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Title: The rise of a star

Author: Edith Ayrton Zangwill

Release date: April 22, 2026 [eBook #78520]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John Murray, 1918

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78520

Credits: Vicki Parnell, Sam Lamb, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RISE OF A STAR ***

THE RISE OF A STAR

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I

CHAPTER

II

CHAPTER

III

CHAPTER

IV

CHAPTER

V

CHAPTER

VI

CHAPTER

VII

CHAPTER

VIII

CHAPTER

IX

CHAPTER

X

CHAPTER

XI

CHAPTER

XII

CHAPTER

XIII

CHAPTER

XIV

CHAPTER

XV

CHAPTER

XVI

CHAPTER

XVII

CHAPTER

XVIII

CHAPTER

XIX

CHAPTER

XX

CHAPTER

XXI

CHAPTER

XXII

THE RISE OF A STAR

BY EDITH AYRTON ZANGWILL

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

1918

CHAPTER I.

The curtain had come down for the ninth and last time. Everyone on the stage was in a hubbub of frenzied congratulation. Frances West, in her make-up of Biddy, the old Irish orange-woman, was being embraced by most of the women in the company, while her hands were warmly shaken by the men. Then she hurried to her dressing-room and pulled out a telegraph form, on which she scribbled: “Miss Imogen Lennox, Central Park School, West 67th Street, New York. Struck it at last. Fond love. Mother.” The call-boy was summoned to take the dispatch. He glanced at it with American informality. “That’s so, Miss West. You’ve struck it sure. Gee, but you got them by the neck!” he elaborated enthusiastically, as he disappeared.

Miss West smiled at the boy’s assurance. Yes, there was no mistaking the first real hit she had ever made. What a struggle it had been, these twenty-five years of touring in third-rate and usually unsuccessful companies. And she had begun so young, when she was barely fourteen. For her, the journey of life had been a literal one. A never-ending succession of one-night stands in small Middle-West towns, each different and each the same, passed in a phantasmagoria before her. Often she had not even known the name of the place where she was staying; it seemed useless to cumber the memory with so transitory a detail. The one, solid permanent object in her kaleidoscopic existence was her daughter. During Imogen’s earlier years, the child had travelled with her mother. What a lovely, laughing, fairy-like little thing she had been, with her blue eyes and her golden curls, the pet of the whole company, the mollifier of the ugliest hotel-keeper! But Miss West had wisely decided that the roving life was unsuitable for a child, and she had sent her daughter to boarding-school. How the memory of that wrench still hurt! Since then she had seen Imogen but seldom, but the thought of her formed a constant background, and a goal. To-night her success and her child were inextricably interwoven. Each enhanced her joy in the other.

A knock came at the door, and Mr. Hobson, the manager, appeared. “Come right in, Mr. Hobson,” Miss West called out. “I ran off to wire to my little girl. Wasn’t it a real lovely house?” She held out both her hands.

The stout little man pressed them genially, and laughed in his characteristically cheery way. “Fine, fine,” he ejaculated. “You’ve knocked ’em this time, Miss West. Wish I’d fixed it up for you to stop on right here in Chicago. I guess ‘Biddy’ would draw for a month good.”

“Oh do arrange it. Mr. Parks is threatening a terrible time of one night stands. If the business keeps up, do let us stop here.” Miss West broke off almost with a sob. She was still vibrating with the evening’s excitement.

“Guess it’s too late to change now. But don’t you worry, Miss West. We’ll have you back here before long.” Mr. Hobson’s tone was soothing. Long experience of leading ladies had taught him “how to handle them,” to use his own phraseology. Not that he had ever considered Miss West as a leading lady before. Giving her the name-part in this new play had been one of his sudden inspirations. “And don’t forget there’s still two years of our contract to run,” he went on more sharply.

The words convinced Frances West of her success as nothing else had done. Lately Mr. Hobson had intimated that if she ever heard of another engagement, he was far too kind and easy-going to stand in her way. “I thought it was all the same to you if we did break the contract,” she replied, not without a touch of malice.

“Nothing of the sort. Why, if it goes on like this, it looks as though we’d have to star you.”

Miss West gave a gasp of joy. A daring idea came to her. She would have to broach it at once, as Mr. Hobson was leaving Chicago that night. “If you can’t keep ‘Biddy’ on here, why don’t you let us try a New York opening right now?” she suggested.

“Well, well!” Mr. Hobson smiled. “I guess we must wait a while to decide about that. Good business here ain’t everything. Chicago’s meat is N’ York’s pisen, don’t you know? A success on tour just makes the N’ York critic get out his tomahawk to show what a superior feller he is. A budding manager like me, Miss West, can’t afford to take such risks.”

“If I had seven companies on the road, I shouldn’t consider myself much of a bud.” Miss West’s laugh was still tremulous. “But you will think about New York, won’t you?” she pleaded. “You know my little girl’s there. She’s leaving school this quarter, and I’m just crazy to have her living with me for a spell.” The mother’s glance went involuntarily to a photograph that stood on the table amid a litter of salves and powder pots.

Mr. Hobson stretched out his hand for it. “Is that the little girl?” he asked with kindly interest. “My, ain’t she a beauty! And not such a little girl, either. How old is she?”

“She’ll be eighteen next fall—though it seems as if I couldn’t believe it. I just think of her still as a toddling mite.” Miss West’s flush of pride penetrated even through her make-up. “Imogen’s ever so much lovelier though than that photo.”

“She’s got a dandy stage appearance. Does she intend to play?” Mr. Hobson’s tone was keen. He was always on the alert for any possible addition to his orrery.

Miss West smiled. “No, Imogen hasn’t got a particle of talent for the stage. She wouldn’t like it, either, and I wouldn’t like it for her. I suppose all mothers want to keep their girls wrapped up in wadding, but Imogen’s so dainty and sweet—like that fairy-tale princess who felt the pea right through a pile of mattresses.”

Mr. Hobson was looking at his watch. “Well, I guess I must be off. Hello, boy, what d’you want?” The call-boy was hovering uncertainly in the doorway with a visiting card in his hand.

“Gentleman wants to see Miss West. Says he’s sorry to trouble you, Miss West, but you sent word you’d see him after the performance.”

Miss West took the card. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Bring him right along, please.” She turned to Mr. Hobson. “A man I don’t know from Adam has been pestering me all the day. Sent in word, could he see me this morning and then again this afternoon, and you know we were rehearsing from ten o’clock solid. Said he wasn’t a press man, either. Mr. John P. Vandeleur—ever heard of him?”

Mr. Hobson stopped buttoning his glove. “John P. Vandeleur—why, that’s Vandeleur the copper man. Does it give his address?” He almost snatched the card out of Miss West’s hand. “Fifth Avenue. Yes, that’s him sure.”

“But who is he?” Miss West repeated.

“Never heard of Vandeleur? Why, he’s one of the wealthiest men in the States—not quite on the Carnegie level, but the next thing to it. Copper mines down in Nevada, don’t you know? You must have read of Vandeleur and Son, surely. Certainly the press don’t get hold of him much. He keeps himself too select for that; never the least bit of show nor scandal. None of your freak parties for the Vandeleurs; they don’t hold with advertisement. They’ve just sot there quiet for the last two hundred years, getting richer all the time in a superior sort of way. Haven’t you ever noticed a noo house on Fifth Avenue up near 65th Street—kind of square shape, Renaissance, they call it? Well, that’s Vandeleur’s. I don’t see much to it myself, but a friend of mine, who’s an architect, he’s just crazy about it,—says it’s the gem of Noo York—guess he thinks it’s the pearl and I’m the pig, don’t you know? Anyway, it’s a million dollar house all right.”

“But why should Mr. Vandeleur leave it to come and see me?” Miss West asked in not unnatural bewilderment. “You don’t think he’s building a theatre too, and wants to run ‘Biddy’?”

“Vandeleur! Why, Vandeleur’s dead set against the theatre altogether. He’s a sort of Mayflower Puritan strayed into the wrong century. But there must be something to have brought him. You ain’t, by any chance, got a bit of land where he knows there’s a copper mine and you don’t?”

“Well, that’s curious; I did buy a tiny lot when we were out in California. It’s way up on the hills, and there’s an elegant view from it. I thought if ever I got rich I’d have a little summer home there—they only wanted a hundred dollars anyway. But you don’t suppose——?”

“That’s it, sure,” Mr. Hobson broke in with growing excitement. “That’s how them Vandeleurs have built their entire fortune. They’ve got a nose for copper like a dog after a rat. You just stick it out, Miss West, and your fortune’s made.”

Miss West stared at the manager in amazement. Did fortunes, as well as misfortunes, never come singly? A copper mine and stellar rank in one night! “There he comes,” she said quickly, as they heard steps.

“Well, I’ll quit.” Mr. Hobson went forward, and then turned his head. “Stick it out,” he muttered. The millionaire collided with him in the doorway.

Both men apologized, and Mr. Hobson quickly disappeared. Miss West looked up curiously. Mr. Vandeleur was tall, between forty and fifty as she guessed, and had a stiff air of distinction. She half held out her hand, but, as he did not seem to see it, she drew it back. “I am Miss West,” she said.

“Miss West! Oh—er—yes—of course—I beg your pardon.”

His astonishment had been unmistakable. Miss West could only put it down to the Biddy costume, of which, for the first time, she became uncomfortably conscious. “I haven’t had the chance to get out of this terrible make-up yet,” she explained. “Mr. Hobson has to go back to New York to-night, so we had to have a business talk first.”

“Er, yes, I suppose so. I must apologise for my intrusion at such an hour.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Miss West again glanced at the stranger. His faultlessly-cut Prince Albert, his pince-nez, his smooth hair, greying at the temples, made him rather impressive. But he looked flushed and ill at ease. Was he annoyed by the encounter with Mr. Hobson? To ease the tension she patted a chair invitingly. “Do sit down, Mr. Vandeleur,” she urged.

“Thank you, no, I prefer to stand.” He cleared his throat. “Again I must apologise for troubling you in this manner, but like Mr.—er—the gentleman you mentioned, I, too, have to return to New York on the night train. I wished to speak to you upon a matter in which you will—er—be interested.”

“Yes?” Now for the copper mine, Miss West told herself gleefully. However did they buy mines—by the pound or by the yard?

Mr. Vandeleur seemed to have some difficulty in coming to the point. “I would have chosen a more suitable occasion for my visit,” he elaborated, “had I realized that you would be so engaged all day as to be unable to spare me ten minutes.”

“It was just too bad.” Although Miss West’s tone was apologetic, she was inwardly fuming. Would the man’s politeness never allow him to start? However, it would not do to show impatience. “You see, Mr. Vandeleur, I really couldn’t help it,” she explained. “If the President himself had come, he’d have had to wait. You just don’t know what it’s like the day of a new production. I thought I’d been through some pretty bad sieges, but nothing to touch this. We only got here yesterday, for up to Saturday night we were touring in ‘Uncle Tom’s’—” Miss West broke off suddenly. She had not meant to let out that she had been a “Tommer” for years and was still put back into that evergreen when business was bad. “Anyway, at nine o’clock this very morning all our ‘Biddy’ scenery was still on the road! We were nearly crazy. Mr. Parks puts it down to the transport people, but I guess he’d muddled it somehow himself. He’s just the worst producer I ever struck!”

There was another pause. Her visitor’s frigid uninterest had penetrated even Miss West’s growing excitement. He was looking around uneasily for something on which to lay his silk hat and umbrella. Every place was littered with feminine apparel. “Oh let me take them,” Miss West exclaimed, and pushed a clear space on the dressing-table, quite insensitive to Mr. Vandeleur’s outraged delicacy. His eyes rested for a moment on the photograph, but poor Imogen’s presentment seemed only to increase his disapproval. “I suppose your—er—arduous life does not allow you to spend—er—much time in New York?”

Miss West stared at him. What possible connection could there be between the copper mine and New York? Perhaps, after all, Mr. Hobson was wrong and she was right. It was a repertoire theatre and not a copper mine. “No, I haven’t been to little New York this long while,” she told him, “but I guess I’ll be there more now. What did you think of us this evening? I suppose you were in front?”

“In front? Front of what? Oh, I comprehend. No, I am not a theatre-goer.” Perhaps Mr. Vandeleur felt that his remark was too uncompromising. “I hear it went very well,” he added stiffly.

“That’s so.” Miss West resolved to imitate her companion’s brevity. Again conversation languished. What in the world could the man have come about? A sudden horrid idea struck her, that he might not be quite right in his mind—but no, he looked almost oppressively sane and well-balanced.

Mr. Vandeleur cleared his throat suddenly. “Er—Mrs. Lennox.” His companion almost jumped out of her seat. “I beg your pardon. I thought——”

“Oh, it’s quite correct.” Miss West laughed. “Mrs. Lennox is my real name, but I hear it so seldom it surprised me some. Indeed the only time I do use it is when I’m travelling with my daughter. She says it sounds better.”

“It is about Miss Lennox——”

Again Mr. Vandeleur was interrupted. The actress started to her feet, and was clutching his arm with trembling fingers. “Imogen isn’t ill or—anything?” she faltered. “You haven’t come to tell me?”

“Oh, no, no.” Even Mr. Vandeleur’s glacial deportment was not proof against such evident distress. “Oh, no, I saw Miss Lennox only the day before yesterday, and she was looking very well, extremely well.”

“My, how you scared me! But why—how do you know Imogen?”

“My niece too is at Central Park School. Perhaps you have heard Miss Lennox speak of Grace Sharman?”

“Why, yes, surely. My girl told me she had been to Miss Sharman’s home, and they were real lovely to her. I didn’t hear a great deal about it, for Imogen’s not much at letter-writing. Not that I can complain any. I’m no great hand at it myself. There’s so little time somehow, with eight performances a week and rehearsals and the travelling and all. Do you know, I haven’t set eyes on my little girl for ten months? We’ve been travelling all that time out West. So I just do appreciate your coming in to tell me about her. Have you been long in Chicago?”

“No, I only arrived this morning.”

“Well, now, that was real kind of you. For I presume you had plenty of other things to attend to besides coming to see me! I guess you must have daughters of your own, Mr. Vandeleur?”

“No.”

How uncomfortable the man looked! What could be the matter with him? Did he find the room too hot, Miss West speculated? Was he—no, it was absurd—yet it really seemed—could the great Mr. Vandeleur be blushing?

Miss West was seized with a sudden desire to laugh. Even as a girl, she had not been pretty. She had had no experience of men standing before her silent and suffused. But in this make-up? How could fat, old Biddy, with her padded, print-gowned body and untidy grey wig have inspired a tender emotion? Had Mr. Vandeleur perhaps seen her in another part?—but, then, he never went to the theatre. It was a mystery. Partly to set him at his ease, she begged him to tell her more about her little girl. “Where did you see her? Was it at your niece’s home?” she asked.

“I first met Miss Lennox at the school. They did me the honour of asking me to give an address last Graduation Day. I need hardly say that even among so many charming young ladies, no one could overlook your daughter.”

“Well, now that is lovely of you. But you said you’d seen Imogen again just lately. Did you tell her you were coming to Chicago? Has she sent any message?”

“She sent her best love. Also there was something she wanted me to discuss with you, something that was difficult to write. If you have not seen Miss Lennox for so long perhaps you hardly realize that she is—er—no longer a child. Doubtless, however, considering her—er—exceptional beauty, you will have anticipated the early advent of a suitor.”

Miss West looked bewildered. “Whatever are you talking about?” she asked. “My, I should think the young men had pretty bad taste if Imogen didn’t get suitors. But there must be more to it than that. Are you trying to break it to me that she’s fallen in love with one of them? That’s pretty serious. But why hasn’t she written me about it herself?” A growing resentment came over the mother. It would be bad enough to have the first place in Imogen’s affection occupied by someone else, without the information coming to her through a total stranger. “What has it got to do with you anyway?” she demanded angrily.

Mr. Vandeleur’s blush—if it was a blush—slowly deepened. “There are—er—difficulties that need explanation, and Miss Lennox thought it would be better if I were to make it. The suitor in question moves in rather a—er—different social circle; in fact, I may say his position is—er—considerably higher than you—er——”

“I suppose it’s your son that wants to marry Imogen?” Miss West flared up, cutting short his hesitation. “And instead of having it out with him like a man, you go playing on my little girl’s feelings and then come whining to me. It’s the meanest trick I ever heard of! Oh, you needn’t explain; I know all about it. Last season there was a little girl in the company, just as sweet and lovely as could be, and when a wealthy young fellow got engaged to her, his folks never rested till they broke it off.” Lack of breath here brought a pause; Biddy’s cushioned embonpoint was rather suffocating. The reminder of her semi-comic make-up only increased Miss West’s indignation. Why couldn’t the man have come some other time, when she was the Queen in “Hamlet,” for instance? Anyway, it was a mercy he hadn’t found her as a nigger mammy. With an effort she summoned all her dignity to repair the disrespect due to her tousled grey wig. “You can set your mind at rest, Mr. Vandeleur,” she told him loftily, “Imogen’s not going where she isn’t appreciated. Moreover, it’s just as likely that I wouldn’t consider your son good enough for my daughter, even if she is thinking of accepting him, and I have only your statement for that.”

“You entirely misunderstand me, Mrs. Lennox.” There was now no mistaking Mr. Vandeleur’s flush. Indeed, his anger would probably have taken him out of the room in silence, had his hat been less embarrassingly entangled. “I can assure you that in my opinion your daughter would adorn any position. I have no son. It is I who want to marry Imogen.”

Miss West collapsed. “You! But you are so old—I mean, compared with Imogen,” she faltered.

“If Imogen does not object, it is hardly necessary for anyone else to bring up the question. I may say that the real difficulty, Mrs. Lennox, lies in quite another direction. I refer to the—er—well, in short, your profession. You must see for yourself that this sort of thing would hardly be suitable for the mother of my wife.” A half-contemptuous motion of Mr. Vandeleur’s hand indicated the shabby little dressing-room, the unashamed toilet accessories, and perhaps even Miss West’s own costume. “I need hardly say that I have discussed all this with Imogen, and she completely shares my opinion.”

Miss West sprang to her feet. This was too much. Imogen had discussed her and her work with this stranger—had let him run them both down. The very news of the engagement had come through him. Her own daughter had not thought it worth while to send her a line. “You and Imogen seem to have fixed it up nicely between you,” she cried, passion and pain struggling in her voice. “You’ve decided, no doubt, that I am not good enough for you and your circle. My profession’s too contemptible, but I’d like to know where Imogen would have been without it. What do you suppose has fed and clothed her all these years and paid her school fees? Mighty stiff they were, too, but I’d determined she should have the best. Why, when she was but three weeks old I had to start playing again—it was that or starve. What do you think it is like to travel round on one night stands with a baby at the breast? I guess it’s harder work than you have ever done—though it didn’t seem hard. I was so glad to have her, with her cute, little hands and her soft, little face—something to love when I came back at nights, something to care for, my little baby, my own.”

“I honour and respect you for it all.” Mr. Vandeleur had been making several ineffectual attempts to break in on the harangue. He was genuinely touched by it, although he considered it in part somewhat indelicate. “Why, Mrs. Lennox, you surely do not imagine for one moment that I wish to cut you off from your daughter. I only meant that I want you to allow me, or rather allow her, to put you in a position in which you would no longer need to earn your living in this—er—laborious way. It is because we know how hard you have had to work in the past that Imogen and I are so anxious to make you perfectly happy and comfortable now. Imogen is thinking almost more about the lovely little home she is planning for you, close to ours, than about anything else.”

“Oh, so it’s my work you want to cut me off from?” Miss West’s tone was sullen. This calm appropriation of Imogen was almost unbearable. Even more galling was the attempt to appropriate herself. All her life she had been independent, with the ultra independence of the stage—the only place where earnings are not affected by sex. “Well, I don’t know that giving up my work isn’t as bad as giving up my daughter. I won’t consent to either.”

“Really, Mrs. Lennox, I cannot understand you.” Mr. Vandeleur made a great effort to control himself. “Surely your work cannot be so attractive,” he suggested; “travelling around the country in cheap, little Vaudeville companies, dressed up as a vulgar, old Irish woman!”

“The companies may have been cheap, but my work has been good, and I’ve loved it.” Miss West, too, was trying to regain her self-command. “Besides, you don’t understand. I’ve always hoped for something better, and now it’s come. This was the opening night of ‘Biddy,’ and I made a hit, a real, big hit. There’s not a particle of doubt about it. I feel certain Mr. Hobson will give us a New York opening.” There was almost awe in Miss West’s voice as she mentioned the dramatic Mecca.

“New York! Good heavens, that would be worse than ever.” Instead of being impressed Mr. Vandeleur seemed still further disconcerted. “Can’t you understand that I have a position to keep up? You know who I am, don’t you, Mrs. Lennox—John P. Vandeleur? If you realize this, you surely must grasp that a theatrical connection would be most undesirable for my wife. I hate even to see Imogen’s photograph here. I should have thought that for your daughter’s sake you would have been the first to suggest giving up your—er—stage activities, but you do not seem to have the least consideration for her position or her happiness.”

Miss West was silent. Was she selfish, she was asking herself uneasily. It seemed incredible that she could be selfish towards Imogen. Yet, after all, she had not a cent saved. If, at any time she were ill, what was to become of her daughter? Perhaps she ought to welcome this engagement whatever the conditions. Besides, suppose Imogen had really fallen in love with this man—or even with his position! “If I were playing, it would be under my stage name,” she urged sullenly. “No one need know. What difference would it make to you or to Imogen?”

“My dear Mrs. Lennox, you must realize that such things always leak out. Of course, if you had parted from Imogen absolutely, I do not say that concealment would be impossible, but I do not imagine you are contemplating such a step. It would be a great sorrow for Imogen.”

“But, anyway, if I wanted to give up the stage now, I couldn’t,” Miss West began with a sudden triumph. “I was forgetting my three years’ contract with Mr. Hobson, and there’s two yet to run. He was speaking about it just now.”

Mr. Vandeleur smiled. “But, surely, Mrs. Lennox, all these contracts are a mere question of money. I imagine a few thousand dollars would set you free.”

“It’s one thousand dollars, I think,” Miss West admitted sullenly. The sum had always seemed so prohibitive to her, that she had really forgotten such a possibility. Mr. Hobson’s “stick it out” came back to her. Well, he would have to do the sticking out now; she herself had assumed the rôle of the copper mine. However, to whatever sum Mr. Hobson could run up the fine, it would no doubt be negligible to this terrible man. But how Imogen would enjoy being so rich, she felt suddenly—Imogen who had always craved after pretty things!

Mr. Vandeleur had given an actual laugh. “I don’t think we need let a thousand dollars distress us,” he said pleasantly. He felt he had won! “Well, I must be going; don’t trouble to call anyone; I have my carriage waiting at the stage door. Dear me, it is later than I thought.” He had pulled out his watch and was looking at it uneasily. “I fear I shall miss the train, but doubtless I can overtake it with a special. How fortunate that I told them not to attach my car until I arrived. Good-bye, then, Mrs. Lennox, I will wire Imogen to-night explaining everything. Probably she can get into telephonic communication with you in the morning.”

“But she is in New York,” Mrs. Lennox gasped. In the opening Nineties telephoning a thousand miles was an adventure and an expensive one. But Mr. Vandeleur had gone. Well, she must get into her street suit at once, Mrs. Lennox reflected. It must be terribly late. How was it that the light had not been cut off? Had the omnipotent Mr. Vandeleur arranged for this too? She began vigorously rubbing off old Biddy’s jovial complexion. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands; tears completed the dulling process. “Oh my work, my little girl!” she sobbed.

CHAPTER II.

Mrs. Lennox stood dully at her parlour window in the Dorset, a set of residential apartments situated in the Fifth Avenue. This was her birthday. She had almost forgotten the fact, but when she came downstairs a few minutes ago, she had found the parlour adorned with great stands of long-stalked roses and bowls of camellias. One of Imogen’s visiting cards with the words ‘Birthday Greetings to Mother,’ was tied with gold cord to the largest bouquet. Somehow the expensive flowers succeeded only in making the apartment look more like an hotel’s best suite than before. Mrs. Lennox had neither the experience nor the aptitude necessary to make a home. Buying the furniture—that had been easy enough. She had rather enjoyed driving with Imogen to the great stores and selecting objects without even asking their prices. It had filled quite pleasantly the first few weeks after her daughter’s return from the protracted European honeymoon—the only real holiday Mr. Vandeleur had ever allowed himself. She had not even minded the period of Imogen’s absence. The quarter of a century of theatrical touring had left Mrs. Lennox more tired than she had realised, and she had been quite glad to sink for six months into one of the Vandeleur country houses—an electric-lighted, water-supplied ‘log-cabin’ in the Adirondacks. Besides the arrangement had been merely temporary—a protracted stand—and that made everything bearable. But this was the permanent life. And now, now that she was rested, now that the apartment was furnished, what in the world was she to do with herself? For the last month the question had been forcing itself upon her more and more insistently. She moved over to a great plated casket, which Palmer, the maid, had just brought in, and began to eat the candy it contained. Oh, how tired she was of candies! She returned to her outlook at the window.

Yes, it was her birthday; she was forty years old. It sounded dreary, not because forty was old, but because it was young. Time never used to go so slowly. These nine months of leisured calm had been longer than the previous quarter of a century of stage life. In retrospect, at any rate, the cheap hotels, the midnight suppers, the warm fleeting friendships, sparkled as gay and delightful. She was tired of always being herself, or rather of never being herself, for Mrs. Lennox, the rich, society woman was a mere part, the make-up for which could never be put off. It was rather paradoxical, she reflected, that this translation into a staid and dowered matronhood had been brought about, not by her own marriage, but by her daughter’s. Her own marriage—she smiled as she recollected John Vandeleur’s agitation at finding that Imogen was a posthumous child only in the sense of being born after her father’s divorce and not after his decease. Of course Mr. Vandeleur realized at once that his fiancée had innocently misinformed him; the girl’s having been kept in ignorance of the true facts was the one point of which he approved. In vain Mrs. Lennox explained that her marriage had been so early and so brief that she would not now recognize her ex-husband in the street. The idea of a vague, unknown father-in-law floating at large filled Mr. Vandeleur with unconcealed alarm. The best detective in New York was put on the service, who, after tracking Mr. Lennox through a series of undesirable episodes, at last happily located him in an unhonoured grave. Then, and not till then, was the great Mr. Vandeleur’s engagement publicly announced.

And now Imogen had been married nearly a year, and was to all appearance perfectly happy. Her daughter never found it dull to be dull, Mrs. Lennox told herself pettishly, as she gazed out at the wide, wet street. How could she ever have wanted to live in this miserable city? But the New York of her dreams, she reminded herself, was another New York; it was Broadway, The Rialto, the Great White Way—not Fifth Avenue. Down town, even externally, it was different; there was light, and noise, and colour; not this dreary, deadly respectability hanging over everything like a pall. Here there wasn’t even a street car to liven up the prospect, only secluded private carriages. One now stopped at the door, and her son-in-law got out. His neat, dark clothes of the best quality, his silk hat, his quiet, dignified walk seemed in keeping with the street. Then Mrs. Lennox saw that Imogen was also in the carriage, waiting evidently to see if her mother was at home before she got out. Mrs. Lennox tapped delightedly on the window-pane. Her raps were so vigorous that the one or two passers-by looked up in surprise.

Imogen also heard. She stepped out of the carriage rather slowly; there was a cloud on her fair face. “Mother is so impulsive,” she always said with regret. However, when she and her husband came in a moment later, she kissed her mother affectionately, and uttered all the proper birthday wishes, looking particularly lovely as she did so. Imogen was one of the fortunate people who can combine respect for the dead with gratification of the living. She was in mourning for her husband’s sister, Mrs. Sharman, who had died almost immediately after the Vandeleurs’ return from their honeymoon, but the black only enhanced the golden hair and rose leaf complexion. As for the costume itself, it did not attract any special remark; like all Imogen’s clothes, it gave one a restful sense of absolute perfection.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Lennox had been returning her daughter’s salutation with an almost hungry warmth; at the same time she extended her left hand to Mr. Vandeleur, an unconventionality he much disliked. “It’s just sweet of you to come so early,” she exclaimed, “and to have sent all those lovely flowers and candy.” She turned towards her son-in-law. “I declare I’m quite overwhelmed at your wasting time over me on a week-day morning.”

“Not at all.” In spite of his denial, Mr. Vandeleur thought his mother-in-law had phrased it correctly. However, Imogen had wished him to come. “I only regret that I shall not be able to stay very long.”

“John wanted to get here an hour since, but I told him there wouldn’t be the smallest chance of finding you up,” Imogen laughed. John Vandeleur had never got over his incredulous amazement at his mother-in-law’s hours of rising.

“Well, if you’d ’phoned me you were coming, I’d have made an effort,” Mrs. Lennox protested. “But you will stop on a little while, won’t you, darling, even if—John cannot?” Mrs. Lennox still hesitated over her son-in-law’s Christian name, and would have been happier had her daughter not insisted on her using it.

But Imogen could not stay. She always drove down town with her husband. “John might get lost on the way to Wall Street if I were not there to look after him,” she said, with a charming smile. Also she added that she must be home in good time to see after the preparations for the ladies’ lunch party. Her tone was a little worried; indeed, she seemed pre-occupied altogether this morning, as was only natural in view of her approaching début in entertaining. Mrs. Sharman’s death had, of course, prevented any earlier festivities, for Imogen was the last person to fail in observing the decorous quiet demanded by this sad event. Even now, she had some doubt about the ladies’ lunch, but after all her husband would not be present, and Mrs. Sharman had been his sister, not hers. “And I do want to introduce Mother to really nice people,” she had said. For though Imogen had been to no parties, most of the ladies in her husband’s circle had already called upon her.

It was a pity that Mrs. Lennox was not more appreciative of her daughter’s efforts. Personally, she thought a ladies’ lunch sounded a dreary sort of function, and the idea of meeting any of the Vandeleur set gave her a tremor of apprehension. Perhaps Imogen noticed the lack of warmth, for she went on cheerfully, “Next year, when we are not in mourning, we will have a big dinner-party in honour of your birthday.”

It could not be said that either of her companions took up the idea with enthusiasm, although Mr. Vandeleur’s acquiescence came with sufficient promptitude. Poor Mrs. Lennox felt that if the prospect of a mild ladies’ lunch made her nervous, how would she ever be able to face a grand dinner-party under the severe eye of her son-in-law? He might even take her in! She trembled at the thought. However, birthdays come but once a year, she reassured herself. Perhaps some more Vandeleur relatives would obligingly die in the interval.

“But here we are quite forgetting your birthday present,” Imogen broke in upon her mother’s thoughts. “It is rather of an unusual kind, but I think you will like it.” She held out a small, familiar-looking envelope with printing at the top.

Could it—yes, it must be theatre tickets. Mrs. Lennox nearly snatched at her present. The dear, dear child; this would be a real birthday treat. One of the stipulations that John Vandeleur had made on his marriage was that Mrs. Lennox should become dramatically a total abstainer. He had feared that in the conspicuous seats befitting his wife’s mother, some of her former theatrical friends might see and recognize her. Also, although he did not mention it, he had thought of the tiger tasting blood! Mrs. Lennox had meanwhile drawn the little printed slip out of its envelope. It took a form unfamiliar to her. Then she saw the word “opera.” Her heart sank. “Is it for to-night?” she asked.

“Oh no, Mother, it is a box for the season—every Monday. The seats were all taken for to-night.”

“A box for the season at the opera!” Mrs. Lennox’s surprise might fortunately pass for gratification. “That is sweet of you,” she said slowly. How could Imogen have forgotten that she had absolutely no ear for music? “I shall enjoy being with you one evening every week for certain.”

“You are forgetting that we are in mourning, Mother. John and I cannot go to the opera this season. But I felt that our being cut off from things is no reason why you should not enjoy them. Now, I know John is thinking that his beloved Wall Street cannot get on without him a moment longer! Good-bye for the present, Mother, dear. I want to have a talk with you after my visitors go this afternoon.” Imogen’s tone gave the words a slight emphasis. “And you will remember that lunch is at two o’clock. I made it later on purpose to suit you, so you will be punctual, won’t you? And you do like the opera?”

“Yes, darling.” Mrs. Lennox did not specify to which question this was the answer.

After the Vandeleurs had gone, Mrs. Lennox put the opera ticket on the mantelpiece and stood gazing at it balefully. If only she could tear it into very small pieces! Of course going to a play might have been painful, with its keen reminder of the past. She would have wanted to have been of the performance and not merely at it. Still, it would have interested her, taken her out of herself. But this miserable mockery of an opera! What little story an opera ever possessed was obscured by the wretched music while the acting was entirely spoilt. She knew, for when Imogen returned from Europe, just before Mrs. Sharman’s sudden death, they had gone to “Götterdämmerung” together. How she had ached with boredom by the end of the evening. “Cut the cackle and come to the ’osses”—never had the theatrical tag seemed so applicable. Imogen’s loveliness and placid enjoyment had been some compensation, but now she was expected to go through the ordeal without the alleviation of her daughter’s society. She was to sit there one whole evening every week; and on Wagner nights the evening started at four o’clock in the afternoon! If only she could take a nap like some people she would not mind so much, but with her, the duller she felt the more wakeful she grew. It was really too much. She could not stand it. But then Imogen’s feelings would be hurt. With a sigh Mrs. Lennox offered herself up on the altar of parental piety.

By a great effort Mrs. Lennox reached the Vandeleur’s house by the specified time. Perhaps it is the reaction from professional exactitude that makes punctuality in everyday life such a rare quality among actors. The sound of a clock striking two as she pressed the door bell, gave Mrs. Lennox a glow of unaccustomed virtue. The house itself, as Mr. Hobson had said, was small and unassuming for that part of Fifth Avenue. Only the expert would have guessed its cost. The highest wealth, Mr. Vandeleur felt, was to conceal wealth, and Imogen instinctively acquiesced in her husband’s sentiment. Even the liveries of the two men who answered the door were richly inconspicuous. As they took Mrs. Lennox’s wraps, she was conscious of the embarrassment with which they always filled her. Not that she had been unaccustomed to men servants in her life as Frances West. Are they not the prop of every society play? But the stage flunkeys had been her friends and equals. The hotel waiters had been her enemies and superiors. She had never before encountered this deferential, automatic type of ministering male. A deprecating note was in her voice as she murmured something about keeping her scarf. She felt these awful beings had guessed the hidden reason, an uncertainty as to whether she had finished fastening the back of her gown.

In the reception room Imogen was holding quite a little court. The girl’s youth and beauty, her delicate refinement had evidently won over this select essence of New York society. She came forward as Mrs. Lennox was announced. “My mother,” she said, introducing her in turn to each of the ladies present. “This is really Mother’s party; it is her birthday to-day.”

Mrs. Lennox shook hands, feeling impossibly awkward. It seemed ridiculous in a woman of her age to be shy, but how could she help it? She was given a part to play without any rehearsals, and was expected to make up her own words as she went along. No wonder she had stage fright! If only she had possessed Imogen’s apparently instinctive sense of the correct thing to do and to say ... “never guess they were mother and daughter ... how sweet dear Imogen is to her....” The overheard, whispered comments only increased Mrs. Lennox’s embarrassed self-consciousness, although she warmly agreed with them. Through training and through temperament she was sensitive to the “feeling of the house,” and it was dead against her. To her relief lunch was announced.

She found herself seated next to Mrs. Vansittart, an elderly lady with white hair dressed in the pompadour style, and an aristocratic face. Mrs. Vansittart was evidently waiting for her neighbour to open the conversation. What should she talk about, Mrs. Lennox asked herself desperately? Dramatic topics were the only ones that came to her mind, and they were taboo. When John Vandeleur had stipulated that no reference should ever be made to his mother-in-law’s stage life, he perhaps hardly realized that from the age of fourteen she had had no other. Cutting off this existence had left her floating in space, a disconnected, but unhappily a visible spirit.

“It is not often that we mothers are fortunate enough to have daughters who will give parties in honour of our birthdays.” Mrs. Vansittart’s clear, delicate intonation at last broke the silence.

“No, it was real lovely of my girl, wasn’t it?” A happy thought struck Mrs. Lennox. The birthday gift would at least serve as a conversational asset. “Imogen has given me a box at the opera for the whole season. Isn’t it a cute present?”

“A very charming one. Which is your night, Mrs. Lennox?”

“I have forgotten; oh yes, Mondays.” “Black Monday” she remembered she had told herself when Imogen had mentioned the day.

“Monday, how curious. My box is for Monday, too, so we shall meet. I am in the upper tier on the left. I understand that we are to have the whole ‘Ring’ this season. It is a great treat, is it not?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Lennox replied drearily, her worst fears realized. Mrs. Vansittart was already launched on a Wagner rhapsody, which came to a gradual close, probably for lack of antistrophe. Poor Mrs. Lennox, feeling as though she had missed her cue, was vainly cudgelling her brains for a suitable response. “Yes, Wagner’s real bright, isn’t he?” she ventured, but the “line” evidently did not “catch on.” A fresh plate with some unknown viand was now put before her. Almost without thinking, she took up a silver sugar-sifter and liberally sprinkled it. A slight gasp from her neighbour arrested her hand.

“I beg your pardon.” Mrs. Vansittart smiled; “Only I have never seen terrapin eaten with sugar before, and I wondered if it were nice.”

“Very nice. I always have it served in this way.” Mrs Lennox ate on brazenly. What a nauseous mess! Could terrapin, even without sugar, possibly be palatable? And to think of what it cost! Five dollars a plate, she had heard somewhere. A memory came to her of the time when that sum had had to provide a week’s board and lodging.

The conversation now became more general. The ladies were talking of a new house a few blocks further up that was being built by an ex-pork-packer from Denver. “He thinks the more styles he can crowd in, the more value he is getting for his money,” one of the ladies observed. “At least that is my explanation of the Gothic front and the Renaissance porch and the Queen Anne wing and the baroque chimneys.”

“Don’t forget the Italian Court and the Byzantine ball room,” laughed another.

“Oh I believe the inside is too terrible for words. He has got over two real Adam mantelpieces and chopped them up to make them fit round an open fireplace with chimney corners. It is just desecration.”

“What can you expect?” Mrs. Vansittart’s clear voice interposed, “All those people in the Middle-West are absolute Goths—mere unlettered savages in relation to Art.”

“Indeed, they are not.” Mrs. Lennox’s indignation carried her over both her shyness and discretion. “They appreciate art just as much, and more, than you do. Why, we never had such lovely houses as in the Middle-West.”

There was a surprised pause. “I was not aware that the Middle-West possessed any particular school of domestic architecture,” Mrs. Vansittart began, “although now you mention it, I remember hearing of an artistic colony near Chicago; I suppose they have been carrying their lamp into the wilderness. It shows that one should not speak on mere hearsay, for I must admit I have never been West myself. The lure of Europe is too great.”

“Mother has lived for years in the Middle West,” Imogen’s sweet voice interposed, a shade anxiously, “so you see we cannot have it slighted. I believe Mother thinks that Chicago has all the perfections of Florence and Athens and Paris rolled into one.”

In the laugh that followed, the underlying jar was forgotten. “In which city did you live?” Mrs. Vansittart enquired.

