncertainly, for something to support her. She leaned heavily against the foot of the bed, swaying dizzily.
“Oh!—but, my dear!” cried Helen, in consternation, propping herself up suddenly on her elbows. “What in the world—! Where have you been?”
“Gordon’s!”
Joyce ground out the guttural between tensely locked jaws, and smiled fatuously.
Helen sat up and peered incredulously, silently, at her dishevelled stepdaughter, who grew restive under the inspection.
“Been—been writin’ letters?” Joyce surveyed the litter on the bed with a pitiable attempt at casualness.
Helen nodded briefly, and pressed both hands tightly against her forehead in a gesture of despair, which Joyce decided to ignore.
“And if there isn’t ickle Bobby?” She leaned far forward over the foot of the bed and with elaborate precision flicked the letter contemptuously with her finger. “That!—for you!—Doctor Merrick!”
“Why—Joyce Hudson!—you’re drunk!”
Helen stepped out into her slippers, caught up a kimono, and put her arm about the girl’s sagging shoulders.
“Who? Me?” giggled Joyce amiably. “Me—drunk? You should shee Tommy!”
“Let me help you to bed,” pleaded Helen brokenly. “No—here! You may sleep in my room.”
Joyce fumbled helplessly at her buttons with one hand, the other clumsily mopping her dripping brow with her little hat. Presently she crumpled on the bed, and Helen tugged off her dress and laid a cold towel across her eyes.
“Thanks, darling!” mumbled Joyce, between heavy sighs. “Much bother … too bad … all my fault … Don’t blame Tommy. Tommy nice boy! Goin’—goin’ to marry Tommy … Well—can’t you congrat—can’t you felic—I’m afraid I can’t say it very distinc’ly—but aren’t you glad—about Tommy and me?”
“Let’s wait and talk it over in the morning, dear,” soothed Helen, turning the towel and patting it about the flushed temples.
“No—sir!” babbled Joyce, with an expansive gesture, “We’re goin’ talk about it—” she brought a slim, lovely hand down with a clumsy slap on the pillow—“ri’ now!” The towel was brushed aside, and she gazed up militantly with swollen eyes. “Tha’s just like you! You cry! I come home—all happy—to announce my engagesh to Tommy—and you cry! What’s the big idea? Do you want him?”
Bridling her impatience, Helen urged the drunken girl to leave off and go to sleep. Maudlin tears of self-pity bathed Joyce’s face.
“Nobody loves me!” she wailed. “Nobody but good old Tommy! … But I won’t marry him! … I won’t!”
Presently she relaxed, licked her stiff lips, sighed deeply, and slept. Helen knelt by the bed, her face buried in the covers to escape the heavy fumes, and wept piteously. Wayne Hudson had left her with a responsibility quite too serious to be met. Only one thing had he expected of her. She had failed him.
At length, rousing stiffly from the cramped position in which she had fallen asleep through sheer fatigue and nervous exhaustion, she mechanically collected the scattered letters from the floor, turned out the light, and went dejectedly to Joyce’s bedroom. She put down the letters on the little vanity table and bathed her face with cologne.
Bobby Merrick’s rather stilted note lay open before her as if inviting attention. Between the lines it announced that he considered himself under a moral obligation to Doctor Hudson … She had been disposed to waive that implication aside as a mere pose … a bit of ephemeral martyrdom to be toyed with until he tired of it … a pretence of gallantry. She averted her eyes from the letter, perplexed, accused by it. Was she too under a certain moral obligation to Doctor Hudson? Young Merrick was trying to discharge his! How about hers?
She carefully folded the letter, and stood for a long time preoccupiedly deepening its creases with nervous fingers. It occurred to her that she would like to have a long, confidential talk with Bobby Merrick. Perhaps he might have something to suggest … She stared at her haggard reflection in the mirror and shook her head. No—the way out did not lie in that direction. She tucked the letter into her writing-case, and tumbled wearily into bed.
VII
At one o’clock on the morning of Thanksgiving Day, young Merrick solved the riddle to which he had devoted much of his spare time for nearly two months.
After only a week’s sporadic work on it, he had written to Nancy Ashford:
“When the light breaks on this it will not come like a valley dawn. The book is going to be pitch dark up to a certain moment, and after that it will be clear and bright as a June morning. There’s no halfway business about a job like this. Either you can read it all, with ease and understanding; or you can’t read a syllable!”
The Thanksgiving recess having begun at noon on Wednesday, Bobby determined to spend the brief vacation on the cryptic journal. It would be a good