Mrs. Lennox was now only too anxious to escape from the topic. She had broken her promise to her son-in-law, she was thinking in dismay. Fortunately, her slip had not been noticed. “Oh, I was in quite a number of cities,” she answered enigmatically.

Imogen again came to the rescue; perhaps she noticed the shade of puzzled speculation that had crossed Mrs. Vansittart’s face. “Mother is a terrible rolling stone,” she laughed. “She just adores travelling. When I was at Central Park School, she took advantage of having no ties to wander around California and all sorts of places. But now I say she has got to stay at home right close to me.” She smiled at her mother affectionately, and then gave the signal to rise.

As soon as the first guest took her leave, Mrs. Lennox seized the opportunity to do the same. She had quite forgotten that her daughter wished to have a talk. As she went up to say good-bye, Imogen showed a displeased surprise. But poor Mrs. Lennox felt desperate. She had been an absolute failure, she was telling herself. She must “close down,” “cut her loss,” do anything rather than go on like this. “I have to get home at once,” she murmured, and fled.

When she did get home, she reproached herself for not having stayed. She might just as well have given Imogen pleasure. What was there for her to do at home? What was there for her to do anywhere? She flung herself into one of the ultra downy armchairs, and stared into the fire despondently. Of course she had books, but in all her busy life she had never had time for serious reading, and had not acquired the habit. At first she had celebrated her holiday by an orgy of novels, but she soon wearied of them. Needle-work she hated; cards bored her; no one came to see her. What was she to do?

With one of the unreal coincidences of real life, there was a ring at the front door bell. She supposed it was one of her daughter’s new acquaintances, who was thus politely stretching her social circle to include Mr. Vandeleur’s mother-in-law. She wished that she had told Palmer that she was not receiving. It was too late now, for she heard the maid opening the door. “Does Miss Frances West live here?” The tone was familiar.

Mrs. Lennox rushed into the vestibule. Suppose Palmer should send him away. Her usual awe of the stiff English parlourmaid was forgotten. “Miss West doesn’t live here, but I do,” she exclaimed incoherently, seizing both Mr. Hobson’s hands and working them up and down. “My, it’s good to see you again. It’s real good.”

The maid discreetly withdrew, an image of disapproving astonishment. Mr. Hobson, however, took the outburst as a matter of course. He thought at one moment his hostess was going to kiss him, but he had long ceased being surprised by his leading women. “Well, I guess, it’s good to see you too,” he answered genially. “I’d have butted in long since but I thought you were too grand in these days for your old friends.”

“Grand! I’m bored stiff. I’m turning to stone. I sit here morning, noon, and night, like a mummy in a mausoleum. If something don’t happen pretty soon, I shall explode. If I could be Biddy just for one half hour! But it’s no good talking. You know how Mr. Vandeleur feels. And don’t ask for Miss West again, else there’ll be trouble. I’m Mrs. Lennox now, don’t you know?” She had led him into the drawing room as she spoke, and now almost pushed him into the vacated armchair. “My, it’s good to see a live, flesh and blood human being again!”

“What’s your Four Hundred made of, sawdust and starch?” Mr. Hobson laughed, and then looked about the room admiringly. “They seem to have fixed you up here all right anyway.”

“That’s what’s the matter. It’s too right. Everything is everlastingly, unchangingly right. We dress right and talk right, and go to the opera and eat terrapin because it’s right, however much we hate it. It’s wearing me into my grave, this always being right. I feel about a century older than this time last year. We were rehearsing ‘Biddy’ then, don’t you know, mostly on the cars, and everything was going wrong. And we were playing eight times a week, and there was a strike on the line, and we’d got two all night journeys. That’s what I call living.”

“Some folks would call it more like dying! But if you’re on the look out for work and worry, Miss West, perhaps you won’t shut down the little proposition I’ve come to make. I tell you I was half scared to suggest it.”

“Yes, yes, go on,” his companion urged breathlessly.

“Well, I guess you’ve seen in the press that I’ve got a new piece coming on at the Delphic—‘The Haunted Homestead.’ I tell you it’s going to be a sensation—strong you know, a regular spine stirrer, but a lot of laughs in it too. It’s about an old Carolina woman living way up in the mountains; the piece just hangs on her. Well, I got Clare Brown to read over the part this morning. My, she was a terror! She’s done some pretty good work in her time, but she’s no more idea of playing this than the cat. The thing’s killed, sure, if she’s in the bill. It’s got to grip the people, don’t you know—not to be played as a farce. When they laugh, it must be because they want to cry. Well, that’s why I’ve come to you, Miss West; I believe you’re the one woman in America for the part. We’ll just have the biggest kind of success. You’ll make the piece, and the piece will make you.”

Frances West’s eyes were shining. “But how can I play? Mr. Vandeleur—” she demurred.

“Shucks, he needn’t know. It’s a character part; nobody will recognize you. You can change your name again. It ain’t as though you were a star already. There’s no money in ‘Frances West,’ not a cent.”

Mrs. Lennox was only too anxious to be persuaded, still she retained some common sense. “As if Mr. Vandeleur wouldn’t guess that I was playing again, if I were out every evening,” she retorted.

“Well, let him guess. What does it signify? Your daughter’s safely married to him—and you ain’t. I never heard of any text, ‘Obey thy son-in-law!’”

His companion laughed. Then she put aside the big stumbling block for the moment, and turned to the little one. “Anyway, I couldn’t take the part from Clare Brown; it wouldn’t be fair on her.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” Miss West was coming round, Mr. Hobson felt delightedly. “Clare’s was only a trial trip. The woman I had before is took sick—not that she could touch it either. And here I am billed to open in less than three weeks. I tell you I’m desperate. Now look here, you just put on your wraps, Miss West, and come down with me to the theatre right now. I left them all there rehearsing. Mr. Leigh’s along with them; he’s the young man that’s written it, and not so much of a noosance as authors go. Of course, he thinks every word is pearls and diamonds, and if you get him to cut a line he puts in six pages later. But Clare pretty well broke his spirit this morning. He’ll be that glad to have you instead, you’ll find he’ll do any mortal thing you want. So just come right along.”

The blood had rushed to Miss West’s face. Why shouldn’t she go with Mr. Hobson, she was thinking tumultuously. Whatever happened in the future—and she didn’t suppose it would be feasible for her to take the part—still, she wanted to go now. She wanted to be in a theatre, to hear a play again, to see all the dear, warm-hearted, uncritical people. That was her home, not this. Besides, it was her birthday. And they celebrated it with their glacial lunch parties and miserable opera boxes! If they wouldn’t give her any pleasure, she must take it for herself. Surely on her birthday she might be allowed a little treat. “If I come now, Mr. Hobson,” she stipulated, “that doesn’t mean I take the part.” She almost collided with Palmer in her rush upstairs to get her hat and furs.

As the stage door opened, the stuffy, chilly atmosphere of the theatre greeted Frances West like the perfume of Araby; she drew a deep breath of rapture. And how good it was to be treading the bare, dusty boards again after a year of carpeted footfalls. Some dozen people were sitting or standing about the stage, all with rather a depressed mien. A young man, who was sitting apart on a “practical” tree stump, had buried his face in his hands in an access of despair. Miss West guessed that this was the broken-spirited author. Mr. Hobson had paused to give some instruction to the back door keeper, but now he and Miss West came forward together. All the company looked up. There was a cry of “Fanny,” for two or three of them had played with Miss West before, and they thronged around, welcoming her enthusiastically. A pretty, young girl rushed on from the wings. “You dear, dear thing,” she almost sobbed, flinging herself into Miss West’s arms. This was the little girl of whose broken engagement Miss West had spoken to Mr. Vandeleur. “Are you going to play it? Oh, do make her, Mr. Hobson, she must. Oh, you must make her do it, Mr. Hobson.”

“I guess she’ll do it, though she’s keeping it on a string. Anyway, you’ll read the part now, won’t you, Miss West?”

“Oh, but how can I?” Frances demurred, genuinely taken aback. “I’ve never set eyes on the script.”

“Well here’s Mr. Leigh, only too anxious to tell you all about it. Just sketch out the piece to Miss West, Mr. Leigh, and then we’ll run through it. You’ll see it will be an entirely different proposition with Miss West in it. Why, it’s just written for her!”

Four hours later Frances West, tired, dusty, hungry, and supremely happy, was sitting down to a badly cooked dinner in a little restaurant near the theatre. Mr. Hobson and Mr. Leigh were with her, and they were all talking excitedly. Imogen’s guests would not have recognized the constrained, awkward Mrs. Lennox in this animated, voluble woman. “It’s just great, great,” she was exclaiming; “that scene where she finds her daughter’s run away: ‘Well, I must do my washing; guess the tears will keep,’ and breaks down when she finds it’s her daughter’s Sunday waist that’s in the suds—it’s great.”

“If it is great, it is you who make it so,” young Leigh told her. When Miss West read the part, his work was again as good as he had thought it. She seemed to have given him back his own play, the play of his dreams that he had never quite been able to write.

“There won’t be a dry eye in the house,” Mr. Hobson observed with conviction. “All the same, that soliloquy about the daughter’s childhood drags just a bit. Three or four lines out about the little golden head and so forth, would pull the whole scene together, don’t you know?”

“I won’t have a line touched. It is perfect.” Miss West was genuinely indignant. Mr. Leigh gazed at her with an ever increasing admiration. What an intelligent woman!

Mr. Hobson chuckled. “Well, I won’t quarrel over that cut.” He pulled a typewritten document out of his pocket. “Will you sign the contract now, Miss West?”

The words jerked her back into realities. She stared at him in dismay. “I can’t, I can’t,” she stammered. “I must think it over.” What was she doing? she asked herself; she ought not to be here at all. She was not Miss West, she was Mrs. Lennox, Imogen’s mother. And she had promised her son-in-law to give up the stage, unless she severed all connection with her daughter. He would keep her to her word, of that she felt sure. How could she bear to give up Imogen? But how could she bear to give up this chance of work? The miserable oppression of the last month came over her. Oh, she couldn’t go on with it, day after day, year after year, for all her life. She would go mad! And this part appealed to her so; it dragged her. She felt the character; she would make the audience feel it. The revolt of this Carolina woman at the dreary loneliness of her mountain homestead was, paradoxically enough, her own revolt at the dreary loneliness of Fifth Avenue. But Imogen? In the play the Carolina woman’s daughter ran away from her, but here she would be running away from her daughter. Only, after all, did Imogen need her? Did she even want her? Were not Imogen’s visits prompted more by convention than affection? Her daughter had love, wealth, hosts of friends, everything the heart could desire. If Imogen had needed her, it would be different; then she would never have dreamt of leaving her. “I’ll think it over,” she repeated to Mr. Hobson more confidently, “and ’phone you my decision the first thing in the morning.” Neither had any doubt as to what that decision would be, and they parted like pals.

She got home at nine o’clock, and was abashed before Palmer’s cold disapproval. “Oh, I have dined,” she told the maid, trying to conceal her consciousness of guilt under a jaunty air; “I hope you didn’t keep the things hot.”

“Of course the dinner was kept hot, Madam. I will inform them that you do not require it.” Palmer was departing icily when she paused. “Mrs. Vandeleur has telephoned twice, Madam. She instructed me to ring her up when you returned. She said she wished to call if it were not too late.”

“Oh, please say I shall be delighted if she will come round now.” Mrs. Lennox went slowly upstairs. At any rate it was a relief to shake off her domestic martinet. But she wished Imogen was not coming that evening. She would have liked to be alone. What could it be that Imogen wanted to talk to her about? Or did she merely feel a chat was part of the correct birthday procedure? Mrs. Lennox’s lips tightened. Well, anyway, she must hurry and change her gown. Imogen would certainly be shocked at finding her still in her street suit. Besides, she was no doubt exceedingly grubby and untidy.

She was hardly settled in the drawing-room before Imogen came in. Something had upset her daughter; Mrs. Lennox saw that at once. Could Imogen have possibly heard of her afternoon’s programme, she wondered guiltily. The girl’s first pettish words dispelled such an idea. “Whatever were you doing, Mother, all the afternoon? Palmer did not seem to have any idea what had become of you.”

“I went to see some friends, dear.” For an instant Mrs. Lennox thought of telling her daughter everything. But no, Imogen could never understand. “They persuaded me to stay and have dinner with them.”

“How odd and informal!” The subject clearly did not interest Imogen. “Well, I thought you were never coming back.” There was a pause. “There is something I want to say to you.”

Imogen was certainly unlike herself this evening. She seemed embarrassed, even distressed. Mrs. Lennox began to stroke her daughter’s hand, a little diffidently, for Imogen did not care for demonstration; she was apt to consider it vulgar. To her surprise Mrs. Lennox felt her own fingers clutched. “What is it, darling?” she asked. “I thought directly you came in that something must be troubling you.”

Suddenly, to her mother’s dismay, Imogen burst into tears—Imogen who never cried. “It is horrible,” she gasped. “And I was so happy.”

“What is horrible, dearest?” She put her arm around her daughter. “Tell Momma,” she said, as though Imogen was again a little girl. Indeed she felt closer to her than she had done since Imogen had first gone to school. She began to stroke her daughter’s hair, and thought of the time that the baby head used to rest just there on her breast—the little golden head that Mr. Hobson wanted to “cut.” “Tell Momma,” she urged again.

But Imogen only sobbed. “I can’t tell you—I didn’t want it,” she cried at last incoherently.

There was another long pause. “Have you and John quarrelled?” Mrs. Lennox suggested.

It was clearly a wrong explanation. She could not see Imogen’s face, but the violence of her head-shake was conclusive. “Does John know about your trouble, dear?”

Imogen began to cry more vehemently than before. “No, he doesn’t know. That is part of its being so horrible. I believe he will be pleased.” Mrs. Lennox thought she must have misunderstood the sobbing words. How could her son-in-law be pleased? Whatever were his failings, or his irritating lack of them, there was no doubt of his devotion to Imogen. Suddenly the girl flung her arms round her mother’s neck. She was clinging to her like a drowning person. “Oh, Mother, help me,” she cried. “No one else can help me, not even John. I know some women are pleased, but I hate it. I hate the thought of the pain and looking hideous. I am so frightened. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be ill; I daresay I shall die. Mother, it frightens me—Mother.” She was shaking all over, and sobbing wildly in Mrs. Lennox’s arms.

At last Mrs. Lennox understood. And as she understood, she realized sub-consciously that this was the answer to Mr. Hobson’s offer. Her daughter had always been timid and ultra-sensitive. An unattractive woman facing life in this way might have been condemned as a selfish coward, but no one had ever reproached Imogen. And so Mrs. Lennox kissed the frightened girl and fondled her until she had soothed her into something of her usual tranquillity; then she spoke to her reassuringly of the transience of the pain and the joy of the new little life that was to come. But through all Mrs. Lennox’s cheering words, there was a dull ache—the loss of her own renewed life, which was now denied her. Frances West was finally killed—that was the price of Imogen’s baby. The rôle of the Carolina woman would struggle in her for expression and in vain. Henceforward she would only be Mrs. Lennox, an imperfect, half-alive creature. To her daughter had come a living child, but she was tethered for ever to the corpse of her other self. That ascent among the stars of which she had dreamed had become for ever impossible.

CHAPTER III.

One of the great surprises of Mrs. Lennox’s life was the first sight of her daughter’s baby. She had been by Imogen’s bedside all through that dreadful June night, until at last the great doctor decreed that anæsthetics could be given, and her daughter’s frenzied clutch on her hand slowly relaxed. Then, feeling numb and sick with vicarious suffering, Mrs. Lennox retired into the adjoining room. There was nothing more that she could do. In addition to the specialist, the ordinary doctor and two nurses were in attendance. She would only be in the way, she felt.

In the boudoir she found her son-in-law. John Vandeleur was sitting with his face buried in his hands; his ruffled hair and disordered attire testified to the horror of the vigil. It was the first time Mrs. Lennox, or indeed anyone, had seen him in such a condition. A wave of pity and affection came over her. “Imogen isn’t in pain now,” she murmured, and sank down into the other astonishingly soft armchair.

John Vandeleur made no reply; Mrs. Lennox wondered if he had heard. The wait went on, broken by heart-clutching sounds from the next room. The doctor had already told them it was a difficult case—not quite normal, as he phrased it. A burst of gasping moans was distinctly audible. Mrs. Lennox interlocked her two hands tightly. “But she can’t really feel it now; she is under chloroform,” she reassured herself.

There was another long pause. Suddenly both the auditors started. The wail of an infant tore the silence. “But how loud!” Mrs. Lennox exclaimed in surprise. “He must have good lungs!” She broke off in a struggle between laughter and tears.

The thick portière between the two rooms was now pulled aside, and one of the nurses appeared—the younger and prettier of the two. “A very fine little girl, Mr. Vandeleur,” she announced deferentially.

John Vandeleur had raised his face at the first sound of the child’s cry. Although it was ashen with anxiety, there was the light in his eyes that a successful business coup often put there. At the nurse’s words this light went out. “How is Mrs. Vandeleur? Ask Dr. Fletcher if I may go in to her,” he said after a barely perceptible pause.

It was not very long before the great specialist himself came in. Whisperingly, he urged delay. Mrs. Vandeleur was very weak, not fully conscious indeed, he explained. There had been trouble, but he thought all danger was now happily over. Then he suggested to Mr. Vandeleur that they would both be the better for some refreshment, and carried him off downstairs. The husband’s presence in the adjoining room all night had been resented by Dr. Fletcher as quite unorthodox, but he had had to resign himself. Mr. Vandeleur was a man with whom it was difficult to insist.

Mrs. Lennox sat motionless in her chair. She seemed to have been forgotten, and she was very tired. In any case she wanted to remain near lest Imogen should ask for her. All through these last few months her daughter had clung to her in a curiously childlike way. This dependence had culminated in the physical grip of last night, for contact with her mother had seemed the only thing to bring poor Imogen the least relief. Half unconsciously Mrs. Lennox began to picture the little new-comer whose advent had caused the suffering. Doubtless it was a fair, sweet little being as its mother had been. Even from the very first Imogen had reminded her of a Dresden figure, the tiny features had been so clear and delicate, the colouring so exquisite. Suddenly the nurse again came in; this time she had a blanketed bundle in her arms.

“Oh, let me see.” Mrs. Lennox rose and tottered forward. How stiff she felt! A wooden look came over Nurse Vernon’s face. Husbands were a necessary evil, but all other relations she considered a grievance. It was to be hoped that this grandmother wasn’t going to poke herself forward. However, she lifted a corner of the soft blanket so that Mrs. Lennox might inspect.

Could this be Imogen’s child—this swarthy, dark-haired little creature? What a funny little face it had, so strong and determined. The tiny puckered brow and square jaw almost made her laugh. But how homely! The word was forced even upon a potentially devoted grandmother.

As though conscious of hostile criticism the baby suddenly emitted a shriek. Certainly Imogen had never cried in such a violently fortissimo manner. Nurse Vernon hurried away to remove her noisy charge from the vicinity of the sick room. As she passed through the further doorway she turned a moment and spoke. “She weighs eight pounds two ounces, and I’m thinking there’s a temper to match!”

For the next few days Mrs. Lennox saw very little of her granddaughter. The doctors had decreed that Mrs. Vandeleur must be kept absolutely quiet, and so the infant was banished to the distant nurseries. But although Imogen was not allowed to see her baby, she might at least have asked after her, Mrs. Lennox thought with painful surprise. When she herself spoke of little Joan—for they had slipped into this name as being the nearest to the expected ‘John’—Imogen changed the subject with pettish weariness. Indeed, not only did she appear indifferent as to the child, but her new affection towards her mother seemed to have departed. Perhaps she felt and resented the unspoken criticism, or perhaps the return to her usual state had removed the clinging dependence. For whatever might be Imogen’s feelings, there was no doubt that she was making an excellent recovery. Each day visibly brought back her strength and beauty. By the end of the week, as she lay lapped in her exquisite lingeries, one would hardly have known that she had been ill.

It was really time, Mrs. Lennox felt, to put an end to this unnatural state of affairs. She did not announce her project as she went out of her daughter’s room and up to the nurseries. A complete suite in the further wing had been set aside for the baby’s use, three rooms with a bath, scullery and small kitchen attached. Mr. Vandeleur himself had superintended their being fitted up on all the latest and most approved principles of child culture. The floors curved into the walls and walls into ceilings in the manner reminiscent of an operating theatre; it would have needed a hardy germ to secure a foothold. The dull green colouring had been selected to avoid eye-strain, and, at the same time, cultivate a child’s artistic sense. For the same reason the charming frieze of cocks and hens had been painted by an artist of distinction. A Vandeleur child must not like the mere ordinary baby be condemned to machine-made wall paper bought by the yard. Some patent material, soft yet highly hygienic, covered the floor, while all the furniture, also in green, had been specially designed to secure an absence of angles. “Why didn’t you have a padded room straight away?” Mrs. Lennox had flippantly asked when she saw it. “And what are you going to do with a naughty child without a corner to stand it in?”

It was to this Elysium that the grandmother now betook herself. Even if Imogen didn’t care for her baby, she reflected, little Joan had every other possible advantage. Had not Nurse Vernon been detailed off to the child’s exclusive service, while yet another highly-trained nurse had been engaged to attend her during the night? In addition to these, there was the nurserymaid, Bridget, not sufficiently certificated to touch the baby, but who washed the baby’s clothes and waited on the nurses, and, in a yet lower circle, a Scandinavian woman who was too rough for attendance on the baby’s nurses but competent to clean her nurseries.

With a knowledge of these circumambient rings of ministration, Mrs. Lennox was rather surprised to hear a wailing as she approached. The baby was lying on the couch, which, to Mrs. Lennox’s old-fashioned ideas, was a queer place for a young infant. However, both nurses were sitting near doing their interminable crochet work, and, although they took no notice of the infant, they were evidently in attendance. It struck Mrs. Lennox that the poor little thing did not look as plump or robust as she had done the previous week. “What is Baby crying about?” she asked as she came forward.

Both nurses looked annoyed, and Mrs. Lennox felt that she had worded her enquiry without due deference. “We are having a great deal of trouble over the food,” Nurse Vernon answered shortly. She got up and went over to the couch. “No doubt Dr. Fletcher will soon find a diet that suits her.”

“I was fortunate in not having to feed my baby artificially.” The nurses looked unresponsive and slightly shocked, so Mrs. Lennox did not pursue the subject. At this point little Joan began to cry loudly. “Don’t you think she might stop if she were taken up?” the grandmother ventured. After all, Mrs. Lennox reflected, she was not so entirely ignorant as these nurses imagined. In addition to her own daughter, she had had a good deal to do a year or two ago with a baby boy, whose mother was a member of the theatrical company. Miss Mainwaring, the mother in question, was a clever and domestic woman who had successfully brought up a large family under the difficult conditions of stage life, and although she had gratefully accepted her friend’s help, she was so competent that she had hardly seemed to need it. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox had often thought that she herself was the gainer, for, besides acquiring a good deal of baby lore, she became devoted to little Willie until they were separated by the ever fluctuating currents of the dramatic profession. However, fortified by this experience, Mrs. Lennox reiterated, “Surely as Baby is crying so, it would be better to take her up.”

“I should think it would be the very worst thing,” Nurse Vernon rudely retorted. “Dandling babies is absolutely old fashioned.”

Mrs. Lennox flushed. Then she remembered her purpose which she had forgotten in her agitation. “Well, I shall be obliged to be an old timer, for Baby is going down to see Mrs. Vandeleur.—What an unnatural daughter not to have said ‘Howdy’ to Momma yet!” The mild jest, a foolish attempt at propitiating the nurses, was received in depressing silence.

It might be bad, as the nurses said, to dandle babies, but the fact remained that little Joan stopped crying as soon as she felt herself lifted in her grandmother’s arms. Mrs. Lennox bore her burden out of the nursery and downstairs in some triumph. The infant was still quiet as she carried her in to Imogen’s room; indeed, the little thing even opened her eyes; they were large and dark and formed her one redeeming feature. Either Mrs. Lennox’s gratification over such exemplary behaviour, or the fact that she herself had grown used to the determined swarthy little face, made her quite forget to prepare Imogen for the baby’s ugliness. “Look, darling, at your little daughter,” she said, and she approached Imogen’s bed.

The young mother glanced round. In spite of herself she could not help feeling an interested curiosity. It would be rather attractive, she felt suddenly, to possess a dainty, exquisitely dressed little baby, like a large-sized wax doll. Yes, she would allow bygones to be bygones. Mrs. Lennox now lifted the covering head shawl. There was a sharp cry of horror. “Oh Mother,” Imogen gasped. “It’s hideous, absolutely hideous! And I was made so ill for that! Take it away. I never want to see it again, never!” She turned and hid her face in the pillow.

The fiasco was complete. The next day Imogen had a headache and her temperature had again gone up. Little Joan had passed a very bad night, which, of course, was put down to the grandmotherly escapade. Nurse Vernon went so far as to say that she must give up the post if her charge were interfered with. She complained to Dr. Fletcher, and he in his turn spoke to Mrs. Lennox, politely, indeed, but with a latent severity. “Nurse Vernon feels that she has the responsibility of the case,” he explained, “so perhaps it was not quite fair to take away the child. I consider her an excellent nurse, and it would be a pity for Mrs. Vandeleur to lose her.”

After this there was nothing left for Mrs. Lennox but to stay away from her granddaughter. She felt this would have been impossible had Imogen kept to her hysterical threat of never seeing her baby again, but, as the weeks passed, returning health brought a more normal attitude. To do Imogen justice, she always performed her duty as she conceived it. Every morning at ten o’clock precisely she visited the nursery and carefully inspected the clothes that the baby was wearing that day. It was probable that even in Fifth Avenue there was no child with a wardrobe to rival that of little Miss Vandeleur. Not that Joan’s robes were excessively ornate. Imogen’s flawless good taste in clothes made her realize the vulgarity of an over-dressed infant. It was rather that the material, and whatever trimming the gowns had, was of such an exquisite fineness as to suggest a fairy origin. Even the superior Nurse Vernon was grudgingly impressed.

Yet with it all, with the unreal clothes and the scientific nurseries, with the automobile drives and the retinue of attendants, little Joan Vandeleur did not seem to thrive. For four months she went on moderately well, gaining weight some weeks, at a standstill the others, crying a good deal all the time. The fifth month was definitely unsatisfactory. Whether it was the bitterly cold weather, or the approach of teething troubles, they did not know, but her weight went down steadily, and the intermittent wailing became almost continuous. For hours she lay crying in her cot while the nurses toiled over Dr. Fletcher’s diet instructions, weighing and measuring and heating with scrupulous accuracy. Asses’ milk, peptonised milk, humanized milk, they were all tried in vain.

Mrs. Lennox stood it as long as she could. But each time she went upstairs in her daughter’s house, she heard the distant sounds of the baby’s crying, and each time she saw the child herself, the queer little face seemed to have grown queerer, while a pinched look had come over it that had not been there before. The eyes were so big now that they were quite startling; they had a sort of appealing look, Mrs. Lennox fancied, that cut her to the heart. “I wouldn’t have a baby cry all day long like that, not for the universe,” she broke out at last to her daughter.

“But don’t all babies cry a great deal?” Imogen asked, genuinely surprised.

“They cry when they are hungry—they’ve no other way of telling you. But they don’t cry for nothing. Why, when you were a baby, you were as good as gold for hours together.”

“Nurse Vernon says that Joan has a very bad temper,” Imogen observed.

“Bad temper—a baby not five months old.” It was too much; Mrs. Lennox fairly boiled over. “If I had my way I’d pack off both those young women—a nice pair they are! How they can sit there with their eternal crochet and never lift a finger while the unfortunate little thing screams herself hoarse passes my understanding! Oh, I know it’s their theory,” she went on quickly as Imogen seemed about to protest. “You needn’t tell me that the child gets every attention and has its temperature taken six times a day and is weighed before and after each meal—as if she didn’t have trouble enough already, poor little wretch. But what I say is the proof of the pudding is in the eating. That’s why I think you ought to make a change. You might do better and you couldn’t do worse. See here, darling,” she concluded coaxingly, “won’t you give Baby into my charge when you go to Florida next week. I feel so certain I could do better with her.”

“My dear Mother!” Imogen’s tone was coldly displeased. “It is very kind of you, but really do you know very much about babies? It seems to me absurd to think that you could manage her better than Nurse Vernon and Nurse Smith.”

“At any rate, Imogen, I had charge of you, and you didn’t look like your baby does,” Mrs. Lennox urged.

It was the wrong thing to say. “I don’t imagine that I was ever so ugly as Joan,” Imogen retorted bitterly, “but I hardly feel that I am responsible for that.”

“I wasn’t talking about the child’s being homely but about her being ill. I tell you what, the poor little thing looks starved. Yes, that’s it—starved.”

“How can you be so ridiculous, Mother?” Imogen was now definitely angry. Indeed, the remark did sound foolish, for the amount spent on Joan’s food would have kept a working class family in comfort. “You know quite well that Baby has everything the doctors order.”

The discussion was closed, but someone besides Mrs. Lennox had begun to notice little Joan’s appearance. For some weeks after the child’s birth, Mr. Vandeleur had kept away from her almost as rigidly as his wife. He had made up his mind so definitely as to the sex of the approaching baby that the disappointment had been almost insupportable. For Vandeleur & Son was more than an old established firm; in this republican land it ranked almost as a dynasty. And now there was no son, and one day there would be no Vandeleur, he told himself bitterly. Imogen, he knew, was absolutely determined never to have another child; indeed, she had been so ill that he, himself, could hardly wish it. No wonder that he could not bear to enter the nurseries prepared so carefully for the heir-apparent.

Sometimes, however, he came across his daughter being carried about the house. Nurse Vernon felt that the great Mr. Vandeleur was a very different person from an interfering, unimportant grandmother, and so she always made a point of displaying her charge and cordially answering the one or two stereotyped questions that were put to her. For the last fortnight Mr. Vandeleur had not chanced to see the nurse, but this morning he met her on the stairs. Baby was duly exhibited, and her appearance gave him a shock. “Is she ill?” he asked.

“She is not very well. We cannot find a satisfactory food for her, but Dr. Fletcher is trying a new formula to-day. Perhaps it will suit her better.”

Mr. Vandeleur was looking at the little pulse throbbing in the blue depression of the child’s temple. How often he was asked to contribute to funds for hungry children—earthquake victims, starving refugee families, a few of the many clamorous charities came to his mind—and now he, John P. Vandeleur, was apparently unable to feed his own baby! “Probably her teeth are troubling her.” The nurse’s words broke in upon his thoughts.

He felt it a lame explanation. Every child must get teeth, he reflected, and he was sure it did not make them all look like this. “How old is she?” he asked abruptly.

“She will be five months next Monday.” Nurse thought that the interview had gone on long enough, and drew aside to let her employer pass.

Mr. Vandeleur had taken to walking the first part of the way to the office since his wife had ceased accompanying him, now about a year ago. He had hoped that when Imogen got strong again, she would resume the practice, but she had not suggested doing so. Indeed, since the child’s birth a curious change had come over young Mrs. Vandeleur. It almost seemed as though she bore her husband a grudge for all she had gone through, she was now so indifferent to his society. To-day, however, as he walked briskly through the cold air, Mr. Vandeleur was not thinking of his wife, but of his daughter. Although it was early, Central Park teemed with children. How sturdy they looked, running and shouting with their straps of lesson books. There were already a few baby carriages out. Hitherto Mr. Vandeleur had considered these only as annoying obstacles in his path, but to-day he found himself peering into them curiously. One, that he overtook, contained a fat, fair baby whose face looked like a pink rose on the white pillow. “How old is that infant?” Mr. Vandeleur suddenly asked the young nurse.

“Not four months, and he weighs eighteen pounds,” the girl replied, flushing with pride and embarrassment. “And he’s that good, you wouldn’t know there was a baby in the house.” The child gave a lusty crow as though to confirm—or perhaps contradict—her words.

When he arrived down town, instead of going straight into the office as usual, Mr. Vandeleur turned down a side street. It took him into the heart of the poor Jewish quarter. Here were babies in plenty, some in push carts, but more often carried in the arms of their mothers, capable, foreign-looking women in head-shawls. These were evidently doing their day’s marketing, as they bustled in and out of the queer little shops with Hebrew inscriptions, whose stock seemed to consist of pickled herrings and olives, and “wurst,” and such-like highly flavoured comestibles. These children, with their curly dark hair and olive skins, their funny little noses, already hooked, were of quite a different type from most of the Central Park babies, but they resembled them in being plump and healthy looking. One infant Mr. Vandeleur passed was peering out from under its mother’s enveloping shawl like a little bird in a nest; its big dark eyes reminded him of Joan. All at once it stretched out a fat grubby little brown paw as though to shake hands with him. The millionaire put his stock interrogation. “How old is that child?”

The woman looked enquiring; she evidently had but a slight acquaintance with English. But on Mr. Vandeleur repeating the words and pointing to the baby, she seemed to understand. “Fünf-feeve Monaten,” she said, nodding and smiling, and holding up her hand with the digits outspread for his better understanding. “Und so streng!” She put the baby girl at arm’s length to show how she could sit up without any support at the back.

Mr. Vandeleur put a quarter into the baby’s hand, and was amused at the way she clutched it. Indiscriminate giving was totally at variance with his principles, but he was doing so many unusual things to-day that it did not seem to matter. “Buy her a toy, not candy,” he stipulated.

That evening the Vandeleurs were dining alone. It was a rare occurrence nowadays, but a restful evening was imperative in view of Imogen’s departure to Florida the next morning. She had never quite regained her strength after the child’s birth, although her beauty had returned; indeed, perhaps it was even enhanced by the touch of physical languor and delicacy. Certainly she had never looked lovelier than this evening as she lay on the sofa in a wonderful Chinese teagown. John Vandeleur was sitting in a hard, upright chair; this was one of his peculiar preferences. “I think Joan is very ill,” he said suddenly.

“Oh nonsense! Of course she isn’t robust, she never has been.” Imogen’s tone was fretful. “Babies seem to be nothing but a trouble from the time you get them. I’m sure I don’t know what more could be done for her. She has two highly-trained nurses and a nursery maid, and Dr. Fletcher is in constant attendance. And as for the money spent on her, I believe our expenses are doubled. Her clothes cost nearly as much as mine.”

“I don’t suppose expensive clothes affect her much one way or the other,” John Vandeleur sensibly observed. “What does Fletcher say about her?”

“Oh he thinks she’s got a supersensitive digestion. But he’s trying new diets all the time; he is sure finally to get something that suits her. Oh, I’m so tired of all this fuss about asses’ milk and sterilized foods. Do let’s talk of something else.”

Mr. Vandeleur ignored the observation. He was rather haunted by the little face he had seen that morning in the nurse’s arms. Moreover, his pride was pricked. This baby was, after all, his daughter. Compared with all those other infants he had seen, she was a failure. He was not used to being associated with failures. “Do those young women look after the child properly?” he demanded.

“Of course they do. Didn’t I tell you they had the very highest possible certificates? Dr. Fletcher quite raves about Nurse Vernon; he says she’s extraordinarily methodical and accurate and all the rest of it. You’re as bad as Mother. She had a crazy idea that things would be better if she took Baby away and looked after it herself. You both seem to think I’m neglecting my child.” Imogen suddenly burst into tears. “As if it were a pleasure for me to hear her shrieking all the time! The sound does not reach your room but it does mine, in spite of the baize doors. It nearly drives me insane.”

Mr. Vandeleur did not pursue the subject. Instead he tried to comfort his wife. It was true that he had been rather shocked from the very commencement by Imogen’s attitude about the baby. Lately, however, this feeling had been replaced by anxiety as to his wife’s continued delicacy; both he and Mrs. Lennox had warmly seconded the doctor’s advice of a season in Florida. He had even arranged to escort his wife himself, and nothing but the most urgent business would have detained him. However, some friends had been found with whom Imogen could travel, and Mr. Vandeleur hoped soon to rejoin her, for, at least, a part of her stay.

The following evening found the ‘copper king’ a grass widower. Usually, even when his wife was at home, he left her to entertain any visitors and retired directly after dinner to his library. It was a beautiful room, and, as a young man, he had made a valuable collection of books, but nowadays he was always too busy to enjoy them. To-night, when it seemed such a favourable opportunity either for business or study, he avoided the library altogether. Instead he walked upstairs in a slightly stealthy manner, and went into his wife’s empty bedroom. Once inside he stood listening. Yes, there it was, muffled by the distance, but quite distinct—the fretful, steady crying of a baby.

John Vandeleur sat down by the dressing-table. Then he took off his watch, which he wore on a fob, and laid it before him. “I’ll give them ten minutes,” he murmured. He got a notebook out of his pocket and began checking some figures to employ the time. Every now and then he paused, but the wailing never ceased. At the end of the time he shut his watch with a snap and pursued his upward journey.

This was actually the first time he had been into the wing since its occupation by his daughter. But the numberless interviews he had held there with architects and decorators had made it very familiar ground. The child’s crying came from the night nursery. The door was shut. He knocked gently. To his surprise there was no reply. He knocked again with the same result; so softly opening the door he went in.

The cradle was standing at the side of the room. It was a beautiful antique of ebony inlaid with ivory, taken from some old Italian palace. This was the sole article of furniture that had been allowed corners, as it would be outgrown before the child reached the crawling age. Inside one saw a miracle of creamy softness; there was a tiny white satin eiderdown, and a snowy pillow edged with real lace. In the centre of all, looking singularly out of key, was the swarthy, emaciated little face, swollen and bleared with crying. No one else was there. The nurses could be heard talking and laughing in the day nursery, the door of which, Mr. Vandeleur had noticed, was closed. He again took out his watch and sat down in a chair that stood by the baby’s cradle. They should have a further five minutes’ grace to test if the absence were momentary or deliberate.

He suddenly found that the baby’s eyes were fixed upon him; there was a distinct interest in them. The crying grew more moderate. Mr. Vandeleur felt surprised; he had hardly before realised his offspring as a human being. That other baby this morning had put out her hand, he remembered. He wondered whether this baby could do the same. Slowly he advanced his forefinger towards her thin little clenched fist. She did not move until he touched her hand; then suddenly the tiny fingers curled round his large one. The crying stopped. So they remained, staring at each other, for a couple of minutes.

Suddenly the baby’s face contorted, the corners of her mouth becoming oddly square. Another spasm of pain had seized her. She began to shriek piteously. Surely this would bring a nurse. No one, however, appeared.

Mr. Vandeleur’s face had also changed. His cheeks flushed and the bridge of his nose gleamed white, a trick it had when he was angry. So this was the way in which these highly certificated young women looked after his daughter. Moreover, he felt almost unbearably pitying and powerless. But he would wait until the five minutes were up. Besides the baby was still clutching at his finger; he did not like to pull it away.

The nurses were not quite so reprehensible as Mr. Vandeleur imagined. Had he looked at the temperature and food charts on the mantelpiece, he would have found them written up with the most meticulous care. The last entry was not half an hour before, when the infant had last been fed and attended to. It was system, not neglect, that left her lying in her cot. She could not yet even sit up alone, so what possible harm could overtake her? It was not unnatural for the nurses to feel, that, as they could do so little, it was useless to be made unnecessarily uncomfortable by the continual miserable noise.

Nurse Vernon had indeed just observed that Baby seemed to be crying a good deal, and perhaps she ought to go in to her. But the dinner had been good, and they were sitting there so comfortably with their crochet work in the two easy chairs. Suddenly the door opened. “Mr. Vandeleur,” one of them gasped. They both rose to their feet, feeling horribly guilty; they did not quite know why.

“You will kindly come to my library to-morrow at ten o’clock, and I will settle with you for the salary that is due. I shall have no further need for your services. In the meantime I hold you responsi——” A sudden access of shrieks cut short Mr. Vandeleur’s dignified utterance. “Can’t you do anything to stop that poor child screaming like that?” he demanded furiously, and strode away.

This was not, however, the end of Mr. Vandeleur’s activity on Joan’s behalf. He went straight to his library and rang up Mrs. Lennox. He did not like being put in the position of asking her assistance, indeed this whole feeling of helplessness was most novel and unpleasant. But what else could he do? His mother-in-law had at least brought up Imogen successfully. “I heard that you kindly offered to take the baby for a short time,” he called down the ’phone.

In five minutes it was all arranged. Mrs. Lennox was to call at the Vandeleur’s house for Baby at half-past nine the following morning—how early, she thought with a shudder. Her son-in-law pressingly gave her carte blanche to engage, in the meantime, any other nurses or attendants that she required, but Mrs. Lennox replied that she was satisfied with little Bridget, the nurserymaid. She had watched the girl and considered her careful and conscientious. Moreover, she had once come upon her in tears standing in the passage while the baby wailed in its cinquecento cot. “Och, me mother would nivver allow one of me little brothers or sisters to cry its wee heart out like that,” the girl had sobbed indignantly.

Although Mrs. Lennox was confident in the evening, a wakeful night brought many qualms. As her daughter had said, what, after all, did she know about babies? With Willie Potter—Potter was the name of Miss Mainwaring’s husband—there had always been the mother in the background, and it was twenty years since Imogen was a baby; besides, she had never had the artificial food difficulty. As she lay awake tossing, she wondered whether she had been an old fool to undertake the charge.

The next day she was convinced of it. Moving Baby and Bridget had been an easy task. Everything had been packed by the time Mrs. Lennox reached Fifth Avenue, and the short drive in the warmed automobile really seemed to soothe the child. But once little Joan was established in her new quarters, she again began to wail, and had gone on almost incessantly ever since. It was clearly the food that did not suit her. She took it eagerly enough, but a few minutes later the screaming would start again with increased vigour. And yet Mrs. Lennox could not reproach herself with any lack of care. She had received from Nurse Vernon the diet formula in the great Dr. Fletcher’s own handwriting, and had followed it with the awed intensity of a religious devotee. Surely when the evening came, the child must grow tired and sleep. “It will be all right on the night.” Mrs. Lennox smiled wearily as she repeated the theatrical formula.

Evening brought no relief. Indeed, the child’s discomfort seemed to increase. The tired grandmother could not harden her heart to follow the nurse’s practice, so, in the old-fashioned parlance, she began to “walk the floor.” To her joy the crying at once subsided. Baby closed her eyes as though she were mesmerised. Presently, as the infant seemed sound asleep, the grandmother laid her in the cradle. Immediately, she roused and started to cry. Three times Mrs. Lennox hushed the little creature off to sleep, and three times, as with the most burglar-like care, she tried to insinuate the little form into the cot, Joan again woke. Well, Baby must sleep in her arms, Mrs. Lennox told herself. She found a low chair and sat down with her burden.

For the next twenty minutes peace reigned. Mrs. Lennox was gazing down at the tiny, baby face, while an immense pity gripped her heart. Why should the poor little thing have had to suffer so? How ill she looked, even in her sleep. But it was a clever head, the grandmother told herself; surely in it lay dormant possibilities. And what long lashes! They curved darkly over the soft colourless cheek. Suddenly as she watched, she saw the child twitch. Some stab of pain again produced a cry. Mrs. Lennox hurriedly began to walk until the infant once more slept sound.

This routine was repeated at intervals until about two o’clock. Then a bottle was due. After it the child’s pain evidently increased. Even by walking the grandmother could not now soothe her cries. Mrs. Lennox remembered having heard that fretful babies were quieted by singing, but she thought ruefully that on no living being could her singing have such an effect! As the next best thing, she began to declaim softly, repeating pieces of poetry, little scenes from plays, blank verse, anything that came to her mind. The crying once more stopped. Suddenly, as she was quoting some animated passage, she saw the little countenance change. Yes—surely—Baby was smiling—smiling while the pitiful little tears still rolled down her cheeks. A feeling of triumph, such as on Biddy’s first night, glowed in Mrs. Lennox. This was success indeed! “You darling,” she murmured, and finished the scene in her very best style.

Perhaps for a quarter of an hour the actress declaimed while Joan lay there quietly smiling. Then possibly the attention of so young a playgoer wandered, or else the pain increased. There was another outbreak of crying.

By five o’clock Mrs. Lennox was so worn out that all emotion had ceased. She heard the child’s wailing merely as a noise with the personal element eliminated. She began to wonder whether there had ever been a time without it. Almost she had reached the condition of the nurses; she longed to go out of the room and shut the door behind her. Her arms ached to such a degree that she thought in another moment she would drop the child. So she laid her in the cradle and crept into her own bed.

The grandmother had overrated her stoicism. In spite of two sleepless nights Mrs. Lennox found she could not doze off while the wailing continued. But she could not carry the child about any more; that was out of the question. There was one other expedient that suggested itself. It was entirely reprehensible, she knew—one of the seven deadly sins in a nurse’s code. Lifting the tiny little form out of the cradle, she snuggled it down beside her in her own bed. The crying stopped. Probably the warmth relieved the infant’s pain. Three minutes later both Mrs. Lennox and her granddaughter were sound asleep.

It was broad daylight when Mrs. Lennox again woke. Half-past eight; the baby had slept for over three hours. No doubt she would awake soon and want her bottle. Very cautiously the grandmother slipped out of bed, and after making a hasty toilette, prepared the child’s meal. She again studied the physician’s instructions, so as to avoid any possibility of mistake. She had hardly finished when little Joan awoke. The baby was evidently ravenously hungry, but the grandmother, reminiscent of Miss Mainwaring’s oft repeated instructions, would only allow the bottle to be taken slowly. “We won’t run any risks; there’s going to be no horrid pain this time,” she murmured in triumph.

The victory was shortlived. Before the bottle was even finished the baby’s face again grew contorted. The familiar shriek followed. For a moment Mrs. Lennox stared in absolute despair. But her sleep had refreshed her; she was more capable now of dealing with the situation. Miss Mainwaring had once told her that she had had great difficulty with one of her children. It couldn’t take cow’s milk, however prepared. They had been in despair, Miss Mainwaring had said, until they had tried some patent food, and from that time the child had thrived. Mrs. Lennox had related this incident to Nurse Vernon, but her words had been received with a sniff of contempt. “If you want to give a child rickets, give it those foods,” Nurse Vernon had snorted. But, after all, Mrs. Lennox now reflected, she had seen this child, then a sturdy girl of nine or ten, and certainly she had no sign of rickets. Of course, her actress friend had not called in the leading infant specialist of New York, and so she had been free to experiment. Still the great doctor had not been markedly successful! But dared she, a mere grandmother, take such a risk? However her reprehensible bed panacea seemed to have answered; possibly this condemned food might also bring the child relief. A fresh outburst of wailing decided her. Bridget was dispatched to the nearest drug store.

While she was gone Mrs. Lennox washed and dressed the baby. The nurses would have been horrified by the sketchy nature of the proceeding, but the grandmother had only two ideas, not to fatigue the child and not to give it cold. The poor little thing cried almost continuously until her next meal time.

As Mrs. Lennox made up the new preparation, she felt physically sick with anxiety. Suppose this food made little Joan worse; suppose she screamed still more violently; suppose she died. Mrs. Lennox’s face was haggard as she put the bottle to the infant’s mouth.

Joan seemed to like it—that was one relief. Still she had liked the other preparation. Again Mrs. Lennox administered the bottle with enforced slowness, clinging to her one item of mother lore. Every instant she expected the little face to pucker and the shrieking to start. The infant sucked on placidly. At last the bottle was finished. Still there was no sound. Mrs. Lennox’s ears ached with the apprehensive strain. She began praying, a thing that she had not done for years. “Don’t let her cry, God, don’t let her cry,” she was repeating in her thoughts again and again. The baby’s eyes began to close. At last, almost amazed at her own audacity, Mrs. Lennox laid the little figure in the cot. Still it did not stir. A benison of silence fell upon the room.

Two days later Dr. Fletcher called. Mr. Vandeleur had sent him to report on the baby’s progress before he, himself, rejoined Imogen in Florida. “Oh, this is better,” the great specialist exclaimed directly Mrs. Lennox brought the infant in. “So, at last we’ve found a diet to suit her.”

“Yes.”

The doctor began thoroughly to examine the child, giving approving murmurs as he did so. At last he had finished. “Excellent, excellent,” he exclaimed. “Just continue the same formula exactly.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Lennox said again. “But it is not the food you ordered.” Her experiment was related. “You’ll let her go on with it?” she urged desperately as the doctor’s face changed.

“Of course, of course.” The great man laughed. “If you have found out something that suits her, by all means go on with it. I am willing to write myself down a failure! In a couple of weeks you might begin to add a little sterilized milk—start with half an ounce in each bottle, you know,—and see if she can take it. But I leave it to you. If only society mothers would realize all that is entailed by their refusal to nurse their children themselves!”

That first week Joan gained seven ounces, the next week twelve. Mrs. Lennox felt most absurdly proud and excited. The weekly weighing took the place formerly held in her life by the box office returns. When, a month later, Mr. Vandeleur came back from Florida, his daughter had become quite a plump and presentable person. The little face was round and rosy, although the clothing had sadly deteriorated. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox had felt that it was too much responsibility to cope with such a superior wardrobe, and had put most of it away, buying a few little inexpensive flannel gowns. Joan was sitting up on her grandmother’s lap, patting together her dimpled little hands, when Mr. Vandeleur arrived. “I can hardly recognize her,” the millionaire said, startled.

He sat looking at the pair curiously. Baby had begun to grab at her Granny’s pincenez, and was crowing with delight. “Where did you learn the management of infants?” he asked at last. “I should hardly have thought you would have had much practice in such a rôle.”

“Oh, you don’t know the possibilities of a theatrical career!” Mrs. Lennox suggested with a sudden audacity. After all, her profession had brought her in connection with Miss Mainwaring. Besides, did not intellectual training in any direction produce a more competent person?

A shade crossed Mr. Vandeleur’s face at the mention of the forbidden sphere. Still he realized that he was now under a distinct obligation to his mother-in-law. “I can hardly attribute your present success with Joan to your stage life,” he replied stiffly.

“But to what else do you attribute it? I have had no other life,” Mrs. Lennox retorted.

CHAPTER IV.

The following year was perhaps the hardest in Mrs. Lennox’s hard-worked life. And yet how much less wearisome it seemed than the previous period of enforced idleness. For she continued the rôle of little Joan’s nurse, and the baby’s delicate health made the post one of constant danger and difficulty. With the greatest care, the grandmother could not avoid some relapses, but on the whole the child strengthened steadily. Mrs. Lennox was justified in feeling that she was having, in theatrical parlance, “a big success.” Moreover her labour was sweetened by love, for she grew ridiculously attached to the ugly, dark-eyed baby.

The greatest trouble Mrs. Lennox encountered was not due to Joan, but to Joan’s mother. Imogen had come back after three months in Florida, with her health restored, but with no increase in her affection. The unnatural coldness persisted towards her child, and it seemed, indeed, to have extended itself towards her mother. Imogen appeared equally annoyed with Joan for monopolizing Mrs. Lennox and with Mrs. Lennox for being monopolized by Joan. “I’m sure, Mother, it can’t be necessary to fuss over that child the whole time,” she grumbled. “Everyone says you are spoiling her horribly.”

There was some justification for Imogen’s words. It almost seemed as though little Joan felt and resented the lack of maternal tenderness, for she certainly showed her least attractive side towards her young mother. The little thing positively shrieked with anger on the rare occasions that Imogen took her. It was rather surprising under these circumstances that Imogen should be so anxious to have her baby at home again. Mrs. Lennox would not admit it even to herself but she felt dumbly that her daughter’s desire had a certain tinge of spite.

Up till now the inevitable had been postponed. Each time Joan’s return home was discussed, some little attack of illness had deferred it. Another winter came, which Imogen again spent in Florida. When she returned Joan’s health was firmly established. She was a year and eight months old, and quite as big and sturdy as most children of her age. In mental development she was forward, for she had quite a repertoire of nursery rhymes that she used to repeat, copying her grandmother’s intonation in a curiously exact manner. When Imogen again announced that the child must come home, Mrs. Lennox could no longer protest. As Imogen said, people would think it odd for little Joan never to live with her parents.

So the doting grandmother prepared herself for the wrench. With this end in view, she had trained Bridget with great care, and the girl was now a competent and responsible nurse. Little Joan would be happy with this adoring attendant, Mrs. Lennox told herself, and she would go and see Baby every day. Yes, it would be almost the same as before.

The very first day of the new arrangement, when Mrs. Lennox went round to her daughter’s house, she found Bridget in tears. “It’s warning she’s given me, Ma’am dear,” the girl sobbed. The baby was asleep and Mrs. Vandeleur out, so the little nurse felt she could unburden herself freely.

“Warning? Do you mean that Mrs. Vandeleur has given you notice to quit?” Mrs. Lennox gasped in dismay.

“Sure, an’ it’s myself was dumbfounded. ‘What call have you to go putting me forth?’ I say out to her. ‘If it’s an older nurse you’re seeking, just take patience for a while and it’s I that will be giving you satisfaction.’ But Mrs. Vandeleur she does not hearken, and my words come beating back from the shut door. And well I knew, Ma’am dear, that your heart would be broken on you, and myself in dread of leaving the child in this sad, great house with no soul to give her a little word.” The poor girl hid her face in her apron and rocked to and fro.

Mrs. Lennox felt as though she would like to do the same. Indeed her eyes were full of tears. What a hateful thing it was to be merely a grandmother—a grandmother with no rights. But, at any rate, if they made her little Joan ill again, she would take her away, whatever anyone said. Joan was her baby, hers, she thought rebelliously, not Imogen’s, nor John Vandeleur’s. What had they ever done for her? She had saved the child’s life; Dr. Fletcher himself admitted it. She had won her baby by this year of work and devotion.

As far as the little one’s health was concerned, Mrs. Lennox’s fears were fortunately groundless. Nurse Cooper, who replaced the sorrowing Bridget, had retained her brains despite her mechanical training, and although she was starched, she was also sensible. It was really rather a triumph that Joan kept well, for the baby fretted desperately after her grandmother and Bridget. “I’ve never seen a child of that age care so much,” Nurse Cooper said in surprise. She related that at night she would hear the little girl sobbing to herself for an hour at a time, “M’ant my Gwanny, m’ant my Gwanny.” The baby’s joy whenever Mrs. Lennox appeared, her woe at Granny’s departure, were very touching. But Nurse Cooper found them irritating, and Mrs. Lennox could not help feeling that the nurse’s attitude was justified. Apart from all question of jealousy, such scenes must be bad for the child. “I must keep away,” Mrs. Lennox resolved miserably.

The apartment in the Dorset had seemed lonely and dreary that year before Joan came. Now it seemed even lonelier and drearier. Constantly Mrs. Lennox fancied that she heard the patter of little feet beginning in the hall, and then realized that there were no little feet to patter. In the evening she found herself tiptoeing into her own bedroom—when noise no longer mattered. Once or twice at night, hearing some slight sound, she sleepily switched on the light and glanced down at the cot beside her—the cot that was no longer there.

Life became so unbearable that Mrs. Lennox had serious thoughts of seeing Mr. Hobson and begging him to let her go back on the stage. Of course she could not expect him again to offer to star her; indeed, he had been so angry at her not playing in the ‘Haunted Homestead,’ that she wondered if he would give her any part, however small. And how was she to manage on the salary that had formerly sufficed, she who had now grown accustomed to an income ten times as large? But far more than the money question, there weighed with her the fact that the stage meant an irrevocable separation from Joan. Nurse Cooper seemed sufficiently satisfactory, but then Nurse Cooper was not a fixture. Suppose Joan, at any time, had another nurse who let her get ill, who positively illtreated her! Imogen would never know; she might not even care. No, she could not desert her little darling, the grandmother decided.

When Imogen asked her to go with her to Europe, it came as an escape. Mrs. Lennox had again the glad feeling of being needed, for Imogen hated travelling alone, and John Vandeleur could not leave his work. Perhaps when she and her daughter were alone together, this new, hard coldness would drop from Imogen; there might even be a return of the clinging affection that she had shown before the baby’s birth. As for little Joan, as Mrs. Lennox could not see her, she might as well be in Europe, she felt. For, as she grudgingly admitted, Nurse Cooper did seem successful over her darling’s health. Often in the evenings, if she were at her daughter’s house, Mrs. Lennox would creep up to the night nursery, and watch the sleeping child. Even her critical eye had never detected anything amiss. Imogen talked spaciously of England, France, Switzerland, perhaps the Italian lakes. They were to go to Paris and the Paris theatres, for apparently abroad the ban would be raised. All her life long Mrs. Lennox had wanted to see the great French actresses, the Théâtre Français. It shone as a fairyland of enchantment before her gaze.

They were away five months. It was, of course, very interesting, but the total feeling that remained was one of disappointment. After the first novelty had worn off, Mrs. Lennox got very tired of the daily round of sightseeing, and of perpetual motion without the joy of performing. Even the Paris theatres had not been sufficient compensation. The acting itself had come up to all that Mrs. Lennox had expected; it was a liberal education, she felt with a glow of enthusiasm. But an education for what? It was little use her learning how to improve her acting, if she were never to act. Neither had the old intimacy with her daughter returned. Imogen evidently liked to have her mother, and was affectionate, but in a distant, cold way. How Mrs. Lennox longed for little Joan’s soft, rapturous hugs—almost as much as she longed for a season of hard, theatrical work.

On their return to New York, Mrs. Lennox found that the difficulty with regard to her granddaughter had largely solved itself. Little Joan certainly recognized “Gwanny,” and gave one of her rare, illuminating smiles. But naturally the old devotion no longer existed. The baby shyly turned to Nurse Cooper, of whom she seemed to be fond, and who had certainly taken good care of her charge. Indeed the long summer at the Vandeleur’s “log” mansion in the Adirondacks had developed the child surprisingly.

When Joan was three and a half years old, Nurse Cooper left. She did not care for children as they got older, she said. What she really liked was “an infant from the month.” This attachment to an age rather than to a child seemed a curious point of view to Mrs. Lennox. Like the rest of the household, however, she regretted the nurse’s departure, although Joan herself bore it with more equanimity than they had expected. They regretted it still more as time passed and brought no satisfactory successor. During the next eighteen months five nurses and two children’s maids passed rapidly across the Vandeleur’s nursery stage. There was constant trouble about Joan’s appearance, for Mrs. Vandeleur was exacting, although no amount of dressing would make the dark, heavy-looking child anything but plain. And if the nurses toiled to satisfy the mother, then Joan was obstreperous. “I don’t feel like that sort of frock,” she stormed one day, and tore the dainty, embroidered Paris dress from neck to hem.

For little Joan was not an easy child to manage. Her bursts of passion, her clumsiness, her sullen revolt at society manners made her the despair of nurses. One or two tried indulgence, and the child only became more and more unbearable; one or two tried severity and Joan promptly fell ill. At this point Mr. Vandeleur always stepped in with the simple expedient of dismissal. Meanwhile Mrs. Lennox stood aside. She felt that her presence would only make the difficult situation more difficult.

About this time Imogen began to entertain on a larger scale, and more continuously, than she had ever done before. Indeed, her whole character seemed to have changed since the first year of her marriage, or perhaps it had only developed. As her husband played increasingly less part in her life, it was not surprising that society played increasingly more. “Nature abhors a vacuum”—how else was she to fill her time? She had no work and she had never cared for her child. Ambition may be a vice or a virtue, but Imogen certainly possessed it in considerable measure. Once embarked on a social career, she determined to excel in it. In order to do this, she found a train of admirers was considered indispensable, and so she deliberately set to work to acquire this necessary appendage. Nor was it altogether easy, for Imogen, despite her loveliness, was not particularly attractive to young men. Although she had always liked admiration, she had honestly never taken the faintest interest in the admirer, and her attitude was, no doubt, felt and resented by her male acquaintances. Coldness and lack of sympathy are defects that the egotism of youth finds hard to forgive. Naturally John Vandeleur had not been included in the category of those repelled by Imogen’s cool indifference; rather it had been her little air of reserved dignity that had first overcome him. Now all this was changed, for Imogen adopted an attitude of languishing sweetness, which, if at first assumed, soon became a second nature. Coupled with her beauty and her wealth, it attained the object she desired, and one or more gilded youths were now in constant attendance. The indiscretion that marked her intercourse with them was amazing, but, probably, her lack of natural charm drove her to greater lengths than a less reserved woman with the same ambition would ever have allowed herself. Incidentally the transformation destroyed the last vestige of respect that John Vandeleur had retained for his young wife.

It was when Joan was five and a half that Mrs. Vandeleur decided on having a great New Year’s Eve fête. Her husband was unenthusiastic; he did not like entertaining the “rabble,” he said. But it was only when his wife broached the idea of turning the whole house into a miniature petit Trianon that he absolutely put down his foot. Imogen must be satisfied with an ordinary reception; he would not have any of these freak shows. When the morning of the great day arrived Mrs. Lennox went round to see her daughter and proffer her assistance, which she knew would be rather condescendingly refused. A swarm of men were already in possession, putting up awnings, carrying palms, moving pianos, and so with some difficulty Mrs. Lennox made her way upstairs to the boudoir. There she found the usually calm Imogen pacing up and down in a state bordering on distraction.

What could have happened? Mrs. Lennox speculated. Had the chef eloped with the housekeeper? Had the world-famous violinist engaged for the evening suddenly refused to play? Had John vetoed the whole soirée? “My dear, what is the matter?” she gasped.

“It’s that miserable child.” Imogen’s tone was furious. “She has never been anything but a nuisance. Now, she’s taken this opportunity to develop measles. And John refuses to allow her to be sent to a nursing home or a hospital. I must use the nursery wing to-night, and even if I didn’t, people are so absurdly afraid of infection. If anyone gets measles a year hence they will say it’s my fault. Besides if Joan stays here, I might catch it myself. John has no consideration for me whatever.”

“My dear child, you’ve had measles; you are very unlikely to catch it again,” her mother interposed. “But how is Joan? Is she real sick? What’s her temperature? Can I see her? Is she too ill to be moved?”

“Of course not.” Imogen was replying to the last of her mother’s string of excited questions. “The doctors call it a very mild case. It’s just John’s pig-headed obstinacy that he won’t let her go. I’ve told him again and again that the child would be better cared for in an institution, but he only repeats that no Vandeleur has ever been in one. What’s the advantage of Joan being here? Of course I can’t risk the infection, and John’s never at home, and she hates her new maid. Oh, do go down, Mother, and see if you can persuade John to let her go to a nursing home. He is in the library.”

“Do you think he would let Joan come to me?”

Imogen’s face cleared magically. “Oh, yes, yes, that’s the very thing. How stupid of me not to think of it. John can’t find anything to object to in that. Let us come and talk to him at once.” She led the way downstairs.

This time before taking the child, Mrs. Lennox laid down her conditions. She was not going to have either her affection or Joan’s so cruelly uprooted a second time. Now the child was five years old, a solution was not so difficult. “If Joan comes to me now, some arrangement must be made for my seeing her after she returns home. It nearly broke my heart giving her up before.” Mrs. Lennox’s voice trembled.

John Vandeleur looked up quickly. He realized that this was something that with all his money he could not buy for the child. “But, surely, Mrs. Lennox,” he urged, “this house is always open to you? You could see Joan here?”

“No, it is too difficult. Nurses and governesses resent it. They think me an old nuisance. The only scheme would be for Joan to be brought to my apartment. Could you spare her for one day every week?”

John Vandeleur rarely saw a case from anyone’s point of view but his own. Once he did so, even his enemies allowed him a sense of justice. He agreed without demur to his mother-in-law’s demand. As for his wife, there was little to which she would not have consented to escape from the predicament. “Of course—well, that’s settled,” was all Imogen said, as, with a sigh of relief, she ordered the automobile to be brought round at once. “Though I suppose it will all have to be disinfected,” she grumbled. “Joan is really too troublesome.”

Probably the child had never been so happy as in the month that followed. As her mother had said, Joan had the disease very lightly, although she was rigorously kept in Mrs. Lennox’s apartment in order to placate the outraged officials at the Dorset. The child’s old devotion to her grandmother must have merely lain dormant, for in a day or two it showed itself again; intensified, indeed, by her present five-year-old knowledge of absence and change. Even Bridget was there to complete the happy circle, for on her return from Europe, it had suddenly occurred to Mrs. Lennox to take the girl into her own service and thus blessedly replace the mechanical Palmer.

But in addition to the old happiness that the little granddaughter had brought to Mrs. Lennox, there was now a new happiness. For, ridiculous as it sounded, she found the child was now not only a pet but a companion, an intellectual stimulus. It had begun one day when she had heard Joan murmuring to herself, and by catching a word here and there, realized that a pretended scene was taking place between a mother and a naughty child. Presently it became so dramatic that Mrs. Lennox grew quite interested. “Shall I take a part?” she asked. “I mean I’ll be one of them; I’ll be the little girl and you are my mother.”

Joan had turned rather red. Much rebuke from nurses for “muttering” and “silly nonsense” had made her shy. “Can you play games like that, Granny?” she asked doubtfully. “Anyway, you can try,” she conceded.

Mrs. Lennox gave unexpected satisfaction. Several times the child broke into a laugh of pleasure. “You do it very well, Granny,” she told her graciously. Only once was the grandmother pulled up. “Aren’t you crying like a baby, not like a person of five?” Joan admonished. That evening when the little girl was in bed, her grandmother saw the great dark eyes resting upon her. “You’re very int’rusting, you know, Granny,” Joan murmured with a sigh of content.

If Joan was pleased with her grandmother’s dramatic power, Mrs. Lennox was more than pleased, she was startled by that of Joan. Partly to test the child, she began to say little pieces of poetry to her. Joan picked them up at once, but instead of the usual childish sing-song delivery, she first copied her grandmother’s enunciation and then improved upon it. Surely this was quite unusual, Mrs. Lennox told herself with growing excitement. She cudgelled her brains to remember her own powers as a child. Occasionally there had been a little performer in the theatrical companies, though never one as young as Joan. She was sure that these children had been more trouble to teach, that they had never shown this amazing initiative. But what would her son-in-law say, Mrs. Lennox felt uneasily. The poetry was discontinued, to Joan’s annoyance. “Never mind, I’ll soon learn to read it for myself,” she said defiantly.

Even the sad return home, mitigated only by the Wednesday visit to her grandmother, did not make little Joan forget her resolution. Mr. Vandeleur had hardly realized his daughter was back, when he was stopped in the hall one morning by a determined-looking small girl. “I must have a governess, please, and to learn to read.”

“Eh, what, aren’t you very young?”

“No, I’m more than five. Five isn’t young, it’s old.”

John Vandeleur gave an unusual laugh. “Old is it? Well, what do you want to learn to read for?” he added jocularly.

His daughter looked at him with contempt. “I want to learn to read so as to be able to read. You read books. There are a lot of int’rusting things in books.”

The application was successful, for a governess was found in the shape of a Miss Leveridge, a mild and inefficient lady. At first she was enthusiastic about her pupil’s progress, for Joan certainly learnt to read with astonishing rapidity. But there she stuck. Miss Leveridge hopefully produced a copybook; Joan found it difficult, and after one or two attempts, entirely refused any further efforts. The multiplication table met with no greater success; indeed, the mere mention of twice two brought a sullen look to her little face. “It’s all silly, and doesn’t mean anything. How can you say it?” she demanded.

Miss Leveridge cajoled and threatened, but all to no purpose. Months passed—a summer was again spent in the Adirondacks, and Joan’s sixth birthday came and went, but her learning remained stationary. When they were once more settled in Fifth Avenue, Miss Leveridge decided that she must take more drastic measures. “If you won’t even try to do your lessons, Joan, I shall have to punish you,” she said. “Unless you learn your twice times table by next Wednesday, I shall not let you go and see your Grandmamma.”

The child looked up startled. “You can’t stop that. It’s settled.”

“Oh yes, I can. I shall not take you there. And I shall tell Christine that she is not to take you either. You know you could not go alone.”

Joan did not argue further. Neither was there any improvement in the lessons. On Tuesday the decree was made final. Still Joan made no comment. “Perhaps after all she does not care very much,” Miss Leveridge reflected. “It is not as though she had any little companions there.”

It was in the half hour between the lessons and the daily walk on the following morning that Joan disappeared. Miss Leveridge had sent her in to Christine to be dressed and taken out. Christine, who was washing one of the child’s embroidered frocks in another room, thought that she was still safe with Miss Leveridge. At last, as no summons came, the maid went to fetch her. There were exclamations and explanations. An investigation in the night nursery showed that the child’s coat and hat were gone. The things had evidently been pulled out in desperate haste; one glove was still lying on the floor. Still she might not have ventured out into the street. The nurseries were searched and then the whole house. Finally Miss Leveridge penetrated into the boudoir. Mrs. Vandeleur was lying on the brocaded empire couch, wearing an exquisite “rest gown.” “Oh, excuse me, have you seen Joan?” Miss Leveridge faltered. The poor lady was almost weeping in her agitation. “As you permitted me to punish her in that way, I told her that she could not go to her grandmamma’s to-day, but I am afraid she must have set off there unaccompanied.”

“Really she is a most troublesome child. I do not know what Mr. Vandeleur will say.” The mother was clearly more vexed than alarmed. “Go down and telephone to Mrs. Lennox. I suppose, by the way, you had told her that Joan was not to go there to-day. Say that I wish the child sent back at once.”

A minute later Miss Leveridge returned more perturbed than ever. “The janitor at the Dorset says that Mrs. Lennox has gone out for the day and the maid is out too. He has seen nothing of Joan.”

“Oh, but she must be there or on her way. Take a cab, Miss Leveridge, and go down yourself. It is really most tiresome. I must go out to lunch, and how can I if the child isn’t found? It seems to be one continual annoyance with her.”

Not only Miss Leveridge, but several of the servants started off in different directions to find the little truant. The neighbouring streets and the near part of Central Park were searched in vain. The Dorset was not much more than five minutes’ drive. When Miss Leveridge reached it, she found that, as the janitor had said, Mrs. Lennox’s apartment was locked up and deserted. Both Mrs. Lennox and the maid had gone out before ten, the man informed her. Why, Joan’s lessons had not ended until half past! Might the child have made a mistake and gone into another apartment, Miss Leveridge despairingly suggested. The janitor admitted not having been at his post during the last half hour or so, but scoffed at the possibility of Miss Vandeleur having made a mistake. She was a real bright little thing, he said, and knew her grandma’s door right here on the ground floor as well as he did himself. When she was brought, didn’t she always run on ahead and push the bell-button herself? Still, if Miss Leveridge thought Mr. Vandeleur would be better satisfied—. An exhaustive and exhausting search was made in every apartment of the Dorset.

When this failed, a message was sent to Mr. Vandeleur. Suddenly the matter was lifted into an affair of state. Instead of a few alarmed domestics wandering about aimlessly, the greater part of the New York detective force was put on to the job. Every constable in the neighbourhood was informed. The chief of police, after a strenuous five-minute visit from Mr. Vandeleur, motored up with him to Fifth Avenue. Imogen, dressed to go out to her lunch, was sitting in fuming indecision in the drawing-room, when suddenly she was electrified by the sight of her husband. It was the first time in their married life that he had ever come home in the morning. “Who was the last person to see Joan?” he asked in a tone of cold fury.

By four o’clock that afternoon posters were out giving a description of the child and offering five thousand dollars for her immediate recovery. In the evening papers the reward had gone up to ten thousand. The Fifth Avenue house teemed with strangers. A constant succession of queer looking individuals flowed into the library, ushered in on protest by apologetic footmen. There Mr. Vandeleur sat, calm and alert, a large map of New York before him. He collected and weighed evidence in a manner that extracted admiration even from the attendant detectives. For the time being Joan had replaced the mining industry. All Mr. Vandeleur’s business genius, his knowledge of the world, his power of organization, were turned on to his new job. As yet they had been unavailing. One clue after another broke down ludicrously. The child seemed to have disappeared in New York like a pebble thrown into a pool. The rippling circles of commotion grew ever wider but the stone was lost to sight.

Meanwhile, what had happened to little Joan? As everyone rightly guessed, she had taken advantage of the brief lack of supervision to escape and set off for her grandmother’s. She knew the way quite well, and even her little legs could do the distance in about twenty minutes. One or two people glanced at her as she passed, thinking such a well-dressed child was young to be out alone, but Joan was tall for her six years, and the quiet determination of her walk kept anyone from interfering with her. When she reached the Dorset, her friend the janitor was not visible. Rather relieved, she ran straight to her grandmother’s door and pushed the knob.

No one came. Rather surprised, she rang again. She could hear the bell tinkling inside, long and loudly, but still the door did not open. She tried again, with the same result. Granny and Bridget could not be there. A feeling of sick dismay came over her. Always on Wednesdays a welcoming Granny flung open the door; the possibility of her being out had not occurred to the child. Oh dear, what should she do? She felt sure that she would soon be missed at home. Miss Leveridge or Christine might at any moment appear. They would take her back. Perhaps, as punishment, they would not let her come to Granny next Wednesday either, or any Wednesday! Whatever happened she must see Granny first. Granny had promised that she should come every week, unless, of course, she were ill. If Granny were there it would be all right. Granny had promised.

The child rang again frantically and then stopped short, frightened at the noise she was making. Miss Leveridge might hear it; she might at this moment be coming down the street. If only she could hide somewhere for a little time, until Granny came home. Suddenly the child remembered that a few weeks ago Granny had taken her up to a dusty little room at the very top of the Dorset. It was her store room, Granny had said. They had got some scarves and great big jewels out of one of the trunks and they had both dressed up and had had a lovely game. Why should she not hide there, behind the boxes? She started for the elevator and then paused. The elevator boy was very nice, but he would probably ask inconvenient questions. No, she would go by the stairs, she decided. Once, when she was staying with Granny, the elevator had been out of order, and people had had to use the stairs. Granny had told her that you could go right up to the top that way. The fat little legs twinkled up the first few steps.

Her pace soon slackened. The flights seemed to go on and on interminably. Every now and then the child sat down to rest, but she was afraid to linger too long. Several times, as she wearily mounted, the elevator shot up or down. Once she nearly plunged into a party of people who were waiting to be engulfed by it on a landing. After that Joan peered out cautiously each time before emerging from the shelter of the actual stairway. This was quite deserted. Few people walk for choice up eighteen stories of a New York skyscraper. So the little girl toiled on unobserved.

By the time she got to the top her legs were aching horribly, and she had a queer little pain when she breathed. The nearness of security brought back her strength. She trotted along, turning down a corridor at right angles. Yes, this was the way, and there was the little door. The little door—but there were lots and lots of little doors all shut and all alike! How could she ever tell which one was Granny’s? She thought it must be the nearest one, so summoning her courage, she turned the first handle. The door would not open. She tried another and another with the same result.

Suddenly it occurred to her, that when they came that other time, Granny had had a key. Yes, Granny had unlocked the door before they went in and had locked it again when they left. And now she had no key. Even from Granny’s storeroom she was shut out. At any moment Miss Leveridge might come up and find her. She wanted to cry dreadfully, but she bit her lips to keep it in. One didn’t cry like a baby when one was six. But surely she heard footsteps in the distance. They seemed to be coming nearer. Oh, oh, what should she do?

The child looked about wildly. An expression was in her eyes like that of some little hunted animal. Then she noticed that one of the long line of doors stood a crack open. Doubtless some careless tenant had forgotten to lock it. She ran towards it softly and slipped in, closing the door behind her. At last safety was reached.

It was none too soon. The footsteps turned the corner and passed along down the corridor. Even with the shut door between, Joan’s heart beat fast. From being afraid to meet someone who would take her home, she had become afraid of meeting anyone. The fugitive’s nervous demoralization had gripped her. Only her Granny seemed a refuge in a world of foes. Some minutes passed before she grew composed enough to look round her hiding place. She had hoped, with a child’s faith, that it might, after all, be Granny’s room, but now she saw that it wasn’t. There were fewer trunks and more furniture. A number of children’s things gave it rather a home-like air—a folded up cot, a baby’s carriage, a discarded doll’s house. There was a pile of big books which Joan timidly approached. Why, they were children’s books, with pictures. This was a find indeed!

An hour or more passed and then the treasures began to pall. It must be past dinner-time, Joan felt; she was hungry. Besides she was cold. There was no steam heat in the storerooms, and although she had on her coat and hat, the autumn air was keen. Cautiously she opened the door and crept out, but one glance down the staircase sent her scurrying back. It was echoing with footsteps, and the elevator seemed to be shooting up and down continuously. Had she guessed that this energy betokened the search for her own small person, she would have been even more alarmed.

The afternoon was very long. Joan made one or two vain attempts at descent. The last time she was so nearly caught, that she determined not to risk it again. She would wait until it got quite dark and late. Then, when everyone would be shut in their homes, having that curious grown-up meal of late dinner, she could get safely down to Granny.

A fresh tour of discovery round the little room revealed the cot mattress rolled in a dust sheet. Joan wondered if the owner would mind its being unrolled and spread out. The floor had grown so very hard, and a high chair, that she had found, was rather cramping for a person of six. With immense effort, her wish was put into action. This was much more comfortable, Joan thought, as she seated herself upon the mattress. Then her head sank. In a few minutes she was sound asleep.

It was quite dark when Joan’s eyes again opened. She was shivering with cold. Why, all the bedclothes must have tumbled off! She groped out, and to her surprise, touched the floor. What had happened to her bed? “Christine, Christine,” she cried.

There was no answer. Christine must have gone away. A wild panic seized the little girl, the overpowering panic of childhood. And there were no bedclothes to pull over her face—nothing but this horrible enveloping blackness! Suddenly she remembered where she was. This was a storeroom in Granny’s house. She had only to walk downstairs and she would find Granny.

Remembrance had made her fears recede, but the thought of standing up in the dark and searching for the door, brought them surging back. She set her teeth. Unless she got up at once, she would never be able to do it. She stumbled forward and felt along the wall, panting with terror. Suppose something were standing behind her, something that would suddenly clutch round her neck. The child’s face was ashen when at last she opened the door.

The corridor was much more bearable. A light was shining from the top of the stairs. Joan ran towards it and found the whole descent quite pleasantly illuminated. Once or twice the lift passed her, bearing home late theatregoers, but she avoided it as she had done before. It wasn’t so tiring going down as coming up, but still it made the calves of her legs ache. She began to think that she would never reach the bottom, when, at last, she found herself on the ground floor. Again she rang at Granny’s door.

It opened at once—magically. She was caught up in Granny’s arms. Granny was kissing her, crooning over her. “I am sorry I am late, Granny, but it is Wednesday,” Joan began sedately, with a tinge of reproach. She did not know that her poor grandmother had been apprised of the disciplinary absence and so had sought comfort in an excursion with Bridget. Then suddenly she broke down. The two little hands clasped themselves at the back of Granny’s neck as though they would never loosen again. Her face was buried on Granny’s shoulder. “Oh keep me, Granny; Granny hold me. Don’t let them take me away.” The sobs grew hysterical.

The child was calmed when she found herself quickly undressed and put in Granny’s own bed. Obviously now no one could take her away. Mrs. Lennox had wrapped her in the blankets, and then, after agitatedly telephoning to John Vandeleur, set about filling hot water bottles to thaw the chilled little body, while Bridget hurried about, mingling her joyful tears with the milk she was warming. “Oh, golden God!” the Irish girl was exclaiming. “I’ll be burning candles from this out to the saints of glory.” The new, unknown phrases pierced little Joan’s exhaustion; her grandmother saw the childish lips repeating them. Then the little one turned her attention to the steaming bread and milk. How good it tasted! Almost before she had finished it, Joan was asleep.

Meanwhile the news of the truant’s return was being spread, not only over New York, but over the great United States. Along dozens of telephone and telegraph wires the message was carried. The tension at various police stations relaxed suddenly. Detectives yawned and sauntered off in search of homeward bound cars. Advertisement managers swore as the huge notices for the morning papers were cancelled. The special bill-posting brigade was dismissed, jubilant with a full night’s wages. In the Fifth Avenue house, tired servants drew curtains and made all fast for the night. Mr. Vandeleur folded up the map of New York; then he went up to his wife’s room. She was already in bed, her lovely disordered hair framing her face, soft and flushed with sleep. “What is it?” she asked drowsily.

“Joan is found,” was the laconic answer. Then Mr. Vandeleur, too, went to his room to bed.

CHAPTER V.

Although little Joan had played at acting nearly all her short life, it was not until she was six and a half that she became conscious of such a thing as the theatre. For this initiation her grandmother was totally irresponsible; it came through a certain new, and very smart friend of Imogen’s, Mrs. Morse by name. Mrs. Morse was rather celebrated for the chic and original nature of her entertainments, and her annual children’s party this year took the form of a special matinée of “Peter Pan.” The whole house was reserved, the best seats being sent by Mrs. Morse to her friends, while tickets for the upper galleries were distributed among several charitable institutions, the children from which could be guaranteed as absolutely clean and non-infectious. “Do come, my sweet Imogen,” Mrs. Morse wrote on her characteristic Wedgwood note-paper, “and bring your dear, talented little girl.”

Mr. Vandeleur was away on his annual copper pilgrimage in Nevada. Had he been at home, he would never have sanctioned the project. Imogen knew this very well, although she did not consciously admit it. John had never put any restriction upon her going to the theatre; it was she, herself, who did not care for it, prejudiced as she was by the consciousness of her mother’s sordid dramatic past. As for Joan, she had naturally been too young up till now for the question of playgoing possibilities to have arisen. Why, she would be only too glad to leave the child at home, Imogen thought pettishly, if she could decently go without her. Joan was sure to look extremely plain and behave odiously. But at a children’s entertainment, one must have the excuse of a child. And go herself, she must and would. It would certainly be an event of the social season, with long accounts in every paper, and Imogen derived a distinct glow of pleasure from the increasingly numerous press references to “the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur.” Even when she was merely “the well-known” or “the exquisitely gowned” it was not unsatisfying. Not long ago, after one of her big afternoon receptions, there had been over half a column of description in a leading New York daily, and a reproduction of the celebrated portrait of herself holding little Joan as a baby, the whole with a three quarter inch headline, “The Madonna of Fifth Avenue.” John Vandeleur had fumed and threatened a libel action until checked by the irrepressible laughter of his mother-in-law. “In our position I suppose we have to submit to this kind of thing,” Imogen had said with a sweetly patient sigh, and had scribbled off cheques to two more press-clipping agencies.

Well, she would be an equal success at this Peter Pan affair, Mrs. Vandeleur now resolved. What should she wear? It ought to be something very simple and girlish, to be in keeping with the entertainment. White muslin, perhaps? Yes, that was a good idea. She would have a dress made exactly like Joan’s, ribbons and all, and a big Leghorn hat with tiny rosebuds. Imogen knew that she did not look her twenty-five years, and with the faintest touch of rouge and her hair done low and tied, she could easily be taken for seventeen. Comment on her amazing youthfulness would certainly be provoked. She excitedly rang up Vesta, the great man modiste who “created” her gowns.

When, during her next weekly visit, little Joan announced to her grandmother that she was going to the theatre on the following day, Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. “What is a theatre, Granny?” the child enquired.

“People dress up and pretend a story just like you do, only, of course, they do it better,” Mrs. Lennox began. Then she stopped, startled by the light in the child’s face. “I see,” Joan replied gravely. She said nothing more until she was leaving. “I am very glad indeed, Granny, that I am going to a theatre.”

Probably it was due to her content that Joan allowed the hated dressing-up process to take place the next day without any fuss. When, at last, she was finished, to the last curl and bow, the maid breathed a sigh of relief. Never could she have believed it would have gone so smoothly. “Look, Miss Joan, what a pretty little girl you are,” she said, holding up a mirror.

Joan looked gravely at the dark, little face with tight, much-belaboured curls and befrilled white frock. The pale blue ribbons emphasised the swarthiness of her face. “I do not look pretty at all. I look silly,” she observed. “But it doesn’t matter. Is my mother nearly ready, do you think?”

Imogen was not ready. Indeed putting on her simple frock took so long that they barely reached the theatre in time. In Imogen’s case the result was certainly a success. The blue of the ribbons brought out the blue of her eyes; her roseleaf complexion shone with an almost infantile clearness. It was impossible to think of her as the mother of the plain child by her side. There was quite a sensation as they came in, a sensation that was rudely cut short by the lowering of the lights. Just as they took their places the curtain went up.

There was a gasp from Joan. Then the child sat silent and motionless. Her face had turned quite white, but as the moments passed, the pallor was replaced by a hot flush of excitement. The big, dark eyes were shining like stars. As Imogen glanced down at her in the dim light, she felt, with surprise, that the child was looking quite attractive. Mrs. Morse, who had flittingly seated herself on an empty seat at the other side of Joan, apparently shared the opinion, for she looked at her little guest with interest. “How entranced she is, the sweet little thing. Is it her first theatre?” she whispered to Imogen over the child’s head.

Mrs. Vandeleur nodded. Really it was rather pleasant to have a nice little daughter to take about, she thought with a sudden, faint stirring of maternal pride. Then she caressed Joan’s cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, darling?”

“Don’t touch me. Be quiet.” Joan rudely thrust aside her mother’s hand. She might have been brushing aside a worrying fly. The only excuse was the child’s evident absorption in the play. Probably she was even unconscious of her action.

Imogen flushed angrily. Had they been at home, she would have boxed the child’s ears. What had she done to be afflicted with such a little savage? “I’ll never bring you out again, never,” she muttered.

She did not try the experiment of again addressing her daughter, and during the rest of the performance Joan sat silent and entranced. Between the acts tea was served, and a number of people came up and spoke to Imogen, but the child appeared lost in a dream. At the end, with some misgiving, Imogen took her daughter to say good-bye. “Thank Mrs. Morse for inviting you,” she said with an accent of suppressed fury.

Joan appeared indifferent to her mother’s anger, but she stared at the hostess with great, round eyes. “Are you the lady that asked me to come here to-day?”

“Yes, darling.” What a quaint child she was! “Did you like it?”

“It was the most astonishing thing I have ever seen. I thank you very much. I shall not ever forget it.” Suddenly the colour flamed into the child’s face and she burst into loud, rapid speech. “I should like to come again. I should like to come every day. I should like to be one of those acting children. I could be Wendy because she does not know how to do it right. I could do it more right. Peter Pan was nearly quite right and so was the Pirate. The dog wasn’t right, but that was because he was really a man. I don’t think a person could act a dog. Couldn’t they have a real dog and teach him?”

“We must come home now,” Imogen interrupted. She was almost frightened. The child’s eyes were blazing, and she stood there delivering her harangue as though she were possessed. A whole circle had gathered round to listen, some smiling and some evidently startled. What would John say, Imogen felt guiltily, if he heard that his child had not only been at a theatrical performance but had almost made herself part of it. “Come, Joan, the carriage is waiting.” She hurried the child away.

John Vandeleur did hear of it. Indeed the incident figured largely in the papers. Although little Joan was plain, she was a striking child, and, in any case, the daughter of the great millionaire was not likely to be overlooked. One of the press-men had heard the funny little speech, and had taken it down on his cuff. “John Vandeleur’s Baby as Dramatic Critic” flared across the page. It was quite a scoop. Three days later a wire arrived for Imogen from Nevada. “Cannot understand Joan being at theatre. I forbid her entering any building whatever except her own house until my return.” Before he arrived, a couple of weeks later, Mr. Vandeleur’s anger had fortunately time to cool. Still he postponed giving his wife the diamond pendant he had brought for her, until he had a definite promise that Joan should never again be taken to any public performance.

The prohibition came too late. The child’s dormant talent was fired. The unconscious drama that she had always carried on, became conscious. She remembered whole speeches out of Peter Pan, and she made up the rest. One day Imogen happened to come towards the nursery not at her usual hour. Who could be talking in there? The voices were strange. When she came in, she saw to her surprise only her daughter and Miss Leveridge. “Joan was acting Peter Pan,” the governess explained nervously. “Ever since she went, she does it all day long! I thought you would not mind, it keeps her so good and happy. She really does it quite remarkably,” the little lady added in a lower voice.

Imogen was faintly interested. She had resented her husband’s attitude about the child having seen the play. John was quite unbearably old-fashioned, she often felt. So a slight feeling of spite added warmth to her permission that Joan might act as much as ever she liked. “But I advise you not to do it when your father’s there,” she counselled lightly. Then she turned to the really important question that had brought her. This was the writing out of some dinner menus. “They’ve made a mistake about the printing. People are so maddening. And your writing is the neatest,” she explained to Miss Leveridge.

Joan was puzzling over her mother’s warning. She never acted when anyone was in the room, except Miss Leveridge, who was an unfortunate necessity. And Granny, of course, but Granny was different; she acted too. But, in any case, it was not likely she would want to act when Father was there, because she so very seldom saw him. Of course he gave her beautiful presents; they came every birthday and Christmas with a card tied to them from which Miss Leveridge read, “With best wishes from your affectionate father.” The worst of it was they were nearly always things that she didn’t want. This last Christmas there had been a huge elephant that bellowed and moved its trunk and tail in the most lifelike manner, when suitable strings were pulled—as though people played with elephants when they were six and a half. She had been quite relieved that Father was away at Christmas, and after his return, she had not seen him for a particularly long time, so he had forgotten to ask her if she liked the present. But how funny it was for Mother to let her act, and say she must not do it when Father was there. Lots of things were hard to understand.

Although, of course, little Joan was unaware of it, the passing years had steadily deepened the estrangement between Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur. Not that there was any definite quarrel or disagreement—Imogen would have considered that vulgar—but the bright hardness of her manner towards her husband intensified, and they saw increasingly less of each other. For one thing the house always seemed to be full of visitors; dinner grew longer and longer; indeed, it had become a party every night. If John Vandeleur wanted to work in the evening, and he always did, he found it better to stay on in his private rooms over the Wall Street offices and have a chop sent in to him there. Occasionally Imogen remonstrated. John’s never appearing looked strange, she said. If he had work, why couldn’t he do it in the library? Then for a few evenings Mr. Vandeleur would come home early. But the atmosphere was tiring. He found the smart young men, who drank his wine and smoked his cigars, extremely irritating. They evidently looked down on business and considered their host immeasurably antique. Frankly the primitive male was stirred. John Vandeleur didn’t like this masculine train that was always hanging around his wife. Not that, for an instant, he imagined there was anything wrong, although Imogen’s increasing lack of good taste caused him at times to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Still he felt certain that no one of these flutterers meant anything to his wife; sometimes he almost wished they did. He felt vaguely that Imogen cared too much for herself ever to be in love with anyone else. She was not good enough even to be bad.

One evening Mr. Vandeleur let himself in after dinner as usual, but much earlier than was his general custom. Although it was not yet June, the day had been very warm and he had thought it would be pleasant to sit at home in his garden. He was going through the palm-house, but stopped as talking and laughter surged towards him. Electric Chinese lanterns were swinging outside, and by their dim light he could see figures moving about on the lawn. He retreated, and returning into the library, sank down wearily in a chair. Although it was not cool, here, at least, he would be unmolested. A tap came at the door.

“Come!” Mr. Vandeleur’s voice was irritable. The door opened. No one spoke, so he looked up. For the first second he thought no one had come in. It was a stupid trick of one of those inane gilded youths. Then lowering his gaze, he saw a small figure in a pink dressing-gown with dishevelled hair and dark eyes that were blinking a little in the strong light. “Joan?” he exclaimed.

“You must excuse my dressing gown. I thought they might hear me if I stopped to put on my proper clothes. I couldn’t wait to find any slippers either.”

Mr. Vandeleur still stared. “It’s very late for you to be up,” he observed at last, severely.

“Yes, isn’t it? Why do you always come home so late? Generally it’s later even than this. Because for lots and lots of nights I’ve been trying to keep awake until you came and always I haven’t been able to. It has become the next morning. Only to-night I did hear your automobile so I jumped up at once. It has got a partic’ler grunt, you know. Do you like your automobile?” The child had heard a good deal of talk about the new purchase, for motoring was still in its infancy.

“Yes, I like it extremely, but aren’t you a very naughty little girl to come down at all?” Mr. Vandeleur persisted.

“No, I’m not naughty, because it’s un’voidable. I want to talk to you about something private, and there’s no other time. I hardly never see you and then we are not alone.”

John Vandeleur smiled, although stiffly as with unaccustomed muscles. He remembered his last “private” interview with his daughter, when she had demanded to be taught to read. What did she want this time? “Let me see, how old are you, now, Joan?” he said aloud. “Five, isn’t it?”

“Five!” The little girl’s tone was even more scornful than on that previous occasion. “Five! Why, I haven’t been five for years and years. I shall be seven in twenty-three days. I suppose it was because you thought I was five that you gave me that elephant?” Joan stopped suddenly.

“That elephant?—Oh, at Christmas. Was it a white elephant then?” Mr. Vandeleur chuckled at his unaccustomed humour.

“No, it isn’t exactly white, it’s more of a brownish grey. But it doesn’t matter. And, of course, it would have been a lovely present for a little girl of five. But what I wanted to say is that now I am nearly seven, I ought to go to school.”

“To school! I didn’t know that little girls, or even big girls of seven, arranged their own education! Do you think you have learnt everything that Miss Leveridge can teach you?”

“No, I don’t.” The child looked at her father with large, honest eyes. “But Miss Leveridge is so dull, and she is always one person. I wouldn’t mind if she were like Granny. But I only see Granny on Wednesdays. And I want more people, lots and lots of people. So I must go to school—just a day-school, I mean.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Mr. Vandeleur was more inclined to consider his daughter’s proposal, because, only the other day, he had happened to hear of a new and extraordinarily superior school with extraordinarily superior fees, that had just been started for the children of the “best-to-do.” His acquaintance had even suggested that he ought to send his little girl to it, and had observed that it must be dull for the child at home alone. “In any case, you could not go to school until after the summer vacation,” Mr. Vandeleur now said decisively. “All the schools will be closed until September. Now run along back to bed. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Father.” Joan dutifully trotted off. She had the sense to feel the interview was over, and that moreover, she had got what she wanted.

Preparations for the summer departure from New York rather took Joan’s thoughts off the proposed school. This year her mother was not going abroad; they were all going together to the new house at Long Branch. This was Imogen’s latest toy. Nearly all the families of her circle had a home in this select shore city, and she had decided, last autumn, that she must have one too. Mr. Vandeleur was not attracted by the idea; the place was only pseudo-select, he said. Imogen probably did not understand the phrase. In any case she countered the argument by urging its wonderful air. Staying there would be good for Joan. Also she would benefit by it herself, she said, although she did not suppose that this would influence her husband. The taunt was unfair, for John Vandeleur was often concerned at his wife’s fragile appearance, and urgent that she should live more quietly; her restless brilliancy seemed to him far from healthy. So at her words he capitulated at once and bought about an acre of land in the favoured strip between the board walk fringing the ocean and the wide, smooth road. The cost was absurd, but Mr. Vandeleur’s simple rule in life, when his wife expressed a desire, was to sit down and write a cheque.

That was at the end of the previous year. In an incredibly short space of time another Brobdingnagian villa had been added to the many-mile row—a jerry-built palace, as amazingly bare and unattractive as the rest. Again Mr. Vandeleur wrote cheques; this time they totalled a couple of hundred thousand dollars, for the expense was increased by Imogen’s constant desire for haste. Otherwise he left the matter to his wife and the architect. Had John Vandeleur taken the building in hand himself, as in the case of his Fifth Avenue house, the result might have been more distinguished, although the site offered but little scope. The Vandeleur “lot,” like all the other lots, was an exact rectangle, quite level and bare. It remained treeless, for even a millionaire cannot work miracles. A lawn was laid down at a fabulous cost and three gardeners spent their lives in cherishing it. A few, brilliant, ready-to-see flowerbeds were added, but of mystery and surprise, those essentials of a real garden, there was not a trace. The bleak publicity was increased by the whole being unenclosed. It would have puzzled a mouse to find cover!

By the end of June, Firenze, as Mrs. Vandeleur inappropriately called the house, was ready for occupation. Most of the domestic staff was sent down, while Imogen and Joan and the faithful Miss Leveridge were to follow the next day. Mr. Vandeleur had decided to remain in New York. It was rather far to go down to business every day, he said. He would join them at week-ends.

Little Joan was in a state of intense, if suppressed, excitement. She had heard so much of the new home all these weeks, that she pictured it as a sort of fairy palace. Her little body was quivering as they drove up from the station. The carriage stopped. The child stared at the huge, flat, newly-painted house and the shadeless garden. Even the sea was not visible from this side. “That’s not our house; that’s an hotel,” she urged. She was told it was Firenze, indeed. “Then I don’t like it.” She flushed angrily. “It’s abs’lutely horrible.”

“You are the most spoilt and disagreeable child that I ever knew!” Probably the hot journey had exaggerated Imogen’s point of view as well as her daughter’s.

When the ocean revealed itself, little Joan grew more reconciled. And of one thing she could certainly no longer complain, and that was lack of people. At Long Branch it was solitude that was quite unobtainable. The shore at all hours was sprinkled with young men and maidens in elaborate, so-called bathing costumes, while up and down the board walk, the visitors in smart clothes paraded endlessly. On the piazzas and in the unfenced gardens, occupants dwelt in full public view, while along the broad road running parallel to the sea, there passed an endless stream of pleasure vehicles—the automobiles, at this date, were just beginning to take their place among the staider carriages and the buggies with their out-distanced fast-trotters. Again, on the other side of this road, were more wooden summer homes with similar open gardens, but of a smaller type, denoting mere potential millionaires.

So Joan had her “lots and lots of people,” and not only as mere scenery. One or other of Imogen’s many acquaintances were constantly coming up to speak to the dark, odd-looking child. Perhaps Joan made the discovery that surfeit is worse than abstinence. After telling strange and smart ladies her name and her age some dozen times in reply to their stereotyped questioning, she suddenly turned shy, and took refuge in sulky silence. “I won’t talk to them, I won’t; they’re silly,” she confided to the shocked Miss Leveridge. “I want to go to Meenahga.” This was the Vandeleur’s forest-encircled house in the Adirondacks, where the child had spent her previous summers.

Indoors the social element was even more continuous and oppressive than out of doors. At Fifth Avenue there were constant visitors, but they were not staying in the house; besides the nursery wing was so detached that Joan hardly ever came across them. But here, whenever she went up or down stairs, she seemed to meet young men who made laughing remarks to her (which she considered very foolish) and then laughed still more at her scornful answers. Certainly there was one, Mr. Grierson by name, whom she found less objectionable. His hair was so fair and soft that it was rather like her baby doll’s; that was interesting in itself. His cheeks were pinkish too, and he had a dimple in his chin. Joan used to wonder if he were grown up at all or a very little boy who had got tall by magic. Then she heard someone say that Mr. Grierson was at College. So, of course, he must be old; that settled it. Still she liked him; he didn’t laugh as often as the others. Sometimes he would sit quite quiet and look at her mother in a curious way. Miss Leveridge looked like that sometimes at church. As Joan came down one afternoon, hot and indignant at the prospect of being dragged out for a stiff walk, she saw Mr. Grierson standing in the lobby. He was whistling as he studied a big map, and he looked very happy. “Hullo,” Joan called out in a friendly manner.

“Hullo! Where are you going to, dressed up so fine?”

“Only up and down the board walk.” Joan came closer. She suddenly determined to confide in him. “Isn’t it silly, but that’s what Christine likes doing? She’s my maid. Miss Leveridge, my governess, is away for her holiday. Christine tells me to hold her hand all the time like a good little girl. I hate being good; it makes me feel so naughty inside. Where are you going?”

The young man’s pink cheeks turned pinker. “Your mother is letting me drive her out in her automobile.” He looked more than ever as though he were at church.

“You are going to drive! Not Fielding?” This was the chauffeur. “Can you drive an automobile? But I suppose Mother wouldn’t let you if you couldn’t. Oh, why can’t I come with you? I’d be so good, really and truly good, and not a bit of worry. I’d sit on the seat at the back and not say a word.”

It did credit to Mr. Grierson’s good nature that he did not instantly dismiss the idea. His face certainly fell. “Well, you’ll have to ask your mother,” he said.

“You ask. Mother will be more likely to let me come if you ask. Oh do, please.”

At this moment Mrs. Vandeleur appeared. Her little blue motor hood with tiny bunches of flowers was a “creation.” She had on a most becoming flowered muslin gown; her Shantung motor coat was over her arm. “Why, Joan, what are you doing?” she asked sharply.

“Joan is awfully set on coming out in the automobile,” Mr. Grierson explained. “She’s been begging so hard I didn’t know what to say.”

“I’d sit on the back seat and not talk. I won’t be in the way.” The child’s voice was dull and constrained, as it always was when she addressed her mother. Even the infatuated young man noticed the difference and was surprised by it.

The mother hesitated; then, to Joan’s secret astonishment, consented. The fact was that Charlie Grierson had been a little overwhelming in his devotion of late. Imogen had almost regretted that she had agreed to this ride. It would be such a nuisance if Charlie broke out in some wild protestation. He might think afterwards he ought to go right away—he had such absurd ideas sometimes. Why, she would hate their friendship to stop. She was very fond of Charlie; he was a dear boy and so useful. However, with Joan there as a little chaperon, Charlie could hardly embark upon any impassioned declarations. And if the child really kept her word and didn’t chatter, she wouldn’t be much of a nuisance.

Probably, a feeling of security due to the presence of the little girl, made Imogen allow herself even more indiscretion than usual. The pathetic tone she gave to the conversation was certainly not the way to keep her companion’s blood cool. “Must you really go to your mother’s next week? I shall miss you so.”

Young Grierson flushed; then he swallowed hard. “It’s awfully good of you to say that, Mrs. Vandeleur,” he murmured with assumed carelessness, “but, of course, you can’t mean it. You always have such a crowd awaiting your commands!”

Imogen felt piqued by his tone. “One can be lonely in a crowd,” she murmured pensively.

The young man gripped the steering wheel. She mustn’t see that his hands were shaking. “Won’t Mr. Vandeleur be coming down soon?”

“My husband’s work utterly absorbs him. Sometimes I think he forgets my poor little existence altogether.” Imogen gave a little sigh. “What a mistake it is to allow girls to marry very, very young—when they are still children. What does one know then or understand?”

“Imogen, do you——”

“Hush—the child.” Imogen gently stopped the explosion. “You must remember that my life is over,” she went on sadly. “Why I am far, far older than you—two years even in mere time.” As a matter of fact it was five years, and Imogen knew it.

Charlie Grierson set his teeth. The car had been going fast before; now to relieve his feelings, it went still faster. What a damnable world it was! If only he had met this divine creature before she had become tied to an old curmudgeon. He forgot that when this event occurred he was still, even on Imogen’s reckoning, a mere schoolboy with a doubtful collar and badly laced shoes. A curious haze came over his eyes. Perhaps this accounted for his not seeing a large hole in the road until he was close upon it. The car swerved almost into the bank as he jerked the wheel. He jammed it round again in the opposite direction. There was a crash. The car seemed trying to climb a wall; it tottered and tipped over.

Little Joan wondered if it were the end of the world—an event about which she had often speculated. Then she realized that she was lying on the grass behind an overturned automobile. She sat up. Oh, how her side hurt. She was going to scream, but, with an effort, she refrained. She would be an Early Christian at the stake. Then she found that by craning her neck she could see round the car. The pain was forgotten in a most surprising sight. There on the road lay her mother with a red cut on her forehead, while Mr. Grierson knelt beside her. He had one arm under her head and was wiping her face gently with his handkerchief. But what startled Joan the most was that Mr. Grierson was crying, really crying, with tears running down his cheeks. Surely grown up men at College didn’t cry. “Imogen, Imogen,” he was saying, and his voice was all choky just like when the child cried herself. “Imogen darling, have I killed you? Speak to me.”

Joan had hardly time to speculate as to whether her mother was really killed, when the prostrate figure opened her eyes. So that was all right, Joan felt with relief. “What has happened?” her mother asked faintly.

“Thank God! Thank God!” Joan was thrilled by Mr. Grierson’s expression of piety. She had thought such phrases confined to church. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” the young fellow gasped.

“No, I don’t think I’m hurt.” Imogen raised herself, with Mr. Grierson still reverently supporting her. “I think I’m all right. Only my head aches.” She put up her hand.

There was a sudden electric change. Imogen’s fingers had touched the cut. It was not bleeding much, but it gaped across her forehead rather openly. “It’s a cut, a deep cut,” she shrieked, pushing aside her companion’s supporting arm. “I shall be disfigured for life. Give me a mirror. Why do you stand there like a fool? Why did you take me out if you couldn’t drive? Oh, I hate you. You fool! You fool!”

Little Joan had on occasions seen her mother angry before, although never quite so angry as this. But young Grierson had probably thought his divinity incapable of any human weakness. He did look rather foolish as he stood absolutely dumbfounded before the railing woman. His youthful face had been pale before; now it became almost grey. “I wish I had been killed,” he said.

“What good would that have done to me? How selfish you are! Oh, do stop standing there like an idiot!” Pressing her scarf to her forehead, Mrs. Vandeleur staggered to her feet. “I must have a surgeon at once—the best surgeon from New York. Oh, can’t you suggest anything?” She rushed towards the car and began to pull at it as though she thought she could right it alone.

The child began to think that it was time to show herself. She scrambled to her feet, the pain in her side making her feel rather sick. “Hullo,” she said waveringly. “Won’t Fielding be cross about his car?”

Both her companions started. Indeed, Mr. Grierson was staring as though he hardly knew her. “Are you all right, Joan?” her mother asked quickly. She was a little ashamed at having completely forgotten the child’s presence. “Well, you don’t seem hurt, I’m thankful to say, though it’s no thanks to our driver.” She laughed hysterically.

“Yes, I’m all right.” Joan went up to them. Suddenly with an unchildlike intuition she put her hand into Mr. Grierson’s. “I think it’s worst for you,” she said.

She had hardly spoken, when wheels were heard coming along the road. It was a “Surrey” with two men in it. They drew up alongside of the overturned car. There were commiserations and offers of assistance. “What a piece of luck the little girl wasn’t hurt,” one of the newcomers observed. He offered to drive the wrecked party home—they had fortunately only come three or four miles—while his companion stayed to guard the damaged automobile. At Imogen’s suggestion, Mr. Grierson was dropped at a telephone office on the way. “Please let Mr. Vandeleur know at the Wall Street office,” she said faintly, with an amusing wifely dependence. “He will see about a surgeon and everything for me.”

In less than a couple of hours a surgeon of world-wide reputation was entering Firenze. Mr. Vandeleur himself had brought him down. The cut was pronounced not serious. The great man would put in a stitch or two; he guaranteed his reputation that there would be no permanent scar. Mr. Vandeleur retired downstairs while the little operation was performed.

A knock came at the door, and a very fair young man appeared. His boyish face was so haggard that Mr. Vandeleur guessed who it must be. “Are you the young gentleman who upset the car?” he enquired.

“Yes. If you’d shoot me I’d thank you.”

The words were theatrical, and so, by conviction as well as temperament, Mr. Vandeleur objected to them. Yet, he was somehow moved by the underlying ring of misery and truth. “It isn’t very serious,” he said kindly. “The surgeon assures us that Mrs. Vandeleur won’t be marked.”

“That’s something—I mean I’m awfully happy and relieved.” Young Grierson might say he was happy but he did not look it. “I don’t know how I can apologise enough to you, Mr. Vandeleur.”

John Vandeleur was looking at the young fellow curiously. He thought he had never seen anyone look quite so miserable. He wondered suddenly what Imogen had said to her escort when she found that her forehead was cut. Judging from the observations she had since made on the subject to himself and the surgeon, her words could not have lacked force. “Was Mrs. Vandeleur able to speak after the accident?”

“Almost at once.” A lively blush spread suddenly over the poor boy’s face, confirming Mr. Vandeleur’s suspicion. Any further rebuke as to the young man’s carelessness seemed uncalled for. There was a pause. “Well, I’d better be going,” Mr. Grierson stammered. “If there’s anything I can do—any reparation I can make?”

“No, only I should advise your not driving ladies out in automobiles again—particularly married ladies; it is dangerous.” Mr. Vandeleur shook the young man’s hand with a quite unusual friendliness.

As Mr. Grierson reached the door, he turned. “Oh, please thank your little girl. She was so kind and courageous.” He bolted suddenly.

Joan? So Joan had been in the accident too. Mr. Vandeleur had not understood this. He went to find his daughter rather anxiously. There was no reply when he called. She was not in any of the sitting-rooms. “Where is Miss Joan?” he asked a maid.

“I think she is in her bedroom, Mr. Vandeleur. Shall I fetch her?”

“No, I will go up.” The maid showed the way. Mr. Vandeleur knocked at his little daughter’s door and then quickly went in.

The room was dim, for the shades were closed on account of the heat. The child was sitting on her bed. She still had her coat on, and she looked very white. She did not get up or speak. Her father wondered if she recognized him in the half light. “So you were in the accident too?” he said kindly. “I hope you didn’t get hurt at all, my dear.”

Suddenly the little girl broke into sobs. “My side, my side,” she wailed. “I can’t be brave any more; I want Granny. Oh dear, oh dear, my side.”

After that things moved quickly, as was always the case when Mr. Vandeleur took them in hand. Almost before the great surgeon had finished with Imogen, he was hurried up to the next floor to see the little girl. Two ribs were broken, he found, but his skilful manipulation and bandaging soon eased the pain. Almost before it seemed possible Mrs. Lennox was at her granddaughter’s bedside. She kissed her tenderly. “Darling, why didn’t you say sooner that you were hurt?”

“I didn’t want Mr. Grierson to know. Granny, have you ever seen grown-up gentlemen cry?”

CHAPTER VI.

There was no obvious connection between the motor accident and Joan going to school, yet it was the one that finally decided Mr. Vandeleur on the other. He had been shocked at the time that had passed before the child’s injury had been discovered. Were she at school, as she wished, she would be under proper superintendence for, at least, the greater part of the day. As for his wife, all she cared about was her own appearance, he told himself bitterly. He forgot that this was the chief thing he, too, had cared about when he married her.

John Vandeleur’s resentment against Imogen would have been greater but for the state of her health. The cut on her forehead was trifling, but while she was receiving medical attention for this, it was discovered that she had been suffering for some years from an internal trouble. There must have been a good deal of intermittent pain, the doctors said. The fuss Imogen had made over her slight external injury had not prepared one for this stoical silence. “Oh, yes, I knew there was something wrong,” she told her mother when Mrs. Lennox gently commiserated. “I’ve had horrid attacks of pain ever since Joan was born. It’s a hateful mistake having a child at all. But I didn’t want the doctors fussing about; besides I knew they would want me to rest. I won’t give up the things I enjoy, all my parties and everything. I can’t live without them.”

Imogen’s fears were well founded. An absolute veto was put on her previous round of gaiety. She must pursue a sofa-existence of some months or even a year. “I won’t, I won’t,” she cried with angry tears.

Mrs. Lennox soothed and persuaded, and at last Imogen consented provisionally to try the experiment. When it came to the point she found it a relief to give up the struggle. For Imogen’s feverish activity had been largely a result of her ill-health; constant excitement had served to deaden the pain. Now, after a few days of complete rest, the pain began to disappear. Besides, apart from her health, the cure was certainly improving her complexion. Lately Imogen had once or twice caught sight of herself at an unguarded moment in the mirror. How old she was looking—almost haggard, she had felt with dismay. A touch of rejuvenating rouge had become a daily necessity. But now the old rose-leaf colour began to creep back into her delicately rounding cheeks. The artificial was suspended. After all, an invalid life could be made very decorative. With fresh ardour she planned new and exquisite gowns suitable for these couch-bound days. “Vesta” made an unheard-of exception, and waited on Mrs. Vandeleur at her own dwelling. “I take an interest in you, for you are perhaps the only client who does my gowns justice,” he explained. Probably John Vandeleur was almost the only husband who could afford such an interest on “Vesta’s” part.

One of Imogen’s own ideas was to keep her dress and the flower scheme of her boudoir in subtle harmony. “As I cannot go out, I want to bring Nature inside, to lose myself in it,” she said. Indeed, she did often look like a flower herself, as she lay there, fair and fragile, in her filmy ninon and gauzes. Once, near Christmas time, the effect was particularly becoming. “The Promise of Spring” was the idea that Imogen wished to suggest, as she lay in a teagown of palest rose chiffon embowered in a mass of white camellias. Even little Joan noticed it when she came in for her brief daily visit. “How pretty,” she said, while her mother wondered if the child were at last developing some artistic taste.

“Everything looks pretty now,” the little girl went on, with rather an unusual flow of talk. “All the stores are decorated fine. And the butcher’s was just like this room, white and shiny, with an enormous big, pink turkey in the middle——”

“What are you saying?” Imogen broke in upon the child’s chatter with obvious annoyance. “You are not comparing me with a turkey, I hope?”

“No,” Joan murmured doubtfully. “Because that had a lovely little Stars-and-Stripes stuck in its chest.”

It was not only flowers that beautified Imogen’s chamber. She became a collector, and the little table beside her always held some priceless enamelled box filled with bonbons, or perhaps a small antique in filigree silver, or a rare miniature. Books in exquisite bindings, chiefly modern, minor poets, littered the room. “As my poor body is of no more use, I must develop my higher self,” she one day told her mother.

Mrs. Lennox stifled a laugh. She could never help being amused at the thorough way in which Imogen had taken up the invalid’s rôle. Had she been wrong in thinking that her daughter had no dramatic talent, she sometimes wondered. Perhaps on the contrary in her the family genius had reached its highest expression. For Imogen did not seem to be aware when she was acting. Her art was so supreme that it was concealed even from herself. Or was this doing her daughter an injustice? Perhaps it was genuine and not acting at all. “Well, your poor body looks very nice, even if it is superseded,” Mrs. Lennox said lightly with a puzzled kiss.

Not only were Imogen’s immediate surroundings tuned to the new key; even her circle of friends was changed. The crowd of admirers circling round Mrs. Vandeleur had hitherto been largely formed of wealthy young college men, great at dancing and drinking. Imogen now complained that they were too noisy, too unintellectual; she preferred people with more soul. Somehow young artists began to appear on the scene instead; they were as badly dressed as their predecessors had been immaculate. Imogen found an added joy in being worshipped artistically as well as humanly. Poets hymned her loveliness, sculptors moulded her delicate profile, artists ecstatically transferred her colouring to canvas. They all begged for permission to do these things as the artist’s highest privilege, but a good many sordid dollars, in the guise of loans, leaked into their pockets during the process.

Meanwhile little Joan was also making a success of her new life. For the first time praises, instead of complaints, reached her parents. The child had always got on well with the lessons that she liked; now competition awoke her ambition, and this carried her triumphantly through even the detested multiplication table. The sullen, heavy look began to disappear from her face, to the great improvement of her appearance. “Didn’t I always tell you so? She’ll be a beauty yet,” her grandmother prophesied.

Mr. Vandeleur may have noticed the change, but if so, he said nothing. Indeed, his meetings with Joan grew even less frequent. It was a year of strikes, and the copper king’s presence was so continually needed at the different mining centres that Mr. Vandeleur almost began to feel his private Pullman was his most permanent address. Still, although he did not see his little daughter, he often thought of her. She had thoroughly awakened his interest. Once after one of his long absences, she again waylaid him. How she had grown, he thought with surprise. She certainly now looked strong and sturdy. “Well, what do you want this time?” he asked with a smile.

“I want to know if I may sit in your library? I’d leave it quite tidy, and you are never there in the day-time. It seems a waste for no one to use it.”

“But haven’t you got your own nursery?” Mr. Vandeleur suggested.

“We call it the schoolroom now, but anyway they worry me upstairs. I want to be quiet, and I want to read your books. I’d remember to wash my hands first.”

Mr. Vandeleur hesitated. His daughter’s desire for a refuge and for reading appealed to him. But he was fond of his books, although he had increasingly little time to read them. Would she not spoil them? However, the most valuable ones were locked up. And as regards the child herself, she was too young for this unsupervised reading to matter. Reading? Why, probably there was nothing in the library that she could read. It was just a passing whim. And as she had said, he was never at home during the day. He gave a provisional assent.

The weeks passed, and Mr. Vandeleur found that the arrangement brought him no inconvenience. Either Joan removed all traces of her presence, or they were removed for her. Only once a sign was left; his big Shakespeare lay open on the hearthrug. It seemed an advanced taste in literature for a child of eight, the father thought as he replaced the volume. The grudge he bore Providence for his offspring’s sex increased.

Yet it was owing to Joan’s use of the library that the crisis arose. One wintry afternoon Mr. Vandeleur did not feel well—which was rare—and came home before his usual hour—which was still rarer. As he pushed aside the portière of his room, he saw with annoyance mixed with amusement, that Joan was seated on the floor reading; even in the dull light he recognized the big Shakespeare. The child was murmuring to herself, and was so intent that she did not hear her father’s entrance. Mr. Vandeleur seated himself in an armchair a little way off and watched in silence.

The murmuring went on for some minutes. It was too low for Mr. Vandeleur to catch the words. He was just going to speak, when suddenly Joan started to her feet. “No, my fair cousin. If we are mark’d to die, we are enow,” came in a ringing childish voice, rather surprising in its strength and vibrancy. The child stood facing the fire, and so was still unaware of her father’s presence. Mr. Vandeleur did not interrupt, but his brow knitted ominously as the well-known scene went on. Probably had Joan done it worse, he would have minded less. This performance did not suggest a child amusing itself; there was the unmistakable professional touch. If Mr. Vandeleur detested one thing more than another in connection with the stage, it was the infant prodigy. At last the conclusion came:

“And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks That fought with us upon St. Crispin’s Day.”

Joan ended with a sob and covered her face with her hands.

Mr. Vandeleur strode across the room. He seized the child by the shoulder and almost shook her. “Who taught you to say that?” His daughter had never heard him use such a tone before.

The little girl put down her hands and stared without replying. Her cheeks were wet, but she was not actually crying. It was doubt as to her own identity, and not fear of her father’s anger, that kept her tongue-tied. She was still on the field of Agincourt. Mr. Vandeleur angrily repeated his question. “I don’t know,” the child stammered.

“Don’t know! Don’t know who taught you! Nonsense! Of course it was your grandmother. You needn’t add lies to this exhibition. Come with me at once.” He marched her up to her mother’s boudoir.

Imogen happened to be alone. She was momentarily expecting her latest adorer, a young poet with hair of unconventional length, who had told her at their first meeting that his soul was blue as the sky and white as snow. Now he talked chiefly of Imogen’s soul instead, which she found more interesting. “What is the matter?” she asked impatiently, as her husband and daughter unexpectedly appeared.

Mr. Vandeleur’s face was flushed, while the bridge of his nose gleamed palely. “It appears that your mother is desirous of training Joan for the stage,” he explained with icy politeness. “Kindly inform her that if there is any further attempt in this direction, I shall forbid all intercourse between her and the child. It is hardly probable that I should countenance such a profession for my daughter, when I objected so strongly to the fact of Mrs. Lennox herself being an actress.”

“Was Granny an actress? An actress at a real theatre? Then that’s why she is so much nicer than everybody else!” Joan clapped her hands in her excitement.

Mr. Vandeleur bit his lips. His annoyance at having disclosed the secret was not lessened by the child’s next words. “I don’t know what you mean by Granny having trained me for the stage. Granny didn’t teach Henry V. to me, but I always did want to be an actress, and now I’m quite settled.”

The audacious declaration was cut short by Joan being sent to bed. The permission to use her father’s library or read his books was rescinded. But the mischief was done. Moreover Mr. Vandeleur found that, as his daughter had said, poor Mrs. Lennox was quite innocent in the matter. It seemed that a class of older girls at school was studying Henry V., and the child had heard them. So even the satisfaction of blaming his mother-in-law was removed.

The next time Joan went to the Dorset, Mrs. Lennox was electrified by her greeting. “Oh, Granny, why didn’t you ever tell me you were an actress?”

“My dear! What do you mean?” Mrs. Lennox was alarmed. How could the child have got hold of the information? Had it been due to any carelessness on her part? Perhaps she had indiscreetly left some old programme lying about which had given Joan a clue—but then, they would have only mentioned her stage name.

Joan laughed. “You needn’t be frightened, Granny. Father told me. At least, he didn’t exactly tell me, he was talking to Mother. Oh, Granny, did you ever act in Henry V.? Will you read it to me right through—the girls at school say it so funnily and flat. And tell me all about being an actress, please.”

Mrs. Lennox naturally felt that such an indiscretion on her son-in-law’s part absolved her from secrecy as far as the child was concerned. And so, if she did not tell Joan all about being an actress, she told her a great deal. Press notices, that had been treasured away, were now brought to light—chiefly the ones relating to Biddy’s curtailed triumph. Joan listened to their yellowed banalities with quickened breath. “Oh Granny, how dreadful to give it all up!” she once cried. “Why did you?”

Mrs. Lennox hesitated. “Your mother got engaged to your father just then, and he thought his friends would not like my being on the stage. He thought that if I went on acting it would be better for me not to see your mother. I did not want to be cut off from her of course.”

“But you don’t see Mother very much now,” Joan observed with a child’s inconvenient directness.

Mrs. Lennox felt it wiser to ignore the comment. “And then you came, Joan. If I had been an actress I could not have seen you either.”

A pair of arms were flung round Mrs. Lennox’s neck. “Did you give it up for me? Oh, Granny, how I ought to love you!”

It was soon after this that Joan first began to plead with her grandmother to be taken to the theatre. “It wouldn’t really be naughty,” she urged. “Every girl at school goes to plays except me. I know that Father wouldn’t approve, but it’s just an idea he’s got, like not taking sugar with his fruit. Oh Granny, do let us go just once.”

But here Mrs. Lennox was adamant. She herself occasionally went to the theatre now, although at discreetly long intervals. Her son-in-law, when she had told him, looked annoyed, but had made no comment. Also a year or so ago, Mr. Hobson had suddenly written, apparently quite oblivious of the angry terms on which they had parted after ‘The Haunted Homestead’ episode. He had a new production, he said, which he thought could be worked up into a big success, if only the right people got to know of it. Could she tell some of her swell society friends to take tickets, or he would send her seats for distribution. Mrs. Lennox had seen and admired the play. Surely she was now old and emancipated enough she felt, to give a helping hand. She asked Mr. Hobson to dinner, and together they devised plans for sustaining an artificial life until the play was in a condition to run alone. This, as the astute manager had foreseen, had proved merely a question of time.

But although Mrs. Lennox had ceased to boycott the theatre and all its works, it would be a very different matter, she felt, to take John Vandeleur’s own daughter to the play. He would have the right to be angry. “It is quite impossible, darling,” she always told Joan.

At last Joan accepted the inevitable and the subject was dropped. Indeed the days were so filled with her school and all its interests, that the child had little time for other thought. The nursery period, always interminable, even when it is happier than in Joan’s case, was now definitely over. Time began to quicken, term succeeding term with an ever increasing rapidity. Her first lesson in English recitation stood out as a distinguishing landmark. As with many of her lessons, Joan studied it beforehand with her grandmother. Mrs. Lennox did indeed feel a twinge of conscience as she carefully coached the child, but, after all, if John Vandeleur allowed his daughter to learn recitation, that was his affair and not hers. What was done, should be well done; it was a favourite saying of his own.

The next day at school Joan’s turn came towards the end. As she stood up, and began, an electrified silence fell on the class, very different from the amused indifference with which the other girls had been heard. At the end, to the child’s astonishment, there was an enthusiastic burst of clapping. The mistress wrote a note and told her to take it to her mother. “Joan’s power of recitation is most unusual. I feel I have nothing to teach her,” it said.

On this occasion her mother’s callousness stood Joan in good stead. She glanced at the letter that the child gave her, and then threw it aside and forgot it. No flash of association between recitation and the forbidden drama lit up her indifferent mind. It certainly never occurred to her to mention it to her husband. As a matter of fact John Vandeleur had not realized that recitation formed part of the ordinary school curriculum. Had he known of it, and still more of Joan’s proficiency, he would no doubt have stopped her attendance at the class. As it was the weekly lesson went on with an ever increasing success, although the mistress, ruffled by receiving no reply from Mrs. Vandeleur, did not think it necessary again to comment.

It was when Joan was thirteen that a great French actress came to give a short season in New York. No one could have escaped knowledge of the fact—the press agent saw to that. Certainly a stage-struck little girl must be aware of it. But to Mrs. Lennox’s surprise her granddaughter did not refer to it. At last the season drew near its close. The world-renowned artiste was sailing for Europe by the next boat. When Joan came to spend her weekly day at the Dorset, her grandmother noticed rather a set expression on the child’s face. “I am going to the Renaissance Theatre this afternoon,” she announced suddenly. “It is the last of the matinées.”

“My dear,” Mrs. Lennox gasped. “Surely your father has not given his consent?”

“I haven’t asked him. Father is on one of his copper tours, you know. But Miss Waring at school said that every girl who had the chance ought certainly to go, and that it was most educational. Anyway, I must go. Why, the papers say ‘the divine one’ is seventy. Suppose I never saw her.”

“But, my dear child, who is going to take you?”

“You are, Granny.” Joan’s tone was cheerfully tranquil. “Or if you don’t, I shall go alone. I have absolutely made up my mind. Oh Granny, I have not worried you for a long time about taking me to the theatre, but I must see the greatest actress in the world. I can’t help it. I must.” The child’s voice had a religious intensity.

It ended in Mrs. Lennox yielding. She did try a few more half-hearted protests, but they were brushed aside. She felt certain that if she refused to take the child, Joan would go alone as she threatened. Even from John Vandeleur’s point of view this would be worse. What other alternative was there? the grandmother lamented feebly. She could not forcibly detain a great girl of thirteen who was nearly as tall, and certainly as strong, as she was herself. As for letting Joan’s mother know, that seemed useless, even if the latent, unacknowledged jealousy of Imogen’s maternal rights had not surged up to prevent it. What could Imogen do? Mrs. Lennox asked herself. If she could not influence Joan, her mother would certainly be unable to do so. Had John Vandeleur been in New York, Mrs. Lennox might have felt it her duty to communicate with him, but, as it was, she did not even know his address. Of course, she could get this from the Wall Street office, for Mr. Vandeleur’s private secretary sent him a long telegram twice a day, first telephoning up to Fifth Avenue to ask if there was any message from Mrs. Vandeleur. But suppose she did telegraph to her son-in-law, Mrs. Lennox reflected, there would be no time to get a reply. “Well, I don’t know what your father would say to our going,” was her expiring protest.

The next step was to discuss the details of the jaunt. They decided to patronize the gallery. There they would be safe from recognition. For in the better parts of the house there would doubtless be many of the Vandeleur circle, as well as schoolmates of Joan’s, who, like her, would have urged their mistress’s advice. Besides, in the gallery there was more chance of finding seats. The foreign language sifted the fifty cent audience better than the two dollar clientèle—not that more people in the orchestra boxes really understood French, but more pretended to do so. “Only we must start at once, Granny,” Joan stipulated. “The girls at school say that people begin to line up even in the morning.”

They found this was the case, although the crowd was not large enough to make their getting in hopeless, as Mrs. Lennox had secretly hoped. Apart from a lurking dismay over the whole escapade, her heart sank at the prospect of such a long wait. Grandmothers were too old for this sort of thing, she told herself. Already her legs ached. Nothing, however, could diminish Joan’s rapt enthusiasm. Indeed, it increased. As they stood there, the grandmother pointed out another door, not far from the one at which they waited. It was shabby enough, the paint worn with much use and one of the glass lights cracked. “That’s the stage door,” Mrs. Lennox whispered. The reverence in Joan’s eyes as she gazed would have befitted the gateway of Paradise.

Suddenly an automobile drew up in front of this enchanted portal. One or two men, who had evidently been on the look-out, hurried forward to open the door. Someone inside the car began talking in loud and voluble French. Mrs. Lennox and Joan were not near enough to hear clearly what was said, but it was obvious that the person was in the worst of tempers. Apparently she was refusing to get out until some message had been conveyed. No one seemed to know enough French to deal with the situation. Suddenly, to Mrs. Lennox’s surprised dismay, Mr. Hobson appeared, looking worried but more rotund than ever. She had forgotten that he was managing the great star’s season. His own French appeared to be so limited as to be almost non-existent, while his accent was amusing in its bland stars-and-stripes unconcern. He had, however, a young man in tow, who acted as interpreter. Between them they apparently managed to pacify the ruffled occupant of the automobile. A slight figure in a long sable cloak stepped out, and taking Mr. Hobson’s proffered hand, slipped quickly in at the stage door.

There was some clapping amid the waiting crowd as they realized who the sudden apparition had been. Mrs. Lennox had been too interested for anxiety, but now she felt that they had had a narrow escape. Mr. Hobson must certainly have recognized her if he had looked in that direction; the stage door was so very near. She hoped that Joan hadn’t been disillusioned by the behaviour of her ideal. “I expect she’s feeling all worked up; that would make her irritable,” she almost apologized.

“Yes, I’ve read about that,” the girl said composedly. “It’s the artistic temperament; they can’t help it. I do wonder though why she likes to go to bed in her coffin. It sounds so uncomfortable. But tame leopards would be great.”

Mrs. Lennox suddenly cut short her granddaughter’s speculations by gripping her arm. “My gracious, there’s Mr. Hobson coming out here again!”

It was an unwise remark. Joan knew the name of the omnipotent manager, and not unnaturally stared at the fat, little man who had, a second time, come out of the stage entrance and was now looking anxiously up the street. Perhaps her fixed gaze had the mesmeric effect that such a regard sometimes seems to exert, or perhaps it was just chance, but Mr. Hobson certainly turned his head and looked at her. There were still many people who considered Joan Vandeleur very plain, although it was difficult to maintain the verdict in moments like this, when her cheeks were flushed and her face wore a curiously vital and vivid expression. Certainly the little manager did not seem included among the number, for a half smile came to his lips as his eyes rested on the eager young girl. With American gallantry, he looked away at once, his gaze passing to the elderly lady who stood beside her. “Miss West.” Mr. Hobson hurried forward. “Well now, couldn’t they give you seats? My, if it ain’t just too bad! You come along with me and I’ll see what I can do for you. I guess we can fix you up better than Gallery anyhow.”

There was a moment of embarrassment, broken by Joan’s clear, young voice. “But we don’t want any better seats; we came here on purpose.” She was standing on the outer side of the queue, and now she leant confidentially towards Mr. Hobson and whispered, “We don’t want to be seen, you know.”

The manager looked puzzled. “I’d have thought you’d be more seen out here. Ain’t I just seen you?”

“Yes, but you don’t matter, because you are worse than we are. I mean, you are the Mr. Hobson who presents, aren’t you?”

“That’s correct. And you won’t let me present you with seats? But you have the advantage of me, young lady.” The fat little man laughed in a friendly way. “I mean I don’t know your name.”

“Oh, I’m Joan Vandeleur.”

“Not John P. Vandeleur’s daughter? You don’t say! And here I was figuring you as a little bit of a baby. Well, well. Old Father Time is a mighty good hustler. And I suppose Poppa don’t know you’re here? Well, you needn’t worry about me blabbing any.”

“Mr. Vandeleur is away,” Mrs. Lennox interrupted stiffly. She thought this conversation had gone on long enough.

Mr. Hobson chuckled. “When the cat’s away—? And so you’re grandma to this young lady, Miss West? No one would credit it, and that’s a fact——. Why, I do declare that’s her,” he broke off suddenly, pointing to a smart, foreign-looking woman who was hurrying towards the stage door. “Praise the Lord she’s come at last. It’s Mam’selle, the chief dresser, don’t you know. There’s been a bit of a scrap or something. Gee, I guess this tour has put ten years on to my age. Wonder my life insurance people don’t rule out foreign stars. Well, she sails on Saturday, praise be!” He scurried after the disappearing dresser.

Apart from the meeting with Mr. Hobson, the day was a pure success. As on her only other visit to a theatre, Joan sat in a trance of ecstasy. She seemed able to follow the words quite easily, for which she had to thank the hated French maids of her childhood. Also it transpired that she had been studying the play in daring anticipation of coming. All foreign languages were equally “Greek” to Mrs. Lennox, so perhaps this was the reason that her attention was divided between the stage and her granddaughter. How intensely concentrated the child was; it was quite amusing. Surely she was going to develop into something remarkable. Or would John Vandeleur succeed in taming her into a mere society young lady? It was curious that he should want to, his mother-in-law reflected. He had chosen Imogen as typifying his highest feminine ideal, and yet he could hardly consider her now as entirely satisfactory. But he had not yet drawn the moral, Mrs. Lennox felt: she was convinced that he would try to repress all independence in his daughter. John loathed publicity in a woman, even apart from his special detestation of the stage,—theatrophobia, it might almost be termed. Oh dear, what would he say if he knew that they were actually sitting here in a theatre? Mrs. Lennox felt quite sick with apprehension. How could Joan take it so coolly? Her granddaughter had apparently forgotten the fact that fathers even existed, so entirely was she caught up in the play. Even in the intervals the girl seemed unconscious that she was doing anything wrong or unusual. It was not only her father, but her own entity of which, for the time, she was oblivious. As the curtain finally fell she gave a dazed sigh of satisfaction. “Yes, she is an ACTRESS.”

Mr. Vandeleur never heard of the act of defiance; moreover it remained a unique experience. Both conscience and cowardice determined Mrs. Lennox against repeating it. Evidently no one but Mr. Hobson had seen them, and he had kept his own counsel, but another time they might not be so fortunate. The great obstacle, however, was the betrayal of her son-in-law’s trust. “You must wait until you are grown up,” she told Joan. “Then you can have it all out with your father first.”

“Yes, it did seem mean to go like that,” Joan acquiesced. “I wouldn’t have done it, if I hadn’t felt it might be my only chance.” A distant look came into her big, dark eyes. “But when I am grown up——!”

CHAPTER VII.

In the course of the following year Mrs. Vandeleur acquired two new “attachés,” as Joan not unhumorously dubbed her mother’s satellites. Artistically these latest recruits were on quite a different plane from the very minor young men whom Mrs. Vandeleur had hitherto patronised, for Eustace Chalfont was an accepted English poet, although his slender work lay chiefly in the past, while Davidovitch ranked with the first two or three of the coming pianists. Thus both men had a recognised position, but there the likeness between them ended. For Davidovitch was an un-Jewish-looking young Jew, with a square, plain head, closely cropped in defiance of musical tradition, and usually rather silent, while Chalfont, an un-English-looking Englishman, talkative and emotional, was obviously struggling against the approaches of middle-age and still possessed extreme good looks despite the ravages of dissipation.

It may have been because Joan Vandeleur already knew her mother’s latest friends by reputation, that she showed more interest in them than she usually bestowed on the vague, strange youths who permeated the boudoir. “I saw Mr. Chalfont this afternoon; he had come to tea with Mother,” she informed her grandmother after the first meeting.

“Not Eustace Chalfont the poet?” Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. Once, long ago, there had been a young actress in the company, who became acquainted with Chalfont when he first came over from Europe, and used afterwards to rave fatuously over him. But even in those days there were unpleasant stories about the new Adonis. How could her daughter have taken him up and exposed Joan to his influence? “Well, what is Mr. Chalfont like?” she asked, trying to gauge the impression he had made on the girl.

“Horrible—like a blackbeetle.”

“A blackbeetle!” The grandmother was surprised, if relieved. “But I thought he was so beautiful, with a Greek profile and ambrosial locks?”

“Mr. Chalfont beautiful!” It was now Joan’s turn to be surprised. “Why, Granny, he’s hideous. He’s getting fat and he’s getting bald, and his face is all covered with pimples.”

“Poor man, he does sound homely.” Mrs. Lennox felt that all anxiety could be put aside. Still it would be better to thresh out the subject. “He has written some beautiful verse,” she suggested. “I once knew a girl who used to recite it. There was one piece about a dead baby; I’ve forgotten the name, but I know it used to make me weep.”

“Wasn’t it ‘A little Lily on the Madonna’s Shrine?’ That’s in our school anthology. It is beautiful.” Joan’s voice was grudging. “I don’t see how that spotty man could have written it, but I suppose he was different when he was young. And now he’s gone and spoilt all his poetry for me, so that’s another reason why I hate him.”

The conversation left Mrs. Lennox thoughtful. It was curious, as Joan had said, how a man like that could write such beautiful things—or rather could have written them. For of late years Eustace Chalfont did seem to have dropped out poetically. Mrs. Lennox was not a great reader, but if he had published anything of importance she would surely have heard of it. In the days when, through her friend, she had come into a second-hand intimacy with him, he preached, and also practised, that freedom from all restraint was necessary to an artist’s full development. It almost seemed as if in his case this freedom, instead of developing the artist, had killed him. Was Imogen ignorant of his reputation, Mrs. Lennox again wondered. She had better speak to her daughter about it.

The interview was not a success. Imogen was coldly furious. “Really, Mother, I am old enough to choose my own friends without your interference,” she observed. When Mrs. Lennox murmured that the poet was hardly a fit person for Joan to meet, Imogen retorted that she would forbid Joan to come into the room when he was there. “You and John are such Pharisees!” The unexpectedness of the thrust, and to be thus coupled with her disapproving son-in-law reduced Mrs. Lennox to sudden laughter, which irritated Imogen still further.

Over Mendel Davidovitch, on the contrary, Joan was unexpectedly enthusiastic. “He’s real, Granny,” she informed Mrs. Lennox. “He isn’t just one of Mother’s geniuses, he really can play.” Imogen had always proclaimed that her daughter had absolutely no soul for music. Now she was astounded by the girl asking if she might come into the boudoir when Davidovitch was playing. Joan’s desire must have been strong indeed, for she evidently disliked making the request as much as her mother disliked granting it. Indeed, had Imogen been able to think of any valid reason for refusing, she would have done so. She had never quite forgiven Joan for existing at all, and now there was, in addition, the chronological inconvenience of possessing a daughter of fourteen who looked seventeen, while she herself might otherwise have passed for twenty-four. Moreover, Imogen never felt quite comfortable in the child’s presence. Joan had an embarrassing habit of fastening her eyes on the person who was speaking, with a gaze of aloof and amused interest. Somehow her mother’s soulful remarks broke down under the strain. “Well, you can come in and listen to Davidovitch playing, if you sit absolutely quiet and don’t stare,” Imogen conceded grudgingly.

The young pianist had made a practice of coming every afternoon for a couple of hours to play to Mrs. Vandeleur. He said it inspired him to play amid such beauty. No doubt he did find satisfaction in his lovely and sympathetic listener, while the exquisite room must have come as a relief after his stereotyped hotel suite. But one day the underlying reason came to light. In an unusual burst of expansiveness, he apostrophised the marvellous quality of the “instrument.” “I have never known a tone so beautiful; I would walk for leagues every day to play on it.” Imogen acquiesced with concealed irritation, murmuring that it was sweet of him to put it like that; otherwise she might have felt she was imposing too much on his kindness. “You do not know what it means to me, a poor helpless mortal—this opening of the gates of heaven,” she told him. Secretly she was extremely annoyed. The Egeria of Fifth Avenue was not accustomed to such a detached attaché. To be put second to a piano! And to one moreover that she had not even the credit of choosing, for it was her husband’s purchase. She resolved that before this young man left America things should be very different. She would awaken in his undeveloped soul an appreciation of true womanhood—that was how she put it—and thus safeguard him against the temptations of the artistic life.

So nearly every afternoon when Joan came back from school, she heard the wonderful music flooding out from her mother’s boudoir. Then she would creep in silently and take up her obscure seat in the alcove. If Davidovitch were not too engrossed, he would nod to her with his sudden illuminating smile as she passed. Her evident absorption appealed to him, although he was too young himself to be much interested in a schoolgirl, or indeed in anyone. “Your daughter, Miss Joan, is very musical, is it not so?” he said one day to Mrs. Vandeleur.

“Joan musical? Oh, no! Why, she hardly knows one note from another. She began to learn, but I could not get her to practise. It was a great grief to me with my adoration of music and being cut off as I am from the outside world——” Mrs. Vandeleur smiled wanly. “But, of course, my real regret was for my little girl’s own sake. It seems so sad to have no feeling for Art. Not that Joan realises her loss, but we—nous autres—we cannot help realising it for her. Have you heard how the tickets are going at Carnegie?”

The conversation turned to Davidovitch’s approaching recital at Carnegie Hall. Imogen was taking a considerable amount of trouble over it. On this account alone she felt that her latest protégé ought to show more gratitude, more devotion. She had even announced the possibility of being present herself on the great occasion. A wonderful gown of pale greys and greens, specially created by Vesta, defined her intention. “If a place in the hall is kept clear for my invalid chair, I can be carried straight in from the automobile,” she was now explaining to Davidovitch.

He was listening with apparent interest. If only his hostess would suggest that her piano should “be carried straight in” instead! Dared he mention such a request? He decided to postpone it. Mrs. Vandeleur did not seem as pleasant as usual to-day. “It is curious that Miss Joan should listen to my playing with such interest if she does not care for music,” he substituted.

The remark was almost as unfortunate as a reference to the piano could have been. Imogen flushed with irritation. Instead of eliminating the troublesome child, her disclosure of Joan’s musical obtuseness seemed to have aroused the young man’s curiosity. “Yes, I am surprised at it myself, for I have never been able to persuade the child to listen to music before. You must take it as a personal compliment.” Imogen gave rather a forced laugh. “Is it not getting late?”

Davidovitch was not dense, although he was self-centred. At any rate he noticed the increased coldness. “I hope you do not regret having given me permission to play here, Mrs. Vandeleur—that I do not become tiresome?”

“Oh, no, no.” Imogen’s good humour was restored by this unexpected humility. She put out her white hand covered with its wonderful, antique rings, and patted the young man’s arm. “Why, Mendel, what an idea! As if everybody does not want to hear you play. Now sit down and begin.”

This he did with alacrity—too much alacrity his hostess thought with renewed ill-humour. He had been playing some little time, for the servants had already drawn the curtains and turned on the lights, before Joan crept into the room. “You come late to-day. I can only play one thing more,” he said with his slight foreign accent. “What shall it be?”

“The Ninth Symphony,” Joan demanded brazenly.

“But that is an orchestral piece. How have you even heard of it?” her mother laughed. “Besides, it is far too long. Indeed, I do not think we ought to let you play any more to-day, Mr. Davidovitch. You will be tired.” As a matter of fact, Imogen was expecting Eustace Chalfont at six o’clock, and she preferred her guests in sequence.

“Oh, I can give Miss Joan an idea of it, if she wishes.” Mendel Davidovitch broke into a brilliant rendering of the third movement.

Really this young man was getting insupportable, Imogen felt angrily. How dared he do what Joan wanted in defiance of her wishes! She more than ever determined that he must be brought into complete subjection. In the meantime at the first possible break in the music, he should stop. But the break did not come. Good heavens! Was the thing going on interminably?

It was only just finished when Mr. Chalfont was announced. In the slight confusion of his arrival and Davidovitch’s departure, Imogen did not notice what became of her daughter. Indeed, her thoughts about Joan were usually limited to a sense of relief at her absence. As a matter of fact the girl, instead of slipping out of the room as she usually did, had retreated hastily behind the curtains into the alcove. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, so deeply had the music moved her. It would be horrible, she felt, for either her mother or Mr. Chalfont to see her in this condition; she did not know which she would mind the more. She would remain hidden, she decided, until she had mopped her eyes into respectability. It did not occur to her that in the meantime she was practically spying on her mother. The girl was too un-self-conscious to consider her own presence objectively. Besides she could only hear detached words of the low-toned conversation as she stood behind the thick curtains.

As soon as Davidovitch had closed the door behind him, Eustace Chalfont came nearer to the couch. “How wonderful you are looking to-day, dear lady,” he murmured.

Imogen smiled a little. Certainly this was a great improvement on Mendel’s remarks. “I think you are the only person who ever notices how I look,” she said.

“‘Having eyes they see not.’ For me, your beauty is the only balm in this sordid city of noise; the only solace in my infinite loneliness.” The words were romantic, but there was a hackneyed note in Mr. Chalfont’s voice. “I have even dared to write a sonnet in gratitude for your God-given loveliness.”

“Oh, Mr. Chalfont, do, do read it to me.” Imogen was really pleased, indeed a trifle awed. A poem written in her praise by an accepted poet, and not by a mere literary aspirant, was something of a triumph. Why, this sonnet might figure some day in the popular anthologies; certainly it would appear in any complete collection of Chalfont’s works. Of course, she would not allow it to be headed with her own name, she reflected. It might be addressed to “My Dear Lady,” as he so often called her, and then in the distant future there would be a footnote stating who the lady had been. Or perhaps even now it could be entitled “Imogen” and clouded by Shakespeare. What a comfort that she had a poetical name; it was one of the few sensible things her mother had ever done. “It is too much honour, but read it to me, dear friend,” she repeated.

Chalfont drew a sheet of paper from his pocket. As a matter of fact the sonnet had been roughed out a few months before for another “dear lady.” He had come across it that morning, and with Imogen in his mind, had re-written and vastly improved it. The lines were passionate and graceful, for even in his decadence, Eustace Chalfont was a poet. He took Imogen’s hand at the first tender expression and continued to hold it as he read.

Joan was just going to emerge from her hiding place when Mr. Chalfont’s voice began in this unbroken flow. “Bother!” she thought. The man must be reading aloud, or perhaps reciting something to her mother. Well, she had better wait until he stopped. Besides, it would give her cheeks more time to cool down. Retreating to the back of the alcove, she peered into a mirror to try and discover whether her eyes still betrayed any suspicious redness. It was almost too dark behind the curtain to see anything.

The sonnet was soon over. “How beautiful,” Imogen exclaimed, with real feeling. Art, of which she was the subject, she could always appreciate. “But I am not beautiful enough to deserve it.”

Eustace Chalfont pressed her hand to his lips. He wished, with a sense of staleness bordering on repugnance, that all women’s hands were not so much alike. She even used the same scent as another woman he had known of late. However, as he kissed the jewelled fingers, a faint flicker of desire awoke. He consciously tried to increase it. This excitement was now the only salt of his life. “You do not know how beautiful you are, dear lady,” he said softly. “And there is no one here to tell you. Ah, if I could bear you away to the lands of romance—‘the magic casements opening on the foam,’ in ‘faery lands’ we should not find ‘forlorn.’ There I would teach you the true meaning of beauty and life—and love.”

“Is it a play you are doing?” a fresh young voice broke in.

Eustace Chalfont started violently. He turned and saw the young girl, and then looked interrogatively at his hostess. Imogen exclaimed “Joan!” but otherwise she did not speak. She was both too disconcerted and too furious. Although Chalfont’s face had deepened in colour, he had sufficient presence of mind to deal with the situation; perhaps, too, he was not entirely unacquainted with such unpleasant moments. “Oh, how do you do, Miss Joan?” he said carelessly, and shook hands. “You startled me dreadfully! I did not know you were in the room. Yes, I have been trying my ‘prentice hand’ on a little dramatic fantasy and I was just inflicting it on your mother.”

“May I read the play?” The girl’s tone was keenly interested. Mr. Chalfont wondered uneasily whether anything lay behind the innocent words, but, indeed to Joan the explanation had seemed quite natural. She and her grandmother constantly read or recited bits of plays together with appropriate gesture. “But perhaps you haven’t written the words out yet?”

“No, I’ve only got a few notes here.” Mr. Chalfont folded up the sonnet and put it back in his pocket. “How do you think I should do as an actor, Miss Joan?” he asked boldly. He was beginning to enjoy the piquancy of the situation, although he would have enjoyed it more had the little girl been prettier. On the only other occasion that they had met, he had thought what a heavy, gawky-looking child for the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur to have engendered. However, on the whole he felt grateful for the interruption. Suppose fair Imogen had taken his words seriously. Of course he was willing to have an intrigue with any pretty woman, but when the woman was the wife of the great Vandeleur, perhaps, on consideration, the game was too risky. Adultery verged on high treason—or rather on high finance. Why, everything about Mrs. Vandeleur must run into three figures, even the handkerchief which he considered she had metaphorically thrown. If ever Vandeleur divorced her—and he was probably as sharp as a ferret—no ordinary man could afford such an expensive luxury, let alone a penniless devil like himself. As for eloping to Italy, that was, of course, a mere figure of speech. The memory of his seasick voyage to America was still too poignant—for sixteen years it had kept him from again braving the perils of the deep. All things considered, the little girl’s advent had been fortunate. “Well, Miss Joan, you haven’t given me your opinion as to my dramatic talent?” he repeated banteringly, as he saw she was hesitating over a reply.

“I don’t think you would be much good as an actor.” Joan had got rather red, but her words were decided enough. “You don’t speak it as though you really meant it. You sound tired of it, you know. I expect it is because you have had the trouble of making it all up first—and, of course, that is your real work. The words were lovely, particularly the ‘magic casements opening on the foam,’” she finished, half-apologetically. The criticism was quite unbiassed, for Joan’s personal dislike to Mr. Chalfont had been lost in her dramatic interest.

“Joan, your rudeness is perfectly intolerable!” Prudence had kept Mrs. Vandeleur silent, but now anger with her daughter overcame her, although the anger was more at the nature of Joan’s criticism than at its severity. “Leave the room at once. I will not have you here, first spying on my guests and then insulting them. A little girl like you naturally cannot appreciate Mr. Chalfont’s work, but you might have had the common politeness to hold your tongue about it.”

Joan marched out in speechless indignation. “Talking to me as if I were a baby,” she stormed afterwards to her grandmother. “I won’t go into the boudoir ever again, even if Mother begs me—and that’s not likely!” Indeed a veto upon Joan’s entering the room soon reached her. Henceforward the boudoir, like the library, passed out of her life. For days together she did not see either of her parents.

Imogen always imagined that her husband heard from Joan something of this incident, and it increased her unmaternal coldness. As a matter of fact the girl was not sufficiently intimate with her father to mention such a circumstance, even if it had occurred to her to do so. By a curious coincidence, one of John Vandeleur’s business acquaintances referred to the poet the next afternoon at the small and select club that the millionaire sometimes patronized. “I’ve just run across that skunk Chalfont,” the man said. “He was bragging that he visits at your house almost every day, but I guess it’s a lie.”

“Who is this—er—Chalfont?” Mr. Vandeleur enquired with a deepening of his usual quiet. On hearing that it was Eustace Chalfont, he was genuinely surprised. “Oh, the English poet. He came over some twelve or fifteen years ago, I remember. Is he back?”

“Back? Why, he never left,” the acquaintance explained. “They say he was too seasick or lovesick or something. Anyhow, we’ve got him for good—or for bad! But if you didn’t even know he was this side, he can’t be the tame cat at your place that he makes out. But that’s Chalfont all over—if there ever was a scab! You’ve only to look at the women he goes around with! I saw him supping at Sherry’s with one last week. My, she was the limit!”

Mr. Vandeleur moved away frigidly. It was the type of conversation he particularly disliked. But, although he was outwardly cold, inwardly he was raging. For he had little doubt that his wife had really taken up this most objectionable individual. Perhaps she did not know—but she ought to have known. That a man of this sort should be boasting of an intimacy with the Vandeleurs! It was intolerable. That afternoon Mr. Vandeleur got home quite early, and went straight to the boudoir. Imogen looked up from the couch in astonishment. “How surprising to see you at this hour! Is anything the matter?”

When her husband intimated that he merely wished to speak to her, Imogen looked, or feigned, a still greater surprise. “Could it not wait until this evening?” she suggested gently, glancing at the little jewelled clock. “Mendel Davidovitch is coming in a few minutes to play to me. I find it such a solace,—an opiate for my poor nerves.”

“I have told them downstairs that you would not be at home to anyone. Mr. Davidovitch’s playing must be postponed.”

The delicate eyebrows went up. “And to what do I owe this sudden, if flattering desire for an uninterrupted tête-à-tête?” she asked in a sweet, cool voice.

Mr. Vandeleur’s face had already flushed; now the bridge of his nose began to shine. What an unattractive old man he was getting, his wife reflected with detachment. He disregarded her question. “Do you know Mr.—er—Chalfont?”

Imogen was toying with a little tortoiseshell fan which she used to screen her eyes. “If you are referring to Eustace Chalfont, the poet, he is one of my most intimate friends. I suppose even in Wall Street they have heard of his work.”

It was rather a ridiculous gibe, for John Vandeleur certainly knew ten times as much of literature as his wife, despite her professed culture. “I have heard both of Mr. Chalfont’s work and of his character,” he replied with increasing anger. “You will oblige me by not having him here again.”

“I thought I had mentioned that Mr. Chalfont was a friend of mine.” Imogen gave an unpleasant laugh. “May I ask the reason of your extraordinary prejudice against him? Surely it is rather late in the day and rather—well—bourgeois to begin taking up the rôle of the jealous husband?”

Mr. Vandeleur’s face was steadily deepening in colour, but his manner remained unruffled. “Perhaps I have been wrong in tolerating your friendships and flirtations as I have done,” he replied coldly. “I considered them too contemptible for my notice. And even in this case, do not flatter yourself that I fear being put into the position of ‘le mari trompé.’ I am certain that you would not imperil your comfort by any decisive action. All the same, I will not have a man of Chalfont’s reputation in my house. Have you forgotten that there is Joan?”

“Joan! Joan!” For the first time Mrs. Vandeleur was thoroughly incensed. “You and Mother seem to have no thought in your heads but for that miserable child. You don’t mind about me at all. I might go to perdition for all either of you care.” She suddenly burst into tears. “I will not give up seeing Mr. Chalfont on account of Joan.”

“Well, you will not see him here. Unless you instruct the servants to refuse him admission in the future, I must do so.” John Vandeleur left the room.

That ended the matter. For, although Imogen loved admiration, her husband had been right in saying that she loved comfort more. Besides she was naturally decorous. She had never before allowed any of her friendships to assume this violent form, and although she had found it deliciously exciting, it had made her uneasy. In a way it was a relief to be obliged to intimate to Mr. Chalfont that she must not see him again, which she did in a letter of seventeen scented mauve pages. As she wrote she was almost overcome by her nobility and sorrow. For she told herself, and soon even believed, that it was her own sainted purity that compelled her to send away this wonderful poet lover. If only things had been different! If only her mother had not married her off as a child to John Vandeleur, who was even then quite elderly. Ah, what was the dross of riches compared with love—this phrase occurred twice in her letter. But now it was too late. The hand of fate had written. “Not all her tears could wash away a line,” she misquoted. Visions might come at times, of life passed with a twin soul in that magical fairyland of romance of which he had spoken, but they must be put away. For her was only a weary round of abnegation and duty, the dull, hard duty of the unloved wife and mother. It was bitter that her little girl should so resemble her husband—not even to have the love of her own child! A tear blotted the page.

Even after the letter was dispatched, the same thoughts recurred to Imogen, although at longer and longer intervals, while the tear that was wiped away grew more and more infinitesimal. At last her longing for Mr. Chalfont’s presence was changed into the vague wonder as to whether they would ever meet again. As for the disconsolate lover, he received the many-sheeted outpouring with a comic groan. Away from the lure of the flesh, the artist’s fastidiousness showed itself. “‘From contempt of thy word, Good Lord deliver us,’” he quoted blasphemously as he struggled through the rambling, hackneyed sentences. Then, carefully putting the well-worn sonnet in his pocket, he went out to call on a third dear lady.

CHAPTER VIII.

Soon after this episode Mr. Vandeleur found himself obliged to go to Europe for some weeks on business. But Imogen was not fit to be left in charge of Joan, he felt uneasily. The problem was solved by his daughter demanding that she should spend the time of his absence with her grandmother. Had Mr. Vandeleur known of the surreptitious visit to the theatre the year before, he might have considered his mother-in-law an even less desirable custodian than his wife.

If Joan was surprised by her father’s acquiescence, she was still more surprised by her mother’s. The weekly day at the Dorset was, of course, an institution, but any suggestion that she had ever made of staying with her grandmother had invariably been vetoed by both her parents. Imogen imagined that her refusal sprang from an acute sense of maternal responsibility; she would not admit, even to herself, her dog-in-the-mangerish jealousy. This time, however, the intense irritation she felt against her daughter swamped everything else. What a relief it would be to be free of the exasperating child for a few weeks! Moreover, it was getting very warm in New York. Joan could not go away until her term ended, but that was no reason why the rest of the household should be deprived of the cooling breezes of Long Branch. There was also a third motive Imogen had in sanctioning her daughter’s proposal, although this she would have repudiated with sincere indignation had it been put into words. Mendel Davidovitch’s professional engagements were over; he was sailing for Europe next week. If she had him at Firenze—a chaperon was easy to arrange—surely even his susceptibility could not withstand the daily and hourly contact. At last, he would be brought to a suitable attitude of worshipping devotion. His continued indifference to her charms was not only insulting, it seemed to mark her as a failure. Although Imogen did not consciously recognize her tangled feelings, the grand piano suddenly appeared at Firenze after a transit from New York of sweat and blasphemy.

As in her babyhood, Joan’s stay with her grandmother was exceedingly happy. Indeed after the first few days, the girl was lifted out of and above mere happiness. For one afternoon she came home from school, her expression transfigured by an almost awed ecstasy.

“Granny, Granny,” she called out as soon as the front door was opened. “Granny, I’ve something to tell you”—there was a tremble in her voice. “Where’s Granny, Bridget?”

“And it’s great tidings you’ll be bringing by the look on you I’m thinking, Miss Joan,” the Irishwoman said with a smile. “I’ll run and seek for the Mistress.”

The quest was made unnecessary by Mrs. Lennox appearing at the top of the stairs. “Is that you, Joan darling?” she called down. “Aren’t you early home to-day? I hope that new chauffeur didn’t drive too fast.”

“Granny!” Joan rushed up with the impetuosity of her fifteen years. “Granny, I told you the senior class are doing Sophocles’ Antigone—the translation, of course—on Graduation Day. Antigone’s ill—not serious, but the doctor says she is on no account to act, and Miss Waring, our elocution mistress, says I’m the only girl in the school who can do the part in the time—there’s only ten days. If I don’t, they must give up the whole idea, and they’ve got the dresses and scenery and everything and all the parents are asked, and Miss Waring has sent you a note, and you will let me, won’t you, Granny? Oh say you will—you will!” The torrent of words paused as Joan held out a rather crumpled envelope.

“My dear child!” Mrs. Lennox felt almost overwhelmed. “But you are so much younger than the senior class girls,” she demurred, seizing on the first objection that came to her. “Why, you told me they were grown up.”

“Yes, but I’m quite as tall. And I can act being grown up. Miss Waring says I can. Besides, there’s no one else. I must, Granny, I must!”

“Ten days is such a short time. Could you possibly do it?” Mrs. Lennox urged feebly.

“Yes, yes. Oh, Granny, you know I could. Please sit down and tell Miss Waring I may. Here’s your blotter. I said I’d send the automobile back with the answer. She has to know at once.”

“But, my dear, I can’t agree like that.” Mrs. Lennox began to feel as though she were hypnotised. She tore open Miss Waring’s still unread note. It contained very much what her granddaughter had already told her. “Unless Joan can step into the breach, we shall have to give up the whole play, which will be a dreadful disappointment,” the recitation mistress wrote. “I need hardly tell you how high an opinion we have of your granddaughter’s dramatic powers. It was merely on account of her being so young and the interruption to her school work, that it was at first thought better for her not to take a part.”

“Oh dear, what would your father say?” Mrs. Lennox almost wailed. “And why does Miss Waring write to me? Oh, I see, she thinks your mother is abroad too.”

“I never said anything about Mother,” Joan explained. “I said Father was in Europe and that I was staying with you. But what does Mother matter? She doesn’t care what I do as long as it doesn’t bother her. And Father is half way across the Atlantic, so we can’t ask him. Write, Granny, write.”

But Mrs. Lennox was absolutely firm that before anything else was done, Joan’s mother must be consulted. It was too great a responsibility for her to face alone. “We can telephone to Long Branch at once,” she said when Joan demurred at the delay.

They got through to Firenze almost immediately, and asked to be put on to Mrs. Vandeleur’s own room. Both at Fifth Avenue and Long Branch, Imogen had a receiver standing by her couch. It was the one loop-hole in the invalid’s prison walls, she often plaintively remarked. The reply came that Mrs. Vandeleur’s own telephone was out of order. Was there any message he could take to her, the butler asked.

Mrs. Lennox had already given her name. Now she told the man to request Mrs. Vandeleur to come to the telephone herself. After all, Imogen could walk about, although sparingly. It was only a minute, although it seemed a long time to Mrs. Lennox and still longer to Joan, before the telephone spoke again, still in a male voice which this time had a slightly foreign accent. “Mrs. Vandeleur is very fatigued this evening. She says is the matter really of the first importance, or could you not give a message to me? I am Mendel Davidovitch.”

Mrs. Lennox felt despairing. She was quite sure that Imogen would not consider the question of the first importance. If she were brought to the telephone on false pretences, she might be so annoyed as to negative Joan’s request off hand. “Please tell Mrs. Vandeleur that it is about her daughter,” Mrs. Lennox explained. “They want Miss Vandeleur to act in a play at her school and I have to send the answer to-night. I don’t know if her father——”

Mrs. Lennox was almost pushed aside. “Please, please Granny, let me speak,” Joan implored. “Who is it?—Mr. Davidovitch? Oh, Mr. Davidovitch, I’m so glad. It’s the Antigone of Sophocles, the translation of the Greek play, you know, and they’ve asked me to be Antigone. Oh, do get Mother to let me. Think how you’d feel if the piano was locked—every piano in the world! Do, please, implore Mother.”

“My dear Joan!”—Mrs. Lennox again firmly took the receiver. “Please ask Mrs. Vandeleur if she could not possibly come to the telephone herself. I could talk to her so much more easily.”

This time there was really a considerable wait. Indeed, the young lady at the Exchange cut them off, as the time for long distance calls was up, but Joan frantically got put on again. Then at last Davidovitch’s voice was heard once more. “Mrs. Vandeleur says she is really too fatigued to come and speak. She says she does not mind about the acting. She leaves the question to Mrs. Lennox to decide.”

With this the grandmother had to be content. She guessed that her daughter’s refusal to speak to her denoted something besides fatigue. As a matter of fact Imogen was furious. Mendel had been in the house for three days, and that evening he had, for the first time, shown the smallest sign of sentiment. Probably the wonderful new gown that she was wearing had played its appointed part. But for this interruption he would have succumbed; Imogen felt sure of it. Now the phase had passed; it was unlikely that it would be recaptured that evening—indeed she felt too annoyed to try. And the next day she expected other visitors, in addition to the unobtrusive chaperon already laid in; there would be no more chance for private talks.

And all this was Joan’s fault! It was maddening the ridiculous fuss that everyone made over the child. Imogen’s anger would have driven her to forbid the acting altogether if Mendel had not seemed so shocked. He was quite excited about this pretentious-sounding play. “I only wish I could wait and see Miss Joan act in it,” he had said. Well, Imogen told herself savagely, she wasn’t going to let him go away, thinking the child a martyr. Of course, she might have based her refusal on her husband’s prejudices but that was assigning to John altogether too complimentary a position of authority. No, if John didn’t like it, let him have it out with his daughter himself when he came home. She washed her hands of it, and of Davidovitch as well. If the young pianist did not recognize the inspiration that she might have brought into his life, he could go without. ‘La Princesse Lointaine’—that was what one of her friends had called her, quoting Rostand’s beautiful lines. Imogen’s thoughts turned appreciatively to this admirer, him of the blue and white soul, whom she had quite ignored of late.

Meanwhile Joan was dancing a breakdown of triumph in her grandmother’s drawing-room, after having first sent off the automobile with the note of acceptance to Miss Waring. “Now we’ll start on the Antigone at once,” she announced. “Miss Waring lent me a copy. And I know lots of it already from hearing the girls. It’s fine, Gran, just fine—though some of them do it rather awfully!”

A few minutes later both grandmother and granddaughter were utterly absorbed. Mrs. Lennox knew nothing of this, or indeed of any Greek play, so as a start they decided to read it straight through, Joan taking the Antigone. How extraordinarily well she was doing it, Mrs. Lennox felt with a glow of exultation. A feeling of defiance came over her. After all John Vandeleur was powerless. He would be two thousand miles away. Afterwards he might do or say what he liked. She did not care. For once Joan should show what she could do.

The next ten days were lived, sleeping or waking, in the Antigone. Joan’s school work was almost entirely neglected, but the mistresses excused her. After all it was for the credit of the school that the play should go well. As for Miss Waring, after the second rehearsal, she went about with a mysterious and almost rapt look on her wizened, monkeyish face. It was Mrs. Lennox, however, who had most opportunity of judging Joan’s progress. Again and again the grandmother tried to check and discount her own judgment. She had come to take an amateur, and not a professional standard, she kept telling herself. Yet through all her belittling, the consciousness remained that her little girl was something unusual. A vision came to her of the child becoming a real “star,” whose light would shine and be recognized all over the world. Her own little rushlight of talent grew negligible by comparison. Or were such speculations merely the maunderings of a besotted, doting old grandmother?

At last the day came. As she sat at the performance, poor Mrs. Lennox felt so sick with agitation that she was unable to receive any definite impression. The audience was delighted, but then the audience was composed of fond parents and of the girls themselves; it would have had to be a poor show indeed not to delight them. Certainly a thrill seemed to go through the listeners at some of Joan’s lines, and the applause at the end was unusually prolonged. Again and again the actors were recalled. How much did it really mean?

After the performance the spectators migrated into the dining hall, and there calmed their excitement with the very mild lemonade. As she sipped, Mrs. Lennox suddenly thought she saw the rotund figure of Mr. Hobson near the door. But it must have been a mistake, she told herself, for there was no further sign of him. She was just going to leave when she heard the well-known, cheery voice almost at her elbow. There stood the great, little Manager. “Say, Miss West, why didn’t you tell me your little girl was a genius?”

“Oh, do you really think so?” Mrs. Lennox’s lemonade wavered perilously. “I didn’t dare to believe it—But what brought you here this afternoon?”

“Why, the young lady herself. She sent me a card—didn’t you know? I thought you’d told her to. ‘Miss Joan Vandeleur presents and very much hopes that for this once Mr. Hobson will accept,’ she’d written on it. I thought it was pretty smart.”

“Joan asked you!” Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. Her granddaughter was not exactly shy, but she certainly had never in any way put herself forward before. “Why how did she know your address even?”

“I guess that wasn’t so mighty hard. But she’s got the makings of a star all right, tracking down managers and all! I’ve just been round to the back and told her so. If she wants a part at any time, she’s to come right along to me.”

“A part!” The words filled Mrs. Lennox with dismay. To think of such an idea having been put into the child’s head! What would John Vandeleur say? “Of course my granddaughter is far too young even to consider the question of going on the stage,” she said stiffly. Fifteen unprofessional years had considerably altered Mrs. Lennox’s tone towards the managerial demi-god.

“Oh, I didn’t mean right away. I reckoned she’d have to finish up with the regulation school stunts first. But when she’s through, you send her right along to me; I ain’t going to have the Schumanns grab her. Of course I don’t know how much of the Antigone business is your work; maybe you’ve just stuffed it into her, though that wasn’t the impression it gave. How old is she anyway—seventeen? Not quite fifteen yet! My word, she’s a great little actress!”

“But you seem to have forgotten Mr. Vandeleur’s objection to the stage.”

“No, Ma’am! I guess I’ve got good reason for knowing ‘old John Van’s’ attitude.” This was the name with which the press had recently labelled the “copper king,” to his intense irritation. “But that young lady looks to have a will of her own. Poppa’ll have to climb down I reckon.” Mr. Hobson gave his cheery laugh. “Well, so long,” he said and bustled off.

Mrs. Lennox had known that her son-in-law would be angry when he heard of Joan’s escapade into the drama, but even she did not realize how angry he would be. The passing of years, instead of enlarging Mr. Vandeleur’s sympathies, had merely stiffened his prejudices, for it is not only physical tissues that ossify with age. Possibly also the unsatisfactory character of his marriage was to some extent responsible. Because his wife had not developed as he desired, he was all the more determined that his daughter should do so. Joan must be a graceful, retiring, feminine creature, with her mother’s refinement, but without her mother’s selfish idiocy—for so in the privacy of his own mind John Vandeleur thought of his wife.

Perhaps had Joan confessed to the incident herself, her father might have been less incensed. That she did not do so, was due to no desire for concealment on her part, but merely to the lack of opportunity. Mr. Vandeleur’s stay in Europe was so brief that there was no time after the performance to write and tell him about it. When he returned to America, Joan was at Firenze with her mother. Two days passed before he joined them, days of nerve-racking pressure at Wall Street which were not conducive to an amiable or forgiving frame of mind. On the second of these days, he unfortunately chanced upon an acquaintance who had a daughter at the same school. “I hear your little girl had a regular triumph at that Graduation Day play, Mr. Vandeleur,” the man observed pleasantly over lunch. “I wasn’t there myself, but my wife raves about her—says she was quite wonderful, and that there’s no better actress on the real stage.”

Mr. Vandeleur made no comment on this amazing news. It did, however, slightly change his plans. Instead of going down to Long Branch by the five-fifty train, he told his secretary to ’phone to the Dorset. If Mrs. Lennox had not yet left New York, he was to ask whether she could see Mr. Vandeleur that afternoon at six o’clock.

Mrs. Lennox had not yet gone away despite the heat. Indeed holidays were always rather a problem. She did not care for hotels, perhaps because she had had a surfeit of them in early life; also, even after all these years, she had never quite adapted herself to her social environment. Every summer Imogen formally asked her to Firenze, and every summer she declined, despite Joan’s enthusiastic urging. The only time the experiment had been tried, it had proved an utter failure. Mrs. Lennox disliked her daughter’s mode of life and disbelieved in her invalidism. Although she had tried to conceal these feelings, Imogen had guessed and resented them. Moreover, the bond between herself and Joan was a constant irritation to the child’s mother.

Thus the telephone found Mrs. Lennox an easy prey. She had, indeed, been expecting this message, for she had seen in the papers the news of her son-in-law’s return. But previous expectation of the interview only served to increase, rather than diminish, her nervousness. It was with difficulty that the poor lady kept herself from replying that she would be out all day or that she was ill in bed; indeed, she was withheld rather by a sense of the futility of the excuse than by its mendacity. Even when at Long Branch John Vandeleur usually came up to his business every day. A respite of twenty-four hours was therefore the most that could be gained. Even this was problematic, for her son-in-law’s requests always bore an uncomfortable resemblance to commands. So poor Mrs. Lennox telephoned back—with no less mendacity—that she would be delighted to receive Mr. Vandeleur at any hour.

Punctually at six o’clock her son-in-law was announced. He looked rather tired. Mrs. Lennox realized suddenly that John was getting on in life. He must be at least sixty-five, although no one would think it. Perhaps the heat had tried him. At any rate it would serve as a topic of conversation. “It must be mighty warm down town,” she observed sympathetically.

The remark was unfortunate. Mr. Vandeleur had always hated Americanisms, and in deference to his susceptibility Mrs. Lennox had largely purged her conversation of them, to the great detriment of its vitality. Now, her embarrassment had caused her to relapse. “Yes, it is an exceedingly warm day,” John Vandeleur acquiesced with a frigidity of manner that was almost sufficient to cool it. “But I am not here to discuss the weather. I have just learnt from a trustworthy informant, that, while my daughter was under your charge, she took part in some theatricals. You were aware that I had definitely prohibited her even attending any such form of entertainment.”

Mrs. Lennox was disconcerted by the direct attack. The awe she had always felt of her son-in-law had not decreased with fifteen years of complete and enervating dependence on him. The grandmother had, indeed, nobly volunteered to break the news of the escapade to Joan’s father on his return, but her relief had been great when her granddaughter had indignantly declined the offer. “It’s up to me to tell Father myself,” the girl had said. But evidently Joan had not had the chance. “The dear child wanted to act so much,” Mrs. Lennox began, almost stammering with fear. Then she pulled herself up. Whatever happened she must shield her granddaughter. “As it was only a school performance, I thought you would not seriously object. In any case Joan is not to blame, for I gave her permission.”

The verdict was short and sharp. After the vacation Joan would be sent to boarding school. Although Mrs. Lennox regretted this on her own account, she felt that it was probably the best thing for Joan. The child’s home-life was so unsatisfactory that she might really be happier at school. And then there would be the holidays; they would be together then. “Joan will not see you at all during the next year,” Mr. Vandeleur’s cold voice went on. “If, at the expiration of that period, you will give me an undertaking that there will be no mention between you of the drama or of its exponents, I shall be prepared to reconsider the position.”

The poor grandmother stared in blank dismay. “I am not to see Joan for a year?” she gasped.

“A year was what I said. I also do not wish you to correspond with her. My dear Mrs. Lennox, you were perfectly aware of my attitude with regard to the stage. If you encourage my daughter flagrantly to disobey my wishes, you cannot be surprised at my removing her from your influence.”

“Oh you are cruel, cruel,” Mrs. Lennox wept despairingly.

John Vandeleur was not the man to do things by halves. In one detail only he was thwarted. When he reached Firenze, intending to have an interview with his daughter, he found that she had already gone to bed. The fact was that the long evenings with the governess, or with her mother and her mother’s admirers bored Joan so unutterably that she always took the earliest opportunity to escape. She longed to go out, to wander alone in the warm, sweet-smelling darkness, but that was considered out of the question. Her hot bedroom was her only refuge.

Although Mr. Vandeleur could not see his daughter, his wife was in the drawing-room, and, for once, in anticipation of his coming, she was there alone. She looked exquisite, reclining on her couch, but her husband hardly noticed it. Directly he had greeted her, he asked whether she had been aware of Joan taking part in a play.

Imogen raised her eyebrows. Really John was becoming a perfect boor. His lack of consideration for her new “Vesta” gown affronted her even more than his lack of consideration for herself. For the future she would reserve the dress for a more appreciative audience. “Joan taking part in what?” she drawled, with wilful misunderstanding.

“A play that was produced at her school—Antigone. Did you, or did you not know about it?”

“Oh, I think Mother did send a message over the ’phone a day or two after you had sailed about some school theatricals. I imagined that she had arranged it with you. As you and Mother have taken my child completely out of my charge, I now make it a rule never to interfere.”

“Well, you ought to have interfered. You knew perfectly well that I should never allow my daughter to appear on a stage.” In his annoyance Mr. Vandeleur slightly raised his voice.

Imogen fanned herself wearily. “How curious it is,” she observed with pensive sweetness, “that you have been in this house exactly two minutes and you are already raising a brawl. It is so demoralizing for the servants. I wish we had had doors put to the rooms in the English fashion instead of portières. I wonder if Englishmen have very bad tempers.”

Joan was still at breakfast the next morning when the summons came that Mr. Vandeleur wished to see her. Of course her father might merely desire to greet her after his absence, she told herself, but he had never sent for her before. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably as she went into the study, although she managed to conceal any outward sign of it. “How do you do, Father?” she said calmly.

“How do you do?” Mr. Vandeleur did not attempt to kiss her. “I have already seen your grandmother. I understand that she gave you permission to act in a play at school?”

“Granny didn’t exactly give me permission. It was more that I worried it out of her. Besides Mother said she didn’t mind.”

Mr. Vandeleur’s anger increased. So the question had been submitted to Imogen. He was certainly glad that he had decided on the boarding school. “You knew, I suppose, yourself, that I have an extreme objection to dramatic performances?” he suggested.

“Yes, but I thought as this was the translation of a Greek play you might feel differently about it, and the whole school wanted it; they would have been dreadfully upset. At least that wasn’t my real reason, and I knew really that you would not like it. But it seemed as if I just must do it.”

His daughter’s honesty left Mr. Vandeleur unmoved. Indeed he was further irritated by her defiance and lack of contrition. “I hardly think it was a question of ‘must,’” he corrected coldly. “However, I will find another school for you, a boarding school, where theatricals do not form part of the curriculum, and then the question will not recur. I have already told your grandmother that as your being under her influence has resulted in this disobedience, I must take steps to prevent its being exerted upon you in the future.”

“What do you mean?” Joan had suddenly turned white. “What do you mean?” she repeated slowly. “You do not mean that I am not to be with Granny—not to see her? You can’t mean that?” Her father’s silence showed her that this was meant. “No, no, no!” she almost screamed. “I must see Granny. I will see her. I can’t live without her.”

The violence of his daughter’s words only increased Mr. Vandeleur’s anger, and at the same time made him feel his decree justified. It was obviously necessary to keep the girl away from her grandmother’s pernicious theatrical aura. “Kindly remember that you are not play-acting now,” he told her.

“If you don’t let me see Granny, I shall hate you. I shall hate you for ever!” She was trembling all over.

“You had better retire to your own room until you have recovered your senses.” Mr. Vandeleur took up his newspaper and began to read in order to mark the conclusion of the interview.

Joan might have said more, but she was stopped by a sudden lump in her throat. Father should not know that she was crying. She turned and rushed upstairs, furious with him and furious with herself. Why couldn’t she have remained calm? She ought to have discussed the whole matter with Father. Perhaps even he could have been made to see the unreasonableness of his position, although it was like arguing with a stone wall. But now she had lost her chance; she had behaved like a baby. She flung herself down on her own bed, stuffing the coverlet in her mouth as in her old, childish rages. “I wish I were dead,” she sobbed.

CHAPTER IX.

Of the two and a half years of Joan’s boarding school life, the first twelvemonth was miserable, chiefly owing to her unsatisfied longing for her grandmother; the remainder of the time passed pleasantly enough. Indeed it would have been strange had it not done so. Nothing could have been further from any punishing idea than Mr. Vandeleur’s choice of a school. Apart from his one indispensable stipulation for the absence of drama in any shape or form, he merely desired a pleasant home for his daughter. The one he found, Greenlands by name, was more than pleasant; it was luxurious. The house, a rambling, old Colonial dwelling, was situated some miles away from Philadelphia in the midst of a large garden. Ailanthus and other trees dotted the lawn, giving a pleasant shade, while a big open-air swimming bath and two or three lawn-tennis courts offered their more energetic attraction. Indoors it was equally delightful. Each girl had a dainty little bedroom to herself, while every three shared a study. The fare more resembled that of a first-class private hotel than of a school; as a matter of fact the cook received higher pay than most of the mistresses. Every evening the girls dressed for dinner; they were actually encouraged to wear stylish clothes. As they all had wealthy parents—indeed no others could have paid the fees—there was probably nothing new to them in this mode of living. It might almost be said that luxury formed part of the curriculum. For the school prided itself on its social training, and, as the head mistress rightly felt, her pupils’ manners could best be formed under the same conditions that they would be likely to enjoy in after life.

One luxury amid all these was wanting, or so it seemed to Joan. This was the luxury of freedom. All her life she had been stinted of it. How she had envied in New York the ordinary children who went to school alone! What fun they had in Central Park, especially in winter, with their snowballing and tobogganing! They were not fettered by an attendant maid with the additional encumbrance on wet days of an auto and a chauffeur! But even New York had not been so restricted as Greenlands. In a day school the coming together every morning of different girls from different homes had brought a certain feeling of expansion, a certain interest and excitement. Here there was nothing. Day and night she was cooped up, imprisoned in an unreal pleasance. Sometimes she felt desperately that she could bear it no longer. She must get out, out through those high gates into the world beyond. She wanted life, the real life of work and plays.

Probably the only reason that Joan did not put her desire into action, and escape, was the extreme ease of doing so. For the girls were allowed to wander about the garden unsupervised. The gates, although high, were never locked. It seemed too ridiculously simple merely to walk out. Besides, what was she to do when she got out? Walk in again, seemed the obvious answer.

Indeed it was not so much physically, as mentally, that Joan felt entrapped. The sensation was to a certain extent justified. By an elimination of all books from the library to which any parent might object, the reading was reduced to the lowest common denomination of the namby pamby. “I do wonder they let us have a Bible,” Joan once remarked to a shocked circle. Nor was the teaching as good as at the New York school. The few mild and elderly masters of impeccable behaviour who came out from Philadelphia on stated days were, to say the least of it, not inspiring. And then there were her schoolfellows—“silly little idiots,” as Joan mentally termed them with the intolerance of youth. Their conversation reminded her of that of her many nurses with its constant babble of boys and new clothes. She was disgusted by all the little sentimental plans and plots. How could they talk so, she felt, in a world that held Rosalind and Juliet? For it was not their caring about young men, but their not caring enough, that outraged this juvenile connoisseur of love.

Still, during her last year at school, Joan was extremely happy. She was not very popular—which was hardly surprising—but she became a power. In this rather slack school, it was easy for an ambitious and clever girl to rise to the head both in lessons and games. But Joan’s dominance did not rest on her proficiency in either of these directions. Despite all Mr. Vandeleur’s precautions, his daughter’s own special talent had established itself. Not that there were ever theatricals or even recitations in class—the father’s decree had been too definite for that. But in their studies at night the girls were in the habit of indulging in semi-surreptitious sing-songs and cocoa parties. Somehow Joan’s power as an entertainer was discovered. After that, none of these orgies were considered complete without her presence. She was not easily cajoled into attendance, which naturally increased the desire to have her. “I’ll come if you don’t worry me to recite more than twice,” she would stipulate.

Thus Joan found her gift useful, and not only in giving pleasure; it also served as a means of punishment. One day, after leaving the schoolroom for a few minutes, Joan had returned to find the ink upset all over her newly done algebra. The culprit, who was caught blackhanded, pleaded an accident. Joan felt sure it was deliberate, for Mamie Wright was a mean little girl who had long borne her a grudge. If there was one thing in the world that Joan loathed it was algebra, as Mamie doubtless knew; indeed only an intense desire to keep her place at the top of the class ever drove her through it. And now to work out the problems all over again—it seemed beyond human endurance! Her lips closed with ominous tightness.

That evening as Mamie was just sinking into a delightful, warm drowsiness, her bedroom door opened. It was Joan draped in a coverlet with her black hair floating loose. At the sight of her, Mamie felt apprehensive, although, as she reassured herself, if Joan Vandeleur dared touch her, she’d scream and a mistress would come. The apparition halted at the foot of the bed and exclaimed in blood-curdling tones, “Out damned spot! Out I say!”

Mamie gave a faint shriek. As the scene went on, terror reduced her to silence. Possibly she thought her schoolfellow had gone out of her mind. The last line came with a curious appropriateness:—“What’s done cannot be undone; to bed, to bed, to bed.” Mamie was left almost in hysterics, while Lady Macbeth, in the privacy of her own room, sank into a chair and murmured complacently, “I guess I put one over the little wretch that time!” Certainly no further accidents ever occurred to Joan Vandeleur’s property.

Although at school Joan found herself more admired than adored, there was one girl, Maude Dupuy by name, who combined both attitudes to their utmost extent. Maude was a pretty, fair, fragile creature, actually six months older than Joan, but looking considerably younger, and her exact opposite in every way. Perhaps their unlikeness was the link between them, if it could be called a link that fettered one friend and left the other free. Still Joan, although detached, was not indifferent. Her laughter at Maude’s extravagant worship did not prevent her from being touched by it. Moreover it had the charm of novelty. In that one thing, affection, the multi-millionaire’s daughter had always been singularly poor. Indeed, but for her grandmother, Joan would hardly have known the meaning of the word. So when Maude implored her to come and stay for the holidays, tearfully urging that she could not bear to be parted from her dearest and sweetest for a whole, long five weeks, Joan wrote home to ask for the necessary permission, after having warned her friend that she was hardly likely to get it. However, Mr. Vandeleur, far from objecting, seemed quite pleased. In her innocence Joan had not realized that the Dupuys belonged to the inner ring of the great Four Hundred, the happy few, of whom Mr. Vandeleur approved, as combining both breeding and dollars. Possibly, among this clique, an invitation to the White House would be refused as being vulgar.

Mr. Vandeleur’s sanction of the friendship was made still warmer the following vacation when Maude paid her friend a return visit. Miss Dupuy’s slender prettiness gratified her host’s eyes, while her shy deference—for she possessed this un-American attribute—charmed his mind. He was quite gallant to the young lady, much to Joan’s secret amusement. After the guest was gone, he spoke to his daughter almost enthusiastically, for now that she had been promoted to late dinner, their opportunities for conversation were more frequent. “The friendship does you great credit. Miss Dupuy is the type of young lady on whom I should wish you to model yourself.”

Joan laughed. “Wouldn’t it be rather a squeeze?” she hazarded enigmatically.

“I was not referring to her figure.” Mr. Vandeleur’s tone expressed shocked annoyance. His daughter’s remark struck him as unpleasantly reminiscent of her grandmother.

It was as an outcome of this friendship that Joan left Greenlands at Christmas, when she was only seventeen and a half, instead of staying until the following summer as her father had originally intended. It had long been settled that this was to be Maude Dupuy’s last term at school, but there was no idea of Joan not returning, when they broke up for the holidays and the two girls travelled up to New York. However, on reaching the parental house, poor Maude proceeded to cry herself ill at the thought of the separation from her idol—a separation that would be prolonged by the year’s “grand tour” in Europe with which Mrs. Dupuy proposed to complete her daughter’s education. “Oh, Mother, why can’t you ask Joan Vandeleur to come with us?” she pleaded.

Mrs. Dupuy hesitated; but Maude was her only child and her will was apt to be law. At last she called on Mrs. Vandeleur, and made the suggestion. Imogen was sweetly and vaguely negative. Mrs. Dupuy came home discouraged, and Maude wept afresh. But the next afternoon, to Mrs. Dupuy’s enormous surprise, Mr. Vandeleur was announced. He asked if his wife had understood the offer aright, and then proceeded to accept it, stipulating, of course, that he must be responsible for all Joan’s expenses. “You start early in February, you say,” he enquired. “Then it will not be worth while for my daughter to return to school. I wonder if I might presume further on your kindness and ask whether you would be good enough to superintend the purchase of her outfit. I fear that I am trespassing on your good nature, but Mrs. Vandeleur, unfortunately, is such an invalid.” He did not add that Imogen had absolutely refused the task on the score of fatigue. And yet he was continually receiving the most unmistakable reminders that his wife’s delicacy did not incapacitate her from the purchase of clothes on her own behalf!

Mrs. Dupuy willingly agreed. She would be getting an outfit for her own daughter, she said, and so it would be little more trouble to duplicate it. Maude, who had come in just before, and had been told the glad news, now clasped her hands in ecstasy. “And couldn’t we have our dresses made just the same, like real sisters?” she asked.

The two elders smiled at her. “Is Joan pleased too at the thought of coming?” Mrs. Dupuy asked. She was surprised when Mr. Vandeleur said that he had not yet told his daughter.

“Oh, but I am sure Joan will be pleased,” Maude broke in joyously. “She is always talking about Europe and longing to see it.”

Mr. Vandeleur rose to take his departure. As he shook Miss Dupuy’s hand, the girl, greatly daring in her joy, stood on tiptoe and kissed the old gentleman’s cheek. “You have made me so happy, dear Mr. Vandeleur,” she murmured sweetly.

“I am very glad, my dear.” The “copper king” was quite confused, but obviously very pleased. He had never felt so paternal before. How delightful it must be for Dupuy to possess such a charming daughter. If only Joan resembled her more!

He felt this still more strongly when he got home and told Joan of the arrangement. The girl received the news in absolute silence, first flushing and then turning pale. “Well, aren’t you pleased at the idea of going to Europe?” Mr. Vandeleur asked at last sharply.

“Ye—es. At least, I should simply love it, if it could be until about August. I don’t want to be away longer. Can’t I come back then?”

“Impossible.” Mr. Vandeleur’s tone was curt. “I couldn’t have you travelling back alone. If you go with the Dupuys you must stay with them.” There was a silence. What was his daughter’s reason for not wanting to be away the whole year, Mr. Vandeleur speculated. He didn’t flatter himself that it was due to any desire to see him. Ever since the Antigone episode, the little intimacy that had ever existed between them had vanished. Nor did he think that Joan cared much for her mother. Indeed, this was not surprising, for on Imogen’s side there had always been a positive antipathy. Probably Joan’s reluctance was due to her affection for her grandmother. Yes, that must be it. She did not want to leave Mrs. Lennox for so long. It was a pity that he had ever let them come together again after that year of separation; the ban should have been permanent. Why, it was largely to get Joan away from her grandmother’s influence that he had encouraged the idea of this trip. The Dupuys were really nice people; they would serve as an antidote to the theatrical taint. “Mrs. Dupuy tells me that they propose to visit Algeria and Sicily in the autumn, and then spend the winter in Egypt,” Mr. Vandeleur amplified a shade less frigidly. “I should imagine that that would interest you?”

“Yes, it would—tremendously.” Joan hesitated again. She seemed to be going to say something, but checked herself. “But I didn’t want to be away as long as that,” she repeated at last. “I don’t know if I ought to go at all.”

Mr. Vandeleur might be pardoned his exclamation of annoyance. “Well, please yourself,” he said, as he stood up. “Only it must be understood that if you go with the Dupuys, you go for the whole year. Now I have work to do.”

However, the next day Joan seemed to have abandoned her objection. Indeed, it would have been hard to maintain it in the face of her friend’s exuberant delight. Directly after breakfast Maude was announced. She was rosy with rapture. “Oh, my angel-seraph!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms round Joan’s neck. “Isn’t it just great? I think your Father is a perfect peach!” Fortunately the “peach” was not present to be shocked by the schoolgirl slang on the lips of the model Miss Dupuy.

Perhaps one reason for Joan’s acquiescence was that she had no time left for thought. The days were soon filled with a whirl of shopping, a round of dressmakers, milliners, shoemakers, tailors. She was even whisked off to stay at the Dupuys’ house, “so that the lay figure might always be on the premises,” as she told them laughingly. In spite of secret struggles after superiority, the girl enjoyed it hugely—this wonderful, uncanny acquisition of anything and everything she wanted. For, notwithstanding her father’s huge wealth, Joan had hitherto been innocent of the power of money. She had never gone out alone. On the score of hygiene her various attendants had been forbidden to take her into any stores. When had she had the opportunity to shop? But, indeed, no girl of seventeen could have remained unmoved amid this rain of smart travelling suits, dainty waists, fur coats, rugs, cushions, writing cases, opera-glasses and all the other accessories of luxurious travel.

One day Mr. Vandeleur presented his daughter and her friend with two superb dressing cases similar in every detail except the monogram. Joan flushed a dull red and seemed almost unable to speak, while Miss Dupuy gracefully expressed the most charming gratitude. “Dear, dear Mr. Vandeleur,” she cried, “you are just a perfect fairy godfather! And how lovely to have them alike.”

After Mr. Vandeleur had gone, Maude turned an anxious regard on her friend. Joan had disapproved of the cherished scheme of similar dresses; indeed, it had been the one blot Maude felt on perfect happiness. Their colouring was too different, Joan had urged. “Even a beauty like you, Maude,” she had told her friend lightly, “can’t stand the wrong shade, and as for me I’d look more of a guy than ever dressed in your blues and greys.” Maude had forthwith declared her willingness to wear any colour on earth, however unbecoming, so long as they could be alike. Then a greater objection had been raised. “I want my things different from anyone else’s,” Joan had impatiently declared. Maude now wondered with dismay whether her friend’s individualism extended even to dressing cases. What else could be making her so queer and embarrassed? “Do you feel badly about their being alike?” she enquired.

“No; why should I?” Joan looked genuinely surprised. When Maude reminded her of her previous remark, she laughed. “Oh, I don’t mind grips being twins, only oughtn’t we to tie a blue bow on one and a pink bow on the other?”

The girls then began to investigate their gifts more closely, pulling out the tortoiseshell-backed brushes with their gold initials and the beautifully engraved bottles. “Aren’t they just too elegant?” Maude sighed with rapture. “Mustn’t they have cost a perfect fortune?”

Joan’s embarrassment suddenly returned. She began stuffing in the things hurriedly. “I wish Father had never given it to me,” she muttered.

Despite his daughter’s exceedingly ungracious acceptance of the favours he had already conferred on her, Mr. Vandeleur arranged yet another plan for her benefit. “We must have a dance for Joan before she sails,” he announced to his wife.

“A dance!” Imogen sat up straight in her surprise. Then she sank back among her cushions. “I fear it would be impossible with my miserable health, although, of course, I should love to give the dear girl any pleasure in my power. Such fatigue would make me ill for months.” She sniffed delicately at her salts.

“I intend Joan to have a dance. Each of my nieces did so, I remember, when she left school. Why, you were present at Grace Sharman’s ball, were you not? I should have thought that you would wish to do the correct thing for your daughter, even if it did involve a little extra exertion.”

“Oh, of course I am selfish! I know that in your opinion everything is always my fault,” Imogen retorted angrily. “Naturally if you had not arranged to send Joan away, contrary to my wishes, she would have had a coming-out ball like every other girl, even if the exertion had killed me. No one can say that I have not always sacrificed myself for my daughter. But I fail to see the use of her having a dance now and getting innumerable return invitations when she is on the point of sailing for Europe. Instead of squandering the small remnants of strength that I possess, I was going to try and build up my health this year, and then possibly I might be able to take the dear girl into society a little on her return.”

Mr. Vandeleur was shaken, but too obstinate to yield. “I didn’t mean a regular ball,” he explained uneasily. “That might, as you say, be purposeless, as Joan is leaving so soon. But she must have a small dance to mark the close of her school life. And if you do not feel strong enough to appear yourself, I will ask Mrs. Dupuy to act as hostess.”

The threat served its purpose. Imogen promised to send out invitations at once. The notice had to be short for the Dupuys were sailing in less than three weeks, and on February 1st, a couple of days before their departure, Mr. Vandeleur himself would be starting on his annual copper tour. It had occurred to him to postpone his journey in order that he might first see his daughter and her friends safely embarked. But apart from the considerable re-arrangement that the change would involve, Mr. Vandeleur’s plans, just because they were his plans, were apt to take on the solemn immovability of Church festivals. Besides it was not even as though the Dupuys were sailing from New York. They had chosen a Boston line and intended to stay there a day or two first. This was the one part of the arrangements of which Mr. Vandeleur’s approval was a little uncertain. To sail from Boston seemed to verge on the unconventional. Still as Mrs. Dupuy’s brother was the chief of this shipping line, it was perhaps natural that she should select it. Besides, it might be true that, as Mrs. Dupuy had said, the passengers on the Northern route were of a better class and so the girls would be less likely to form undesirable acquaintances. Personally he would have forbidden the girls to speak to anyone not of their own party on any ship, but Mrs. Dupuy appeared to consider this an impossible counsel of perfection. However, whatever the advantages or disadvantages of the Boston plan, it certainly made it still more impossible for him to wait and see his daughter off.

But when Imogen suggested that the dance, too, should take place after his departure, so as to form a farewell celebration for dear Joan’s last day, Mr. Vandeleur put his foot down. He felt quite certain that unless the party took place while he was there, it would never take place at all. Why his wife should be so set against having an entertainment for their daughter he could not imagine, but whatever her motive might be, he was sure it was a mean and petty one. And how she had fought! Sometimes Mr. Vandeleur realized that his iron will was outmatched by the silken, subtle obstinacy of his wife. However, this time he determined to carry the point. He had three hundred invitations engraved for January 31st and detailed his most capable secretary to send them off, under Mrs. Vandeleur’s direction.

Four days before the dance was to take place, Mr. Vandeleur discovered that the great bulk of the invitation cards had not been sent at all. “I knew the printers must have made a mistake in delivering so many,” Imogen explained sweetly, “as we both had agreed that it was to be quite a tiny party.”

“How many people are coming?” Mr. Vandeleur asked curtly.

“Oh, we shall be about fifteen—so tiresome that it an odd number. Of course one could not expect very many to accept at such short notice.”

Mr. Vandeleur had turned red. “You had better ask the obliging fifteen to dinner first. Or rather, I suppose, it is only twelve whom you expect, as the larger number, no doubt, includes ourselves. We can hardly open the ball with a dozen people. I shall order the dinner from Delmonico’s, so it is unnecessary to tell me that Alphonse cannot manage it. Has Joan got a dress for the occasion?” he asked suddenly.

“A dress; she has dozens! Hasn’t Mrs. Dupuy been buying her dresses for the last month?” Imogen laughed a trifle hysterically.

Mr. Vandeleur grew still redder. For Mrs. Dupuy had carefully explained to him that she was not getting regular evening dresses for either of the girls. It was unlikely that they would want them while travelling. In any case they expected to spend May in Paris, and it would be wise to wait and have as many gowns as possible made there. Of course, Imogen knew all this as well as he did,—indeed far better. “Vesta makes your gowns, does he not?” he asked.

Imogen raised her eyebrows. “You surely are not proposing to ask Vesta to make a dress for Joan? I can hardly imagine that a dozen young people coming informally calls for a very elaborate toilette. Besides, in any case, I do not suppose Vesta would dress a schoolgirl, even if there was time. But, of course, the fact of there being only three days before the dance, and one of these a Sunday, puts it out of the question.”

“I have rarely found such people unaccommodating.” Mr. Vandeleur hurriedly left the room while his temper was still controllable. His secretary was curtly told to ring up the great man modiste. An hour later Mrs. Dupuy was chaperoning Joan into Vesta’s innermost sanctum.

The gown was an easy matter. It was far harder to swell the list of guests. Imogen had said that three weeks’ notice had been too short. This John Vandeleur did not in the least believe. But to obtain desirable young people at three days’ notice in the height of the New York season was certainly a difficulty. Of course, if he had been content to lower his social standard, Mr. Vandeleur could have filled his house as many times over as he wished, but this he felt impossible. At last, with a good deal of trouble, he secured about twenty more dancers. Among them was Charles Grierson, the unfortunate young man who had upset Imogen in the car so many years before. Even at the time Mr. Vandeleur had taken an unusual fancy to the culprit, and when business had since brought them into contact, he had always spoken to him with a distinct friendliness. He had not indeed asked Mr. Grierson to his house before—the less the young fellow saw of Imogen the better, John Vandeleur had felt. But, curiously enough, he now happened to run across him again, and it came into his mind that he had been told Charles Grierson was a fine dancer. After all, that automobile accident had occurred when Joan was quite a little girl; why, it must have been over ten years ago. No doubt the man had long since forgotten his unfortunate infatuation. “We are giving an informal dinner and dance for Miss Vandeleur on Tuesday,” the father said, “and we should be pleased to see you, if you happen to be disengaged.”

“Miss Vandeleur? Not the little girl I upset out of the car? And she’s grown up? Well, well, I didn’t realize I was so elderly!” Charles Grierson was clearly interested. Indeed, he was interested enough to throw over several other engagements and accept Mr. Vandeleur’s invitation. He knew he would be forgiven—it is hard for an entirely eligible man to do wrong. “I always thought your little girl was about the most courageous kid I’d ever heard of,” he now told Mr. Vandeleur. “Of course, I didn’t know a thing about her being hurt at the time. It was years afterwards that I met her grandmother, Mrs. Lennox, at some function or another, and she told me. There aren’t many grown people who would break a couple of ribs and say nothing, let alone a child. It’s very forgiving of you all to have me!”

On Tuesday afternoon a little parcel arrived for Joan delivered by special messenger. When she opened it, she found a pearl necklace with her father’s card and the formal inscription that accompanied all his gifts. Compared with her mother’s jewels, the necklace was naturally a small affair. Indeed, Mrs. Vandeleur’s famed pearls were so large and so regular that no one could possibly have believed them to be real unless a millionaire’s wife had been attached as guarantee. But in Joan’s eyes this necklace was prettier—indeed, from the standpoint of abstract æsthetics she was probably right. She had given a cry of pleasure as she first saw it. Now she took it out and tried it on with girlish delight. But her face soon clouded. The pretty thing was pulled off and she stood looking at it irresolutely with an almost wistful expression in her eyes. Suddenly she thrust it back into the case and closed the lid with a decisive snap.

The evening came, and all the guests had arrived, but Joan had not yet appeared. Mrs. Vandeleur was half-sitting and half-reclining on a couch draped in the clinging folds of a wonderful, shimmering gown. Evidently she had not considered the occasion too informal to warrant a new dress on her own account. Mr. Vandeleur frowned as he saw it, but his chief irritation was with his daughter. Joan must take after her grandmother in unpunctuality, he was thinking, for this was not one of his wife’s many failings. A more amiable expression came over his face as Maude Dupuy flitted up to him. She looked very fresh and charming in a little soft, white silk frock. “Now, Mr. Vandeleur, I am going to be very forward,” she laughed. “If you don’t ask me for the first dance—I shall ask you!”

The portière was pulled aside and then fell back into its place behind the latest comer. A sudden stir went through the room. Everyone was looking at the figure that stood thrown into relief against the dark velvet of the curtain. Maude gave a distinct gasp. “Oh, doesn’t she look wonderful!” she murmured almost awed.

Mr. Vandeleur, too, was staring at his daughter as though he had never seen her before. Indeed, he never had. Could this be Joan, this brilliant, dazzling creature? Vesta had done his work well. In deference to tradition the gown was white, or rather a very dark cream, but otherwise it was daringly unconventional for a débutante’s wear. The heavy silk fell in long straight lines from neck to hem, hardly broken by a golden girdle and dull golden embroidery. It emphasized the finely-shaped, tall young figure and the vivid colouring of the face. Also the dress was quite décolleté and revealed the unknown fact of Joan’s most beautiful neck. Perhaps her striking unadornment made this still more noticeable. She was not even wearing her new necklace, as Mr. Vandeleur noticed with annoyance. Indeed, his whole sensation was one of anger. His daughter did not look like a young girl; she had not come into the room like one. She looked—even in his thoughts Mr. Vandeleur hesitated. He glanced at her again as she stood with her flaming cheeks and her great dark eyes, posed in front of the curtain. Yes, she looked like an actress.

The pause had really only been momentary. Joan came forward and went up to her father. She put a little box in his hands. “Thank you so much,” she said, “but I was—afraid to wear it. Will you give it to me later, when I am older, if you would like to?”

“Miss Vandeleur will hardly remember me,” Mr. Grierson’s voice broke in. There was a curiously eager note in it for such a blasé society man. “May I be presented?”

The hush of surprised stillness was broken. Other guests crowded round with the same object. For Joan’s life at home had been so solitary, that she knew no men besides her mother’s queer, artistic admirers. These had been tabooed to-night by Mr. Vandeleur; indeed, Imogen herself had not been anxious to invite them. Probably they could not dance, and though this might be an advantage, their dress clothes would certainly be peculiar. Thus, except for a few of the girls who were schoolmates, Joan had found herself among strangers. Not that they long remained so. Although the dazzling moment of the girl’s first appearance was over, there was no mistaking her triumph. Poor little Maude’s girlish prettiness was wiped out. Even Mrs. Vandeleur’s far greater, though somewhat faded beauty, became mere background. Joan, in the theatrical parlance, held the stage.

After dinner Mrs. Lennox came in to watch the dancing. She was not so surprised at Joan’s transformation as the girl’s parents had been. Also she was most naïvely triumphant. Joan had run up to her grandmother directly she appeared. “Oh, Granny,” she whispered, “it’s such a surprise after thinking all one’s life that one was hideous to find one isn’t!”

Joan’s chief enlightenment on this score came, no doubt, from Mr. Grierson. Although he was now thirty-two, he appeared as impressionable as ten years before. Before the evening was over he was obviously as much in love with Joan as he had formerly been with her mother. The number of times they danced together were better left unrecorded. On Joan’s side she was really unaware that there was anything unusual in giving half her programme to one man, although had she known it, it probably would have made no difference. Their steps suited, and she enjoyed the link of old association. Moreover, the man’s evident admiration interested her. She had never experienced anything of the sort before. It seemed unreal, incredible. She was not sure whether she liked it or disliked it, but in any case it was enormously exciting. Whatever happened, she must go on.

It was after Mr. Grierson’s fifth dance that Joan mentioned that she was leaving for Europe on Friday. The change in her companion’s face was almost comic. Unconsciously Joan made a mental note of it. So that was how disappointed people looked. “But by what boat are you sailing?” he asked. “They don’t go Fridays.”

Joan explained that she was travelling by the Boston route. Poor Mr. Grierson’s dejection increased. “Then I can’t even see you off. How long will you be away?”

“A year.” As Joan said the words, she again studied the man’s face with interest. Then as their eyes met, she had the grace to blush.

It was an unfortunate blush. At the sight of her confusion an eager pleasure lit up Charles Grierson’s face. “A year is impossible,” he said. Then after a pause he observed nonchalantly, “By the way, I’m going to Europe in a couple of months.” After all he did make the trip most summers, if only to replenish his wardrobe. If this time his journey were rather earlier than usual, that was no one’s affair but his own.

Further judicious questioning elicited from Joan her route. They were to be in Venice for Easter. “I wonder if I could recommend an hotel there to Mrs. Dupuy,” Mr. Grierson suggested. “I know a stunning one.”

But Mrs. Dupuy had already engaged a suite at the Danieli, Joan told him. Charlie Grierson surreptitiously scribbled the name on his cuff, though he felt he was in little danger of forgetting. There was an odd light in his eyes. The thought of sailing in a gondola with Joan by moonlight almost intoxicated him.

He was the very last to leave that evening. Indeed, he stayed so late that Mr. Vandeleur wondered grimly whether he had better offer the young man a night’s lodging. But perhaps he was so infatuated that he would accept it! Not that Joan’s father objected to the infatuation, although he thought it a little too sudden to be quite decorous. But certainly for Joan to marry young Grierson would be the most satisfactory solution of the domestic problem and there was no one to whom he would object less as a son-in-law. It was Imogen who at last brought proceedings to a close. As the penultimate guest departed, she yawned delicately behind her fan. “I am afraid my poor nerves will not let me stay up any longer. Will you kindly ring for my carrying-chair, John. I am sure I hope dear Joan will never know what it is to pay for every little bit of pleasure with days of pain.”

“I am glad you have found it a pleasure,” John Vandeleur interposed, a trifle sardonically, as he touched the bell. Certainly, judging by Imogen’s martyred expression all the evening, no one would have guessed it. As the French maid later confided to her cronies in the housekeeper’s room, “Madame has the tempaire of a mule at all times—but to-night, mon dieu!”

Meanwhile, his hostess’s retirement had, at last, made Charlie Grierson realize the lateness of the hour and the emptiness of the rooms. “I must apologize,” he cried, jumping up in a hurry from a palm-screened nook in which he had been sitting with Joan. “I’d no idea I was the last. Good-night, Mr. Vandeleur. Good-night, Miss Joan.” His voice lingered on the name, and his fingers closed round hers tightly. Joan did not speak, but looked at him with a curious softness that almost increased her new-found beauty. “A rivederla,” Charlie Grierson stammered.

CHAPTER X.

It was still early the next morning when Joan appeared at her grandmother’s. Mrs. Lennox was again startled. Why the child was almost plain! What had become of the wonderful creature of the previous night? No one, however partial, could now have called her beautiful. “Are you feeling tired, darling?” Mrs. Lennox asked as she kissed her granddaughter tenderly. The long separation that loomed ahead made her feel even more attached than usual.

“Not a bit, thank you, Granny, though I didn’t sleep much.” Joan sat down and stretched out her hands to the log fire. “I am not going to Europe on Friday. I am not going at all.”

“Not going to Europe? But why? How?” The grandmother’s voice was shrill with excitement. “Have the Dupuys given up their tour?”

“Oh no, their plans are not changed. But I am going on the stage instead.”

“What?” Mrs. Lennox almost screamed.

“But surely, Granny, you always knew that I was going on the stage. I only have not talked about it because of the undertaking you gave to Father.”

With an effort Mrs. Lennox rallied her scattered wits. “But, my dear, you cannot refuse to go with the Dupuys at the last minute like this. Your passage is taken.”

“That is only a question of a few hundred dollars.” The girl’s tone reminded her grandmother of John Vandeleur. “And I daresay the company will refund it. Anyway my not going will save Father a lot of money.” She paused and then began again in a more explanatory, and less bomb-shell-like manner. “Don’t you see, Granny dear, it is partly because the trip will cost so much that I feel I can’t take it. It is like the pearl necklace. I can’t let Father spend all this money on me, when I have made up my mind to take a step of which he desperately disapproves.”

“But I am sure your father would sooner spend the money and have you postpone taking the step,” Mrs. Lennox urged. She, on her side, settled herself down to thresh out the subject with her granddaughter. She strongly felt that the girl was too young to make the decision she contemplated, and she pointed this out with all the force at her command. But Joan was unshakeable. If her father had left her at school, she would have waited until she was eighteen, she said. He had forced her hand by this Europe scheme. Anyway she was seventeen and a half; Granny had only been fourteen when she went on the stage.

Here her grandmother interrupted her. That was absolutely different, Mrs. Lennox truly said. She had been obliged to act in order to earn her living. Joan could not pretend that this was her case! Besides, as the poor grandmother pointed out almost with tears, yesterday Joan had surely meant to go to Europe. How had the situation changed since yesterday?

“Do you see these?” The girl pointed, with apparent irrelevance to a little bunch of Parma violets that she was wearing. “My maid brought me in a most beautiful basket of them when she called me this morning. Mr. Grierson had sent them. He had written ‘In anticipation of our meeting in Venice.’ Oh, Granny, I simply daren’t wait a year! If I don’t break off now, I’ll get sucked into that life. Before I know where I am, I’ll be married and compromised.”

Despite Mrs. Lennox’s agitation, she could not help laughing.

“But my dear child, no one can force you to get married if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The trouble is I like Mr. Grierson. I like it all. I feel as though I were in a play. Only this play would never end. No, Granny, no marrying for me—at any rate not for years and years. When I am a star, it will be time enough to think of indulging in luxuries like matrimony!”

“But you may never be a star.” Mrs. Lennox now took up a new line of argument and expatiated on the difficulties of a theatrical life, the hardships, the chances against achieving success. Joan listened, but with a stubborn look on her face that Mrs. Lennox knew only too well. However, she went on valiantly. “So you may find that you have given up your home, and all the luxury and prestige you now enjoy, without any compensation.”

Joan laughed. “You know you are only talking like that, Granny, because you think you ought to. Why, in any case, I should have the work. It’s the work itself that is the thing that matters. But I know that I shall make a success. At school I could make the girls laugh or cry as I liked when I recited. They were in my power. And last night—” She jumped up and looked at herself in the mirror. “You thought me beautiful last night, didn’t you, Granny? Beautiful and brilliant? So did everybody. But I’m not. You see I am quite plain. I was just acting. Last night made me certain.”

It was not surprising that Mrs. Lennox felt bewildered, although she had a certain comprehension of what her granddaughter meant. She turned to another aspect of the question with a recollection in her mind of a look she had surprised on John Vandeleur’s face the previous evening as his eyes rested on his daughter. “Have you considered sufficiently what a terrible blow this will be to your father, my dear? And to your mother too.” The latter was a hasty afterthought.

“Of course, Father and Mother will have nothing more to do with me—but will that make very much difference?” The girl’s voice was hard. The relation of Joan to her parents had been the one subject that the grandmother and granddaughter had never discussed, although Mrs. Lennox had often wondered how the girl felt about it. Now this extreme bitterness took her by surprise. “It isn’t as though either of them cared about me,” Joan went on. “Father looks upon me as part of his property, and Mother actually dislikes me. Look at Mrs. Dupuy and Maude! It makes Mrs. Dupuy happy just to have Maude around. Imagine Mother like that with me! The only happiness Mother has ever got out of me is the feeling that I am not there—and now I am going to give her that permanently. No, you are the only one that has ever cared for me, Granny.” The girl brushed her hand across her eyes. Then she sat down on the arm of her grandmother’s chair and began rubbing her firm young cheek against the faded elderly one. “And you and I, Granny darling, are going to see more of each other than we have ever done before. We’ll be together all the time, whether we go on tour or act here in New York.”

This time Mrs. Lennox had no reply. For an instant she was overwhelmed. “But, my dear child,” she gasped at last, “my dear Joan, you surely are not proposing that I should go on the stage too!”

“But of course.” Joan’s tone was equally surprised. “I wouldn’t be so mean as to leave you out of it. Oh Granny, aren’t you just longing to get back? When you told me once that my being born was what finally made you give up the idea of the stage, I determined then that some day we’d go back together. Why, I owe it to you, Granny darling.”

Mrs. Lennox gazed at her granddaughter in silence. Once, long ago, she would have felt the same enthusiasm. How absolutely miserable she had been when she had had to refuse the lead in that Carolina play! But just because the step had seemed so irrevocable, the numbing effect of time had come all the quicker. There had not been the irritation of hope. And now that she had grown resigned, now that nearly twenty years of luxury had wrapped her round in cushioned ease, making her timid and disinclined for effort, her granddaughter suddenly demanded that she should again take up that old life, that she should go back to the old world with all its efforts, its anxieties——

“I’ve arranged it all beautifully,” Joan’s eager voice broke in. “Father started off for Nevada this morning, so we’ve had our good-byes. I’ve told Mother and Mrs. Dupuy that I am staying here for the next two days. They thought it quite natural that I should want to be with you before I sail. Mrs. Dupuy expects me to meet her at the depot on Friday in time for the noon train to Boston, but, of course, I’ll let her know I’m not coming before then. Anyway it leaves us two days, and the very first thing we must do is to see Mr. Hobson. You remember he told me after the Antigone that if I came to him any time he’d give me a part, and, of course, he’ll be just crazy at the idea of getting you back.”

“Yes, he’ll be that,” Mrs. Lennox murmured ambiguously, but Joan had rushed out of the room. The poor grandmother began to feel as though she were being abducted. A dismal prospect of cheap, uncomfortable hotels, of tiring train journeys, of unending rehearsals in draughty theatres, of badly cooked, hurried, uncertain meals, of noisy street cars with wet, packed humanity, of stockings in holes, of factory boots, of turned skirts—it all floated before her. She looked round her charming, luxurious home——

“Oh Granny, you don’t know Mr. Hobson’s private ’phone number, do you? I might catch him before he goes out.” Joan had burst in again like a whirlwind. “What, he hasn’t got a private number? How extraordinary! Never mind, I’ll ring up the office.” She was dashing off.

“Wait, wait. Joan, my dear child, you forget that I am nearly sixty. I cannot go on the stage. I am too old.”

“Granny!” Joan came in and sat down quite sobered by surprise. “Why, Granny, I thought you would be as glad as I am! Surely you must be! What is sixty? You know the great Sarah, and Ellen Terry, and lots of them are ever so much older—besides you are only fifty-eight. You must be joking. I don’t see how you can want not to go back. Why I think it is just dreadful your having wasted so many years and now you talk of wasting all the rest! It seems to me criminal when a person can do a thing really well not to do it.”

“But I don’t know that I can do it really well—after all these years—with no practice,” Mrs. Lennox deprecated. She was feeling almost overborne by the arrogant assurance of youth.

“Of course you can do it well, Granny—anyhow you can try. And as for practice, I don’t suppose you have had much the last two years, but before that, think of what a lot of plays we studied together. If you had been on the stage, you couldn’t have done more—that was the one thing that reconciled me. Anyway, whatever you decide, I am going to tell Mr. Hobson that I must have a part.”

“My dear, you don’t realize the seriousness of this step.” Mrs. Lennox was growing more and more alarmed. She made a great effort at severity and decision. “The money question alone renders it almost impossible. Your father, as you know, makes me an allowance—a very handsome one—and you, too, are entirely dependent on him. If we act in defiance to his wishes, naturally my income will cease.”

Joan flushed. “Of course, we couldn’t go on taking Father’s money, even if he wanted to give it. I have thought of that, Granny. But we shall be earning—or anyway, I shall. Of course, I mean to live on what I earn, and, in a little while, I shall be able to support you too. If I weren’t sure of that I would not suggest your coming.”

It ended as Mrs. Lennox had all the time apprehensively felt it would. Her granddaughter telephoned to demand an immediate appointment with Mr. Hobson. The only surprise was Mr. Hobson’s giving it. With the passage of years, the great, little manager had swelled into more and more importance and consequent inaccessibility. As Joan had already discovered, he was the one man in New York whose telephone number was not published. There was a legend that the Exchange had been offered large sums by aspiring actresses to divulge the secret, but in vain! Mr. Hobson remained secure behind this modern portcullis. However, even a Napoleon of the stage appeared to be susceptible to the magic of the Vandeleur name. Not that Joan gave it openly on the ’phone. Her identity was concealed from managerial underlings as Miss Frances West’s granddaughter!

Half an hour later Mrs. Lennox and Joan had reached the great man’s offices. There was a comparatively small, outer room in which a scornful young lady was writing at a desk, while people in all sorts of attitudes of patient and impatient waiting sat on stiff chairs all round the walls. Joan looked curiously at this motley dado—actors, actresses, playwrights, agents and stage supernumeraries of all kinds—they were of a type quite unknown to her. Nor did they present an encouraging spectacle, for the careful eye could detect a certain concealed shabbiness in all of them, while they had the unblessed mien of receivers rather than givers. It was probably because no one imagined Joan and her grandmother in their fur coats to be of the same receptive class, that they were taken straight through into an inner room.

This was a long, narrow chamber—so long, that though in actual fact the width was quite considerable, one had the impression of being in a passage. Along each side about half a dozen typewriters were ticking furiously. Here again Mrs. Lennox and Joan experienced little delay. “We have an appointment with Mr. Hobson,” the girl announced in her assured young voice. “Please tell him that Miss Frances West is here.”

The young man to whom she addressed herself disappeared through a door at the farther end. In a minute he was back again. “Come right in, please,” he said with a shade of surprised awe, “Mr. Hobson will see you at once.”

Mrs. Lennox had retained a sufficient sense of stage values to realize the greatness of the condescension. Never in the old days had she penetrated into a well-known manager’s private sanctum. But Joan took it as a matter of course. It did not occur to her that the plain, comfortable room, with its deep leather chairs, could be regarded as a holy of holies, nor that the great manager was anything but a pleasant, extremely stout, little man. Her ignorance was probably an asset, for it prevented any shade of embarrassment in her frank greeting.

Mr. Hobson had been sitting down, but he rose with an effort as the ladies came in, and rolled genially towards them. He was not unlike a globular, india-rubber toy figure. “Well, well, Miss West, I’m delighted to see you. And Miss Vandeleur—so you’re quite a grown up young lady now?”

“Yes, and it is time I started work. You told me after the Antigone that if ever I wanted to go on the stage to come to you. I’ve come.” No one could accuse Joan of lack of directness.

“So I see. And what does Poppa say to it?” Mr. Hobson asked cheerily.

His face fell when he heard that Mr. Vandeleur had not given his consent, and was, indeed, ignorant of the whole prospect. “Why see here, Miss Vandeleur,” he suggested, after a perceptible pause, “wouldn’t it be best for you to talk Poppa round first?”

“My father started for Nevada this morning; that’s why I am here. It wouldn’t be the slightest use discussing it with him.”

Mr. Hobson looked distinctly uneasy. “What do you say to all this, Miss West?” he asked with an obvious desire to share the responsibility.

He got little satisfaction. Mrs. Lennox was even more dubious than he was himself. She corroborated her granddaughter’s statement that it would be useless to consult Mr. Vandeleur. “He won’t have the word theatre mentioned in his presence,” she explained.

“But I do not see why I should be bound by my father’s prejudices,” Joan interpolated. “Of course, I shall not act under my own name. No one must know it; then it won’t affect him.”

The information discouraged Mr. Hobson still further. When he had spoken to Miss Vandeleur of the stage, he had taken it for granted that she would appear under her own name, or, at least, that her relation to the great Vandeleur would be generally known. This, in itself, would be a tremendous draw. But now he found any such advertisement was prohibited and he was asked to defy the copper king into the bargain. John P. Vandeleur was an ugly man to run up against. Besides, that Greek play show was a long time since. The girl might not prove up to sample. Maybe, too, he had exaggerated her performance. Among that crowd of schoolgirls, any little talent would strike one as genius. He wished he had never told her to call. That was the worst of it; if he didn’t keep a hand on himself all the time, his sentiment was always running away with him. After all, it wasn’t as if he had to go round fine-combing Broadway for actresses! The woods were full of ’em. Indeed, his chief trouble in life was to dodge ’em. “My advice, young lady, is that you go right home and wait a few years before setting out on your adventures,” he said judicially. “I guess Mr. Vandeleur is right in thinking you’re too young and attractive to leave lying about.”

“Yes, Joan darling, I am sure it would be wiser for you to wait,” Mrs. Lennox echoed. “Anyway, have the year in Europe first.”

“I shall not wait.” The girl’s voice was vibrant with emotion. The colour rushed to her cheeks and there was a light in her eyes. The plainness, on which she had so frankly commented to her grandmother, suddenly disappeared. Mr. Hobson, who was watching her, felt quite startled. Although he had politely called Miss Vandeleur attractive, he had really felt her rather surprisingly the reverse. It had puzzled him, for his memory of Antigone had been quite different. This fact, though not responsible for his negative decision, had certainly strengthened him in it. Now he felt a need to review the case. “I will not go home,” Joan burst out again with a curious, suppressed force. “I mean to go on the stage. If you do not want me, Mr. Hobson, I will find another manager. I think you have forgotten that I can act.”

The great manager went into a fit of laughter. Had this curious, magic beauty not come to Joan’s aid, he might have been angry instead of amused. Never in his experience had an unknown theatrical aspirant taken up such a tone before. Why the brightest luminaries in his stellar heaven did not address him like this. Well, it would soon get knocked out of the little girl, he thought, almost pityingly, especially if she weren’t going to let it be known that she was ‘old John Van’s’ daughter. He hoped she wouldn’t go to that bully, Morton. However, Miss West would look after her. How rattled the poor old thing looked! The girl was a handful sure, though personally he liked her ginger. And suppose she did make good, and the Schumanns had meantime collared her. He’d feel all kinds at having let her slip. “Well, Miss Vandeleur, if you think I’ve forgotten you can act, suppose you give me a demonstration before we decide anything,” he suggested, still chuckling.

Joan started forthwith. She recited a very simple and touching little piece that had been a great favourite with the girls at school. Her choice must have been due to luck or intuition, for she could not have known that the great manager was one of the most sentimental creatures on earth. He blew his nose at the end. “Hold on a minute,” he told her and took up the telephone. “Ask Mr. Walker to step in, please.” The door opened almost at once, and the young man appeared who had spoken to them in the office. Mr. Hobson signed to him to sit down. “Now, go on,” he told Joan.

The Lady Macbeth scene came next. At the end both men looked distinctly interested. As for Mrs. Lennox she was quite carried away. “And it’s all her own work. I’ve not heard her recite a thing for nearly three years,” she told Mr. Hobson with tremulous triumph.

Another piece was demanded. Joan suggested one of Juliet’s best known speeches. “I don’t set much truck by Shakespeare myself,” Mr. Hobson demurred. “There’s altogether too much fuss over him. Who was Shakespeare, anyway? Just a man like the rest of us. The great p’int to his credit is that he don’t ask for royalties!” The manager gave his hearty chuckle. “Well, no matter, if you know it. Ring up the curtain!”

By the end Mr. Hobson had quite taken the Bard of Avon into favour. “Mighty pretty,” he conceded graciously. Joan and ‘Miss West’ were asked to wait in the outer room for a few minutes.

“Well, Walker, what’s your opinion of her?” the manager observed almost with excitement. Experience had given the great Mr. Hobson some respect for his aide-de-camp’s judgment, although, as a matter of fact, he never followed anyone’s advice but his own.

“I guess she can act circles round most of our Broadway actresses. She’s got what get’s over,” the younger man answered.

“Yes, that’s my opinion too. There’s big talent in that little girl, I’m thinking—personality and so forth. Of course she needs experience—oceans of it. Now where are we going to put her?” A discussion followed as to various proposed tours. Joan and Mrs. West were presently sent for. The girl was definitely promised an engagement, only the date was left uncertain. “We may be sending out another company in ‘The Under Dog’ this season,” Mr. Hobson told her. “That play’s earning all sorts of money. You’ve seen it, I presoom? It’s a sure-enough thriller.”

Joan smiled. Mr. Hobson had forgotten the theatrical ban under which she had lived. “No, I am the one person in the United States who has not seen it, but, of course, I’ve heard of it.” Even her father’s rigidity had not been able to prevent this, for the play was advertised on every hoarding; written about in every newspaper; discussed in every assembly. ‘Under Dog’ hats, ties, dolls, drinks appeared in all the shop windows. The girls at school had caught the infection, until Joan, with a consciousness of her deprivation, had grown quite maddened by the reiterated name. And now, perhaps, she was not only going to see it, but to act in it! “When will your new ‘Under Dog’ Company be floated?” she asked.

“Oh, well, I can’t tell you that.” Mr. Hobson smiled at the Wall Street turn of phrase, that the girl had doubtless picked up from her father. She probably thought it sounded professional! “It’s only an off chance there’ll be one. We’ve got two ‘Under Dog’ road companies out already and the season’s getting on. Why, to-day’s the first of February, ain’t it? No, all I can bind myself to is to find you something for the fall.”

“But that won’t do at all! I must have work at once. How could I get on without earning until the fall? I should starve.”

The great manager chuckled again in a way that Mr. Walker, who was not in the secret, considered surprisingly heartless. It drove him to suggest in a low tone to his chief that the understudy to the lead in one of the touring companies had fallen sick. “Is that so?” Mr. Hobson murmured reflectively. He was revolving all sorts of plans for launching his new discovery. Still, though he’d been immensely struck by the recitations, it certainly would be better, he now felt, to see a little how the girl panned out before committing himself. This idea of Walker’s would enable him to keep a hold on her and yet gain time. Besides it was what she needed, to knock about a bit and get the feel of the stage. “You can understudy Miss Rosamond Bransom in ‘Vivi,’” he said aloud. “The company is at Albany this week, and you’d join them there. But I warn you, you won’t get much of a show with Miss Bransom. She’s never sick herself; it is always her understudy who succumbs. She breaks ’em right up with her good health. The salary is twelve.”

Joan accepted the offer eagerly. She had not the least idea what the mystic number represented, but if another girl had lived on the sum, of course she could. “I suppose it’s twelve dollars a day?” she began; then seeing from Mr. Hobson’s amused expression and Mr. Walker’s amazed one, that she had made an egregious mistake, she hastily corrected herself—“twelve cents, I mean.”

Mr. Hobson shook in a jelly-like fashion, quite overcome with laughter. He had rarely enjoyed an interview so much. “Not quite as bad as that, young lady!” he gasped. “No, in this profession you’ll find the salaries are paid by the week—twelve dollars a week.” Mr. Walker now went off to phone to Miss Bransom’s manager and to make all the necessary arrangements. “I suppose that’s the sort of sum you’ve been used to spending on your gloves?” the manager enquired jocularly.

“Oh, no, you can get quite nice gloves for about three or four dollars, unless you have them made for you, as my mother does. Why, my best evening gloves only cost five dollars.”

Mr. Hobson laughed again. Joan had not the least idea why. The little girl was more fun than a barrow-load of monkeys he was telling himself. Still, he couldn’t give up all his morning to ‘old John Van’s’ daughter. He rolled suddenly to his feet to signify that the interview was over. But Mrs. Lennox, who had grown more and more nervous, now felt it was time to come to an understanding on her own account. “I suppose you could not give me a little part or an understudy in the same production, Mr. Hobson?” she suggested, breaking her long silence.

“Granny, darling, you are coming then!” Joan could hardly forbear a shriek of joy.

Mr. Hobson looked annoyed. It was really rather excessive to be asked for a part for Miss West too. Certainly she had once acted well in one of his productions, but that was nearly twenty years ago—and even then she had been no chicken! Probably now her playing didn’t amount to a row of pins. “I’m afraid I can’t provide engagements for the whole family at a minute’s notice,” he said shortly.

“I only asked because I don’t like the idea of Miss Vandeleur touring alone; she’s so young,” the grandmother deprecated.

“Well, if she goes on the stage, you can’t keep her under glass, Miss West. But there’s nothing on earth to prevent your travelling round with her. You can look after her all the better, if you haven’t to worry about playing yourself.” That there should be any financial difficulty simply did not cross Mr. Hobson’s mind with his comfortable recollection of the Dorset apartment. Nor had he taken seriously Miss Vandeleur’s suggestion of living on her salary. “Good-bye,” he now said definitely, and held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Mr. Hobson; thank you so much.” Joan’s face was radiant.

But the poor grandmother felt desperate. Nothing could now prevent the plunge, she thought despairingly. Indeed she had a vision of being whirled off to Albany by the very next train. What would they do there? How could they live? Even Joan’s miserable twelve dollars a week was precarious. “But Miss Vandeleur must have a contract,” she gasped with a recrudescence of her old professional instinct. Indeed this flimsy little bit of paper floated as a solitary life-belt in the sea of trouble.

“Why, certainly, if you wish it.” The manager’s sense of humour was again tickled. Fancy making out a contract with old Vandeleur’s daughter for twelve dollars a week. The useful Walker was once more summoned and told to produce a contract. These documents were kept ready typed, so filling in the particulars and signing involved a mere momentary delay. “Now, I reckon if I don’t see some of those folks in the other room, there’ll be a riot.” Mr. Hobson motioned to his secretary to see the ladies out.

The day and a half that followed were filled and brimming over with strenuous bustle. Perhaps this was as well for it left Mrs. Lennox little time for thought. Financially at all events, the prospect was dismal in the extreme. Although the quarter was not half way through, Mrs. Lennox figured out that she would have little left of her allowance when all expenses had been met. Certainly there were three hundred dollars on deposit at the bank. It was a sum she had once placed there after an economical summer at the Vandeleurs’ house in the Adirondacks. But what were three hundred dollars? Oh, why had she not saved more during all these years, the poor lady felt distractedly? The truth was that, despite her early struggles, Mrs. Lennox had neither the habit nor the taste for economy. She had always lived up to the theatrical motto, “Never put by for to-morrow what you can spend to-day,” and a larger income had merely given her more to spend. Besides, what need was there of a reserve, she had felt, other than having John P. Vandeleur as a son-in-law? Indeed, far from saving, the temptation had been to exceed her allowance. It was only her son-in-law’s cold fury on the one occasion that she had done so, that had kept her rigorously within her bounds. She had sold her little lot in California to placate him, and the chief reason for putting aside the three hundred dollars had been to prevent the accidental recurrence of such a catastrophe.

But the practical whirl in which the grandmother found herself, swept aside even the pecuniary nightmare. All her clothes and small possessions had to be sorted and packed, and the trunks stored, with the exception of the one that she was taking with her. There was the furniture to be shrouded in wrappings, the glass put away in closets, the silver and linen lists checked, the household bills paid, Bridget informed that her services were no longer needed. The poor woman’s grief at the announcement almost unnerved her mistress, although Mrs. Lennox knew that situations were only too plentiful and the payment she tendered in lieu of notice most liberal. “If it’s me wages that’s throubling you, Ma’am, I’ll come without, I will,” Bridget sobbed wildly, and could only be pacified by a promise of re-instatement should Mrs. Lennox ever again keep house—“but, of course, you mustn’t throw up a good situation to come back to me,” the mistress stipulated.

“And is it a good situation that would be kaping me away?” Bridget’s emotion almost turned the words into a shriek. “The dear knows that if I were in service with the Holy Father himself and the kipper in the pan sizzling for his breakfast, it’s off I would be on the wings of the wind without so much as untying my apron at the breath of a whisper from you, Ma’am.”

One thing Mrs. Lennox found even harder than dismissing poor Bridget; that was writing the explanatory letters to Imogen and John Vandeleur. Indeed, submerged as she was in packing, the task appeared impossible, so she contented herself with adding postscripts to the communications that her granddaughter sat down to write immediately on her return from Mr. Hobson’s. “I am going away with Joan and will take care of her,” Mrs. Lennox stated baldly. These letters, together with the key of the apartment, Bridget was to take round to Mrs. Vandeleur the next evening. By that time, Mrs. Lennox told herself with a tremor, she and Joan would be irrevocably launched, for they were leaving the following afternoon, by the 5.30 Albany express. Bridget was also entrusted with the note to Mrs. Dupuy, and a long and affectionate scrawl to the basely-deserted Maude.

Joan’s preparations for the new life were very much simpler than her grandmother’s; indeed it was their very simplicity that caused the most trouble. Fortunately, before it was too late, Mrs. Lennox discovered that the girl proposed setting off the next day, merely with the little handbag she had brought containing her night things, and the clothes in which she stood. “I can buy the rest out of my salary,” she explained airily.

“Don’t be absurd!” Even the adoring grandmother gave way to a certain irritation. “You’ve got to feed and lodge yourself on twelve dollars a week—while I live on air! What do you suppose will be left over to buy clothes? And providentially your trunks are all ready packed for the trip to Europe. They haven’t been sent off yet, have they?” Mrs. Lennox turned pale at the thought of this possible difficulty.

“Oh, no, they are at home in my room waiting. Of course, I could ’phone now to the express people to collect them, and then tell them later to send them to Albany. But I don’t want to. You see, Granny, my things are all new. It seems like stealing to take them.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Lennox was unusually decisive. “What use would your frocks be to your father? Why even a child from the poorhouse has an outfit.—Well, take your old clothes, then, if it makes you any happier,” she compromised as Joan looked stubborn.

“No, that’s what I can’t do. Mrs. Dupuy asked Mother if she might give them all away to some pet charity—anyway, I’d grown out of most of them. So it’s the new ones or nothing—and I think nothing would be more honest,” the girl persisted.

“Well, I think it would be more crazy even than what we are doing. If you won’t have your trunks fetched, I won’t go at all.”

It ended in Joan’s yielding. There was a renewed contest over the girl’s costly fur coat, that was apparently in one of the trunks, but here again she gave way. As her grandmother pointed out, it was almost impossible to extricate it. The chief argument, however, that caused Joan’s acquiescence was her grandmother’s threat that without it she would catch cold on the long journeys, and have no voice when the great day of opportunity came. “But I won’t take my new dressing case, whatever excuses you make,” the girl stipulated stormily. “And all my jewellery is locked up in it, at least everything that father and mother have given me, and that’s nearly all; there’s the big gold bracelet, you know, that was mother’s Christmas present because she didn’t like it herself, and my gold watch set with pearls from father, and the two rings and a few other things. I shall send him the key in my letter.”

At last, after an infinity of thirty-six hours, that had yet been all too short, Mrs. Lennox found herself sitting with her granddaughter in the Albany express. The previous night had been chiefly spent in preparation, and the poor lady was so utterly worn out, that she was glad to sit anywhere and let her dazed being sink into torpor, but Joan had never been more vital or more joyous. It was the first time in her life that she had not travelled in a parlour car, and it had all the zest of novelty. “We must be more economical now,” Mrs. Lennox had explained. The unknown word thrilled the girl. “If it’s economical to have these dear, little, cosy seats for two instead of armchairs, I love economy,” she cried. Pressing closer to her grandmother, she squeezed the faded, elderly hand. “Oh, Granny, it seems like a beautiful dream—too good to be true. At last—at last we’re together and free! We’re free to do our own work, to live our own lives. It’s like a honeymoon we’re starting on. Yes, Granny, darling, you and I have eloped.”

CHAPTER XI.

Joan’s beatific state continued with but a few brief eclipses. She had been instructed to ’phone to Mr. Clark, the ‘Vivi’ stage-manager, directly she arrived at Albany, and an appointment was then given her to be at the theatre the following morning, Friday, at eleven. The girl’s face was glowing with pleasure and excitement as she and her grandmother set out after breakfast. It was, indeed, a perfect winter’s day. Even an American city grew beautiful with this powdering of snow, glittering in the bright sunlight, while the dry, pure air seemed to bring the stimulation of the new world. And then the goal that lay before them! If she had found the animated, frosty streets a delight, the theatre, although dark and dusty and deserted at that morning hour, was even more exciting, more wonderful. Only twice before had she entered her magic kingdom; never had she set foot on the stage. It may be that the dim, shrouded auditorium, empty save for one or two cleaners, was fuller of significance for her than if it had been lighted and filled. This was her unknown future, the girl felt vaguely; it opened before her big with mysterious possibility. Was fame, perhaps, coming to her out of that dim house, she wondered? She was almost grateful to Mr. Clark for keeping them waiting nearly an hour. It gave her time to control her emotion. When the stage-manager did, at last, arrive, he took the form of a little, colourless man of a depressed and irritable mien, the result of many years contact with leading ladies. It was said, indeed, that Mr. Clark’s one incursion into epigram had been on hearing Emerson’s famous injunction “to hitch your waggon to a star.” “Mighty jolting business,” the poor manager had murmured ruefully; “guess mine have all been shooting stars.” The flurry of his manner was increased by a superfluous consciousness of overwhelming rush. In a futile attempt always to do to-day what might better be put off till to-morrow, he was permanently behind time. “Good morning,” he now exclaimed breathlessly, and began to search among a mass of littered properties. “Now, where’s your part? I put it here for you all ready yesterday.—I want you to see the next few performances from the front.—Ask at the box-office for a pass.—You are to study Miss Bransom and copy her rendering as closely as possible.—When you’ve got your words, Mr. Terence and Mr. Montgomery will run through the business with you; they are the two leading male characters; most of your scenes are with them.” All this time the unfortunate man had been punctuating his instructions with dives into a débris of tea-sets, cigar-lighters, fans, artificial flowers, and other bric-a-brac that strewed the table. Now he suddenly gave an exclamation of triumph, and, pushing aside four empty halves of cocoanut shells, on the use of which Joan was vainly speculating, produced a thin brown-paper-covered booklet. “Here you are, Miss—er—North.” He held it out undecidedly, not knowing to which of the two ladies it should be presented.

There was a hardly perceptible pause. Joan was still too unused to her new name to respond to it automatically. She had chosen ‘North’ as being in harmony with her grandmother’s ‘Miss West’; they’d box the theatrical compass between them, she had laughingly urged. Now she took the script and opened it eagerly. To her dismay it was not the play; it was merely her own part. The cues were given indeed, but only as disjointed and meaningless half lines. “I must have a complete copy,” she gasped. “I know absolutely nothing about this piece.”

“You’ll have to be satisfied with that, Miss North. There are only two complete scripts in America.” Mr. Clark’s tone was curt. It wasn’t for subordinates to make such demands.

“But I can’t understudy without understanding!” Joan protested indignantly. “Surely, I can at least read the complete play here.”

Mrs. Lennox saw the growing irritation in the stage-manager’s face. “Why, Joan dear, you’ll hear the whole play to-night,” she interposed hurriedly. “You’re lucky to get that chance.” When she got her granddaughter outside, she felt that, for the child’s own sake, the etiquette of the theatre must be explained to her. “You must remember, darling, that there are three classes in the theatrical world—the star, the manager, and the company.” Mrs. Lennox hesitated a moment, and then went on almost wittily: “The star may say anything and have nothing said to her. The company-may say nothing and have anything said to them. As for the manager, he says anything or nothing according to circumstances. He’s a slave to the star, but a sultan to the company. And an understudy hardly even ranks among the company! Yet there you were talking to Mr. Clark as if you had attained stellar rank!”

Joan took the reproof better than her grandmother had expected. “I’ll try and remember, Granny, that I’m only sub-human,” she said meekly; “a mere worm—not even a glow-worm. Ought I to go down on my knees every time Miss Bransom deigns to speak to me?”

“Don’t be absurd!” Mrs. Lennox laughed. “But do be careful with Miss Bransom. Whatever happens, you mustn’t argue with her or contradict her. If she gives you any hints as to your playing, accept them gratefully. You needn’t act on them if you don’t want. For if ever you do get a chance to appear, it will be because she is sick, so she won’t be there to see how you do it.”

“Oh, Granny, what duplicity! I should never have thought it of you!” Joan gurgled with amusement.

“But I’m not saying you won’t get a lot from Miss Bransom,” Mrs. Lennox expostulated. “I’ve never seen her play myself, but I’ve always heard her technique’s fine. Only just bear in mind, if you put up a star’s back, somehow or other you soon find yourself out of the company.”

“I suppose those stellar heights are rather demoralising.” Joan’s voice was reflective. “No wonder it turns their heads! Is there no solitary person who dares to talk down to a star?”

“One, perhaps.” Mrs. Lennox laughed again. “The stage carpenter! We’re all at his mercy.”

“Well, when I’m a star—if the carpenter will let me—I shall insist on each member of the company having a complete copy of the play.” Joan returned to her original grievance. “I never heard anything so silly as giving a person that parrot stuff to learn! I don’t mean to look at it until I’ve heard the whole play to-night. Even that is very unsatisfactory, for I’ll sense it first through Miss Bransom’s personality, instead of my own.”

To this resolution Joan adhered. The little brown typescript was not so much as opened. The next few hours was spent in seeing the sights of Albany. The vaunted State Capitol left Joan unimpressed, but riding there in a street car, a hitherto unknown dissipation, was quite thrilling. “Oh, Granny, what a heap of things rich people have to go without,” she whispered. Probably with the girl’s dramatic talent, it had been a real, if unconscious, deprivation to be limited to one class of society and its dependents—as she had long ago told her father, she wanted ‘lots of people.’ A ‘dago’ with a plenitude of babies and bundles now got out of the car. “Did you see her gestures? They were a perfect study!” Joan exclaimed excitedly to her grandmother. “It is a luxury not to have money!”

She genuinely meant it. To John Vandeleur’s daughter, poverty was the novelty, the adventure. When they had arrived the night before, it had struck her as positively romantic to select an hotel because it was cheap and not because it was dear. In some indefinable way, the girl’s modest little room seemed to make her free of that great company of artists and thinkers who have worked and suffered down the centuries. “But after all, my dear,” Mrs. Lennox wisely commented, when her granddaughter had tried to put this thought into words, “though most geniuses have lived in garrets, living in a garret doesn’t make you a genius!”

And although Joan was thus enjoying the theory of economy, she did not seem very successful in the practice. Like any other accomplishment it needs training. They had not gone far in their sight-seeing before the girl turned, almost unconsciously, into one of the best restaurants in Albany. “This is just right, Granny,” she laughed. “I am starving.”

The lunch came to nearly three dollars. Mrs. Lennox paid the bill ruefully. However, on the first day she would not say anything. And they certainly needed the meal. As it was, the grandmother grew very tired before the afternoon was over, though nothing seemed to damp Joan’s vigour. She was almost dancing with joy as they walked back to the hotel. “Now, I’ll buy a few magazines and we’ll have a nice, comfortable read: then dinner and down to the theatre,” she cried.

Yes, it had all been pleasant enough, but Mrs. Lennox felt rather uneasy, as she lay down for a short rest, preparatory to the evening’s outing. Apart from expense, Joan ought to have spent the afternoon in studying her part. Suppose Miss Bransom should be taken ill the next day! Of course, it was highly improbable, but it might occur. It was ridiculous of her granddaughter to have taken up this standpoint of not studying the part until she could get the whole. Why, once in the old days, Mrs. Lennox remembered, she had come to the first performance of a play without the faintest notion of what it was about. Of course, that was only a fit-up company, very different from the ‘Vivi’ one, but still Joan mustn’t give herself airs. Perhaps it was only that she was shirking the grind. Suppose, after all, the child’s enthusiasm did not carry her through the learning of this very long and heavy part. Whatever should they do then, with their boats burnt behind them, the harassed grandmother asked herself?

These fears, at least, were soon at rest. Mrs. Lennox and Joan duly went to ‘Vivi’ that evening. The following day was Saturday with its two performances, and they were at both. A box was given to them, for the house needed ‘dressing,’ and Joan sat there, watching, in a state of speechless and rigid concentration. Each time they came out, she was so white that her grandmother felt quite alarmed. All Sunday and Monday the girl locked herself impenetrably into her little hotel bedroom; fortunately, there was steam heat. At last at ten o’clock in the evening of the latter day she emerged and came to her grandmother’s room. “I’ve more or less got hold of it now, though of course it wants heaps of polishing,” she murmured. Her smile was happy although weary. Indeed, she looked strangely dazed and wide-eyed.

“My dear, have you slept at all these last two nights? You look absolutely worn out,” her grandmother remonstrated.

“Oh, that’s all right, Granny. I’m going to have a solid twelve hours to-night! Don’t worry. You remember Mr. Clark’s message that I was to be at the theatre for rehearsal at eleven to-morrow—that’s partly why I wanted to get on with my part. You’ll be coming too, won’t you?” As Joan bent down to kiss her grandmother good-night, she gave a lurch and caught hold of the back of the chair. “Why, I’m quite dizzy. How funny! Yes, I’ve had supper—lots. I only want to go to bed. Good-night, darling. Oh, Granny! it’s wonderful to feel that one can do something. I’m just satisfied. It is bliss.”

Although Joan was happy, Mrs. Lennox was far from being so. For her part, the night brought little rest. She was as agitated now over Joan’s industry, as she had been three days ago over her idleness. The child’s health would never stand it, she felt anxiously. Moreover their financial position was worrying in the extreme. Joan jubilantly considered that they were living with extraordinary economy, and it was true that the hotel was humble. Yet even here the joint expenses amounted to over five dollars a day. Joan’s little salary would not go far at this rate, Mrs. Lennox told herself; neither was her own three hundred dollars at the bank inexhaustible. How had she managed in the old days, she wondered? She must have got out of practice in economy.

But there was one thing that exercised Mrs. Lennox even more than the money question, even more than Joan’s health, and that was the character of the play at which her granddaughter was slaving. Had she grown unduly fussy in her old age? she asked herself. The fact remained that she hated Joan’s doing this piece—a French adaptation based perilously on the eternal triangle. Certainly it was well written—powerful indeed—this was apparent even in the mauled translation. The third act was one of the strongest that Mrs. Lennox had ever heard. For a mature actress like Miss Bransom it was a fine opportunity—but for her little Joan! And what would John Vandeleur say if he knew? A sick dismay came over Mrs. Lennox at the mere idea.

Besides, could Joan do it? So the grandmother’s thoughts ran on in a crescendo of misery. What possible experience had the child had to enable her to render a part of this sort? If only her granddaughter had agreed to go through the piece with her, as they had always done in the past! But no, Joan had said that it was already coloured enough by Miss Bransom’s conception; unless she hammered the rest out alone, she would be like Æsop’s old man with his donkey. The fact was the child seemed to have no conception of the difficulty of the piece, nor even of its impropriety. Why, the first time they saw it, Mrs. Lennox reminded herself, when she had expressed her distaste Joan had stared in absolute surprise. “But, of course, ‘Vivi’ is a beast,” she had said in her schoolgirl phraseology. Later, perhaps to reassure her grandmother, she had recalled the fact of their once having studied “Medea” together—“and she wasn’t a Sunday school teacher either.” Indeed far from disliking the play, Joan had expressed her satisfaction with it. “I was afraid from the name that it might be one of those inane things, all dresses and dancing, that I’ve read about in the critiques. They must be so impossible to act. But Vivi is corking!” The child’s complacency could only be due to her lack of understanding, poor Mrs. Lennox told herself, as she lay tossing during the long, wakeful night. And if Joan didn’t understand the part, how could she act it? She might be an absolute failure. They would turn her down to-morrow at the first rehearsal.

Although Joan could hardly have had the twelve hours’ sleep of which she had spoken, she looked quite bright and refreshed when she came down to breakfast the next morning. Indeed, it was Mrs. Lennox who now looked worn out, although Joan did not appear to notice it. It was again a beautiful morning, so Joan suggested walking, but acquiesced at once when her grandmother said there was hardly time. “I suppose unpunctuality is another of the star’s privileges,” she laughed, “and not to be indulged in by a poor, humble understudy like me!”

It certainly seemed as though haste had been unnecessary, for again there was a long wait. They found two property chairs in one of the wings, and thankfully sat down, half screened by a projecting ‘fly.’ At last male voices were heard. They came nearer in unconsciousness of the ladies’ presence,—“as though we weren’t stale enough already without this blasted rehearsing of a fresh understudy every month.” “Well, it isn’t the poor girl’s fault,” another more amiable voice rejoined.

The conversation stopped abruptly as the speakers came forward and saw its topic before them. Mr. Terence, who played the husband, had very much the same appearance as on the stage, although he now looked slightly confused. He was a man of about thirty-five, Joan judged, with sleek, black hair, good-looking, but rather heavy features, and dark eyes that were a trifle beady. His companion, Mr. Montgomery, on the other hand, was almost ludicrously changed from his professional rôle of a very dissipated and very young lover. At first sight, indeed, his slight, boyish figure still gave the impression of extreme youth, but a more careful glance revealed middle-aged lines about his face, and hair that was greying at the temples. It was in his expression, however, that lay the greatest difference. Instead of the blasé and sensuous look that the play demanded, Mr. Montgomery’s unadapted face positively glowed with human kindness as he beamed out at the world through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “He must be quite a good actor to be so different,” Joan thought with a sudden interest.

Both men had raised their hats as they stood there, although Mr. Terence’s salutation was probably more to the fur coats than to their wearers. Certainly he had not greeted any of the other understudies, of whose multiplicity he complained, with so much deference. He looked as though he were going to follow up the formality by coming forward to speak, but one of the stage hands intercepted him. “Say, Mr. Terence, the full bunch of lights for the picture at the end of Act III is off. Miss Bransom she keeps letting out her jaw about the scene not being dark enough, and now Mr. Clark says it’s to be only a calcium on her bed.”

“But I’ve got an exit. I shan’t be able to see the door,” Mr. Terence exclaimed indignantly. A lively conversation followed, of which such cryptic phrases as ‘blue borders, one to two dark’ and ‘foots with white on resistance’ reached Joan’s interested ears.

Meanwhile Mr. Montgomery, apparently tired of waiting, advanced alone. “Miss North?” he queried, with impartial geniality as he approached the ladies. She must be the younger of the two, he imagined, but in the theatrical world, age is a variable attribute, put on or taken off at will. Joan now ended Mr. Montgomery’s uncertainty by holding out her hand. “I am Miss North. This is my——” She checked herself. With a view to the grandmother’s theatrical prospects, they had decided not to reveal the relationship. “This is Miss West,” the girl amended.

“Miss West—why, it’s never Miss Frances West?” A glow of still greater friendliness suffused Mr. Montgomery’s face. “Well, I declare! You haven’t changed a particle, Miss West, since you played in ‘Biddy.’”

“I can hardly believe that!” Mrs. Lennox was obviously pleased, perhaps more at the remembrance than at the compliment. Indeed, she had been feeling a good deal out of it during these few days. Like Mahomet’s coffin she dangled between two worlds, belonging to neither. “But surely you weren’t in ‘Biddy’ too, Mr. Montgomery?” she enquired. “I don’t seem to recollect you.”

“Why, certainly, I was. Don’t you remember the crowd of youngsters who guyed you in the second act. One of ’em upset the fruit stall. That was yours to command.”

Mrs. Lennox now recalled the little man. He had, of course, really been a youth in those days. His name, however, remained unfamiliar. Mr. Montgomery explained this by saving that he had begun his dramatic career under his own name. “But it stood in the way of my ever getting a lead. You couldn’t bill ‘Jimmy Squabs’ as Romeo, don’t you know? Only somehow ‘Mr. James Montgomery’ hasn’t brought it off either. This is the nearest approach to stardom that’s ever come my way—Terence and I are both playing opposite to Miss Bransom. Mostly I’m cast for kids in round, shiny collars—you know, the stage boy whose head is too small and his pants the wrong shape at the back! My, but that Biddy of yours was a fine piece of work, Miss West! I’ve never forgotten it. And where have you been hiding yourself all these years?”

“I’ve kept her busy bringing me up,” Joan interpolated quickly.

“Oh, that’s it! And you young ladies do take some bringing up! I’ve five little girls at home myself, so I know.” Mr. Montgomery naturally assumed the relationship to be that of mother and daughter, for Joan looked quite three or four and twenty, while Mrs. Lennox’s later life of sheltered opulence had really left her almost unchanged.

Mr. Terence now joined them. In the necessary introduction that followed, Joan found herself definitely labelled as “Miss West’s daughter, Miss North.” She looked at her grandmother oddly, and in the flash of understanding that passed between them, they both realized that they had better leave it at that. “Hasn’t Clark come yet?” Mr. Terence now enquired. “That man’s unpunctuality is a perfect scandal!” The fact that he had been half an hour late himself seemed to have escaped his memory. “Clark is the worst manager I’ve ever run up against,” Mr. Terence went on wrathfully. “Why Mr. Hobson keeps him on I can’t imagine, except, I guess, Miss Bransom gives him bouquets when she writes. Clark’s one idea is to give way to the star in every mortal thing, however much he damages the piece—oh, he knows which side his bread’s buttered well enough!” The new lighting decree and his own consequent obscurity lent a bitterness to Mr. Terence’s words.

The procrastinating Clark did now at last appear, although this did not mean the commencement of the rehearsal. For, after a nod to the ladies, Mr. Clark seemed to consider this a suitable opportunity for discussing the journey to Syracuse, where the company were playing the following week. It was Mr. Montgomery who finally suggested that as they had come to rehearse, it might be as well to do it.

Mr. Clark fussily seated himself at the prompt table, with his hat well on the back of his head, and ‘Vivi’s’ first big scene began. After a sentence or two, he suddenly stopped fidgeting and looked interested. Mr. Terence had begun by gabbling his words in a low tone to save his voice for the evening, while Mr. Montgomery was introducing into his lines a fatherly gentleness almost comically inappropriate, in order to set the new understudy at her ease. Now both men dropped these affectations and began to play. Once or twice in the first scene Mr. Clark pulled up Joan for mistakes in her business. Although she accepted the improvements gratefully, the stage manager presently changed his method. “I am going to let you run straight through; I’ll take all that presently,” he announced.

The play went on. As Mr. Clark had said, it consisted almost entirely of scenes between Vivi and these two men. The few minor characters that came into it were read by the stage manager himself. At the end of the second act, he spoke to Joan again, but this time there was a new deference in his voice. “That’s not Miss Bransom’s reading of the scene,” he suggested.

“No. But it is the true one.”

There was a general though subdued laugh. “Well, I don’t know but what you’re right, Miss North, but it would be better not to mention it to Miss Bransom.” Mr. Clark’s tone was distinctly nervous, while Mrs. Lennox was trying to catch Joan’s eye in mute warning. But, despite her anxiety over the girl’s assurance, the grandmother was almost bursting with love and triumph. Her child was a genius after all, she told herself ecstatically. Whatever became of them, it was right to have eloped.

During the rest of the week Joan spent most of the day at the theatre, working over her part with Mr. Clark. Naturally she had an enormous amount to learn despite her talent—all the stage tricks, as Mr. Clark styled them. The fussy little manager was indefatigable, and Joan was deeply grateful, although she could not help realizing that he regarded her rather in the light of a promising racehorse. “Did Mr. Hobson say nothing about starring you?” he asked more than once.

Sunday was taken up with the journey to Syracuse. It was Joan’s first experience of theatrical travelling, and she was deeply interested. In her innocence she imagined that she would get to know Miss Bransom on the cars, for hitherto the acquaintance with the star had been limited to seeing her get out of her motor at the stage door and one chance meeting on the theatre stairs. Joan found, however, that they were as far removed in the train as in their respective hotels, for the star, together with Mr. Clark and Mr. Terence, was secluded from the rest of the company by the sanctity of a parlour car. Mr. Montgomery also might have aspired to this grandeur, Joan learnt with secret amusement, had he cared to spend the money; but for an understudy, such a mode of travel would evidently be considered an unheard of presumption. “And we call ourselves a democracy!” the girl laughed to her grandmother.

Another surprise was in store. On leaving Syracuse station Joan bought a Sunday ‘Herald.’ In it she found a two column interview with Miss Bransom, describing among other things, her arrival in the city, illustrated by several of her photographs. “How can they have got it all out so quickly?” Joan asked Mrs. Lennox in astonishment.

“You goose! It’s the advance agent. You surely don’t think the booking is all left to chance? Why every place has to be worked up first. It’s quite an art giving out the star’s interviews. If they’re meaty, people say they’re faked, and if they’re dull, the newspapers won’t give the space. So they aim at amusing naiveté—though it’s rather ridiculous at Miss Bransom’s age!”

Monday was taken up in establishing the production in the new theatre, and Joan was free to study her part. This she did in a fresh frenzy of energy, for Mr. Clark had called a rehearsal of the whole company for Tuesday morning to go through the piece with her. One member of the cast was certainly not expected at this rehearsal, and that was the star. But, as the first act was beginning, Miss Bransom’s tall and stately figure was seen in the house, moving majestically down the gangway between the empty stalls. The advance agent was with her, and she was giving him some directions in a loud, clear voice, quite regardless of the luckless performers. This was rather a characteristic of the star, and did not serve to ingratiate her with the company. Joan herself was not on the stage. Possibly if she had been, Miss Bransom would have lowered her dominating tone. For the star’s visit seemed provoked rather by an unusual friendliness towards the new understudy, than by hostility. Seeing Mrs. Lennox sitting in the second row, Miss Bransom moved over to her and took the next seat, throwing back the dust sheet with a regal gesture. “Miss West, I believe,” she said quite cordially. “Mr. Montgomery tells me that he played with you once some years ago.”

“Yes, in ‘Biddy,’” Miss West replied in a whisper.

“Of course, that was the name.” The star’s voice was still unabated. “Naturally it was long before my time—” “forty-five if she’s a day,” was Miss West’s mental interpolation—“Mr. Montgomery says the piece was very successful,” Miss Bransom continued condescendingly.

Joan now came on the stage. At least Mrs. Lennox could no longer complain of the star’s lack of attention. After the first few lines, Miss Bransom sat listening with rigid passivity. Her handsome face was inclined to be hard; as the scene went on the hardness grew more pronounced; her thin lips tightened. At the end of the third act she turned to her neighbour. “Miss North acts well, but you should warn her that she is a little inclined to rant,” she said coldly.

Mrs. Lennox had been in her usual uplift of admiration. At her companion’s words she came to earth suddenly. Not that she believed them. Joan rant! Why Miss Bransom, with all her technique and experience, could not touch this acting. Just let Joan have her chance; the audience would soon decide. But the indignant grandmother retained enough self-control not to express her sentiments aloud. Instead she replied, with a hardly perceptible touch of malice, that Joan was, of course, very young. She would improve in time.

Miss Bransom smiled, but unpleasantly. “Miss North does not give one the impression of such extreme youth,” she said and walked round to the stage and so out. A biting current of air and the unreal, grey daylight coming from the back showed that she had left the stage door open behind her. “My, ain’t she mad?” giggled the property boy as he was sent to shut the door. The suppressed whispering that had been going on among the company suddenly became a babble of talk. “Miss Bransom isn’t quite pleased with your rendering of the part, Miss North,” Mr. Montgomery observed with a smile.

“Why?” Joan was genuinely at a loss.

“Too good. When you’ve been on the stage as long as me, young lady, you’ll find it doesn’t pay the understudy to play a part for all it’s worth—leastways not when the star’s present. I’m afraid you’ll never get a chance now.”

“You bet your life she won’t,” chimed in another member of the company. “Our fair Rosamond don’t exactly push on her understudy at any time. If Miss North don’t get manœuvred out of the company altogether, she’ll be in luck.”

“Well, I believe Miss Bransom will fall sick with jealousy right away,” one of the women suggested kindly, seeing Joan’s dismayed face.

“If Miss Bransom were dead and buried, she’d play the part in her graveclothes sooner than let Miss North appear.” There was a general laugh. Mr. Clark called for the next act, and the conversation came to an end.

CHAPTER XII.

It seemed as though Mr. Montgomery’s prophecy as to Joan’s non-appearance would be fulfilled. In the month or so that followed, Miss Bransom showed an almost inhuman superiority to the ills of the flesh and the rigours of the wintry climate. A snowy week in Syracuse, was followed by a week of sleet and hail in Rochester, a week of wild North winds and frozen, slippery streets in Buffalo, a week of hard, black frost in Erie, a week of cold, miserable, teeth-chattering thaw in Pittsburg—but through it all Rosamond Bransom emerged unscathed. Indeed, the worse the weather grew, the more she seemed to thrive—or, perhaps, it was only in Joan’s jaundiced eyes that she appeared increasingly blooming and vigorous. “It isn’t ladylike to have such health,” the girl grumbled to her grandmother. “I shall make a waxen effigy of her and stick pins in it! Or try a little poison. Oh, we won’t kill the fair Rosamond like her namesake,” she rattled on, as Mrs. Lennox gave a half-amused, half-shocked exclamation. “She shall just have a tiny drop, enough to incapacitate her for the evening. What a prohibitive rate insurance agencies must charge for stars! Their lives can’t be worth much with all of us hungry understudies around. I always did hate being dependent,” the girl went on, “and here I am dependent on Miss Bransom! The clinging ivy round an oak that simply refuses to fall.”

Although Joan’s words were jocular, she was far from feeling so. At first she had found pleasure in the mere fact of travelling; each new stopping place formed an excitement. But this soon palled. There was so much resemblance between the successive cities they visited—especially in the matter of climate! How glad she was of her fur coat in every one of them. After Pittsburg there came a week of one night towns, and these were even more alike, with their streets of painted houses, and their makeshift theatre smelling of peanuts and varnished pine. Joan often wondered how the inhabitants of each of these little townlets knew their own from all the others.

A large part of the girl’s discontent was caused by lack of occupation. Apart from the actual travelling, she had nothing whatever to do. After the full and ordered activity of school life, the change was the more complete. At first she bought cheap reprints of plays, chiefly modern ones, of which she was surprisingly ignorant. These she read with avidity, and even studied one or two parts that particularly took her fancy. But books, she found, were rather a nuisance in a life of continuous packing; moreover, Granny said their purchase was too great an extravagance, and must cease.

There was another recreation that Joan soon discovered, and that was seeing plays. In the one night towns, ‘Vivi’ would be the only attraction, but all the larger cities boasted of at least a second theatre, dating from the days of the struggle between the Syndicate and the Independents. With regard to play-going, expense did not come into the question, for the girl learnt to her surprise, that actresses were admitted free of charge, unless, indeed, the house were unusually crowded. It seemed to Joan as though a heavenly feast were now spread before her after a life of enforced abstinence. Night after night Mrs. Lennox was dragged from the hotel through the wintry streets to see some indifferent touring company in an indifferent piece. The poor lady would not allow her granddaughter to go alone, but she was really beginning to feel that she could bear it no longer, when Joan also struck. “This isn’t acting at all,” she announced one evening irritably. “We won’t go again. I learn nothing—except how not to do it.”

They did make one exception to this resolution, and that was at Pittsburg, where they happened to coincide with a road company of the famous ‘Under Dog.’ The play was a sympathetic study of convict life, and several breathless scenes, one of them showing an escape from Sing Sing, accounted for its enormous popularity. Fundamentally it constituted a scathing indictment of modern social conditions, but this the public seemed to overlook. As a work of art, the piece was not great, but it was certainly exceedingly vivid, and, indeed, moving. Whatever else the author might lack, one felt that he was in earnest. Joan listened, excited and stimulated. What a pity the acting was not more worthy of the play, she felt, although, indeed, it was better than a good deal that she had seen of late. If only Mr. Hobson’s vague suggestion of sending out another company with her in it had materialized! She was too unsophisticated for the fact of the piece being for a male star to affect her desire.

For Joan’s growing dissatisfaction with life was due not so much to the want of work in general, but to the want of her own particular work—the work that the actor characteristically calls ‘play.’ Had she had any part in ‘Vivi,’ however small, she would probably have been content. But to go down to the theatre every evening at six o’clock with high expectation and beating pulses—only to be told that she would not be needed! Yes indeed, hope deferred did make the heart sick. At first, she had not minded. Indeed, for quite a fortnight after Syracuse, she had been glad not to be called upon. Every day of work, she felt, was bringing her ‘Vivi’ to further development. But then there came a time when she had done all in her power without the vivifying breath of actual performance. More study would only stale her. The dual parentage of audience and actor were now needed for Vivi’s true birth. And how Joan longed for it! At times the longing was so strong, that it almost hurt. Perhaps she would never play the part, she sometimes told herself with sick dejection. Here they were already in the middle of March. Another six weeks and the tour would be over! Any day now, she felt ruefully, the weather might turn warmer, and the blessed possibility of Miss Bransom catching cold become proportionately less. Besides after Huntingdon they were going straight down South to Virginia, where it would certainly be milder. If the star had kept well in wet weather, what would she do in the dry? Meanwhile, every day of tempest or snow brought the girl a ghoulish satisfaction. She had been frankly delighted at the prospect of the one night stands with a whole night journey in the middle. Surely at Miss Bransom’s age such a programme, in this terrible weather, might prove a little trying. However, the week wore on, and the star continued to shine with undimmed brilliance. Joan had to pin all her hopes on the fatigue of the long Sunday journey lasting from nine a.m. to ten p.m. from Huntingdon down to Norfolk, Virginia.

Although Mrs. Lennox’s discontent with their present life was less outspoken than Joan’s, it was quite as strong—or rather a great deal stronger. For one thing she found the physical discomforts far harder to bear. Continuous travelling under arctic conditions, uncomfortable and sometimes inadequately warmed hotels, atrocious cooking, scrambled meals, seemed to make no impression upon Joan. Although one would not have expected it after her infantile delicacy, the girl was exceptionally strong. She had probably inherited the iron constitution that made John Vandeleur a hale man at seventy, despite his strenuous Wall Street career. Mrs. Lennox, also, had always enjoyed singularly good health; still fifty-eight is not seventeen, and she found the present régime both exhausting and detestable. The comforts of her ‘Dorset’ apartment grew ever more delicious in retrospect—the pleasant, warm rooms, the luxurious armchairs, the soft bed, the ministry of the faithful Bridget, the dainty, delectable meals—oh, how she yearned for them!

There was another cause that contributed in making their present existence easier for Joan than for her grandmother. Although, as the girl truly felt, going to the theatre every evening to find herself unwanted was not exhilarating work, at least, it was work. She had the dignity of a definite engagement—if an insignificant one—as well as the dazzling prospect that any night her great chance might come. But for herself Mrs. Lennox felt ruefully, she was doing no more than in New York. She had merely exchanged a life of comfortable idleness for a life of extremely uncomfortable idleness. Even the flame of enthusiasm for her granddaughter’s genius began to burn low for lack of fuel. Perhaps at those two rehearsals, she had exaggerated the child’s talent, she now told herself with her besetting timidity. Suppose Joan got her chance and proved herself only a mediocrity. Then, even from her granddaughter’s point of view, what a mistake they would have made! As John Vandeleur’s daughter, Joan would have had the world at her feet. Her father would not let her act, but apart from that, everything in life had been hers for the asking. What lay before a little touring actress to make up such a loss? They had exchanged substance for shadow, the grandmother felt bitterly. In place of solid gold, they were clutching at the mere elusive glitter of fame.

It was not surprising that the pecuniary sacrifice should figure largely in Mrs. Lennox’s thoughts. For despite the most strenuous economy the little hoard at the bank was steadily growing less. What were they to do when it was gone? And in May even Joan’s little salary would cease. It was true that Mrs. Lennox had some jewellery to fall back on, but only a little, and none of it of any great value. Imogen was not fond of giving expensive presents, or indeed latterly of giving presents at all, and there had been no one else to do so. John Vandeleur’s allowance, although liberal, had hardly run to jewels, nor had Mrs. Lennox cared particularly to purchase them. Perhaps the sale of everything she had would carry them on until the autumn—but then? Joan always pushed the money problem aside with a gay declaration that when once she had had an appearance in ‘Vivi’ everything would be all right. “You’ll see, Granny, after that all the managers in New York will be asking me to come and name my own salary!”

“But, in any case, I should like a salary too,” Mrs. Lennox retorted one day with a not unjustifiable irritation.

Joan looked surprised for a moment, and then slipped down on her knees beside her grandmother’s chair. “What a wretch I am,” she exclaimed penitently. “I was forgetting that you must be aching to act just as much as me, and you haven’t even got Miss Bransom’s falling ill to look forward to—not that there’s much hope of that with her miserable constitution! See here, Granny,” she went on, after a moment’s thought, “if, after this tour, Mr. Hobson won’t give us both parts in the same production, we shall have to separate, that’s all.” The hurt look on Mrs. Lennox’s face penetrated even Joan’s youthful egoism. “Of course, I only mean for a time, Granny darling. Directly I am a star I shall insist on there being a good part for you in all my pieces.”

“Won’t you find it rather limits your choice?” Mrs. Lennox suggested with a faint smile at her granddaughter’s confidence. Was it the assurance of stupidity or of genius? she wondered uneasily.

Although Joan’s eyes had been opened to the hardship for her grandmother in a theatrical tour without a theatre, she was still quite oblivious of any hardship inherent in the tour itself. As a matter of fact, the latter quite obliterated the former. As the weeks passed poor Mrs. Lennox grew so utterly worn out, that not having a part, instead of being a grievance, became her one relief. The hotel bedroom might be comfortless, but, at least, she could seek it when she desired. It is possible that had she been acting, the strange exhilaration of the stage might have dominated the fatigue of the present life, although it was hard to believe it. Certainly her present physical condition was partly due to mental anxiety, which, in its turn, was increased by bodily weakness, thus completing a vicious circle.

It was curious that as Joan was constantly watching for any fluctuation in Miss Bransom’s health, she did not become more observant of her grandmother’s. The girl’s inadvertence was not entirely due to artistic self-absorption. Ever since her lonely childhood, ‘Granny’ had been her playfellow, her best friend—the secret community of interest serving to level the barrier of the forty intervening years. Thus, unconsciously, Joan had felt that her grandmother was her contemporary and had endowed her with her own youth and strength. Indeed, she had been quite indignant at the theatrical coup that had transformed Mrs. Lennox into her mother. Instead of feeling that it had knocked twenty years off her grandmother’s age, as Mrs. Lennox urged with playful jubilance, it seemed to Joan to add twenty years on to it. “As though a mother could be a ‘chum’ like you, Granny,” she had protested. Only the thought of wiping out the intervening generation had made her acquiesce in the new relationship. “Father thinks he has cut me off,” she exulted, “but if you are my mother now, Granny, it is I who have abolished him!”

But, despite her rejuvenating conception of the grandmaternal relation, even Joan began to notice that Mrs. Lennox was looking tired as the week of one night stands came to an end. On Sunday morning at Huntingdon it was colder than ever, while the nine o’clock start necessitated an early breakfast, which poor Mrs. Lennox always found an almost impossible ordeal. It was snowing as they set out for the station, and, after a few steps, it became evident that the grandmother could hardly drag herself along. “Take my arm,” Joan said, with a shade of anxiety. “We ought to have had a cab, but it is only a very little way.”

“A cab could not get along,” Mrs. Lennox replied faintly, clutching at her granddaughter’s proffered arm. She was probably right. The snow had been coming down thickly all night, and, in this small town, the sweeping was not very efficient, although walls of snow six or seven feet high on either side of the road testified to past energy and gave a sense of arctic mystery.

They got on better after this, for Joan was almost supporting her grandmother. Presently Mrs. Lennox stumbled. “Oh, Granny, you don’t feel ill, do you?” the girl exclaimed in incredulous dismay, as she caught sight of her grandmother’s face. “Would you sooner go back to the hotel and come on after us to-morrow?”

“Oh, no, no.” Mrs. Lennox hastened her dragging footsteps. The hotel had been far from attractive, so it was not surprising that she rejected her granddaughter’s suggestion. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox hardly knew, herself, whether she felt ill or not; she was only overwhelmingly tired. “I shall be all right when we get on the cars,” she murmured.

This seemed to be the case, for once Mrs. Lennox was comfortably installed in the train, her spirits came back. Quite a colour crept into her checks, to Joan’s immense relief. “You are sure you don’t feel ill a bit, Granny?”

“No, only tired.” Mrs. Lennox smiled wanly. “One night stands are tiring at my age.”

“Now, I can’t have you talking like that. It’s our age, Granny.” Joan shook a reproving forefinger at her grandmother, and then settled down on the seat beside her prepared to have a chat. “Anyway, Mr. Clark told me there are to be no more one night stands this tour, and after Norfolk we play Portsmouth, which is quite close, you know, so you will have a fortnight without another journey. I do think, though, Granny dear, if one night stands have tired you out, Miss Bransom might have had the decency to succumb. That woman’s health is a perfect scandal! And when you think of the awful weather we have had—I am sure she has been given every opportunity!—Why, just look how it’s snowing now,” the girl broke off, pointing to the white, whirling world outside the train window. “It is a regular blizzard! No wonder we’re going so slow—Oh, Mr. Montgomery told me that we are playing Washington on the way up again, and that is why we are going straight through now. But this visit South takes away my last hope of Miss Bransom falling sick.—Our fair Rosamond is very popular in Virginia, Mr. Montgomery says, so they expect to have good houses. Besides, there is the Jamestown Exposition—that is quite close to Norfolk. It won’t open till May, but there are already a good many strangers there in connection with it, I heard.—But, I believe, you want to have a nap, darling.” Joan paused in her chatter, noticing that Mrs. Lennox had closed her eyes.

The morning wore on. Mrs. Lennox did not exactly sleep, but she seemed drowsy, so Joan read a book. It was snowing harder than ever, and the train kept stopping with a jerk. Presently Mr. Montgomery came along the car. “They say the line is badly blocked just ahead. They’ve gotten the snow-ploughs at work, but goodness knows what time we’ll make Washington.”

“Whenever shall we get to Norfolk then?” Joan questioned excitedly.

“Oh, I don’t suppose it will be so bad in Virginia. They don’t mostly have deep snow down there.” Seeing that Mrs. Lennox seemed tired, he moved on.

The long car was nearly empty. Presumably no one who could avoid it would choose this terrible Sunday for travelling. Some of the other members of the company were in the next car, and Joan now went along and spoke to them. But, they too, seemed sleepy; indeed, the one night stands tried everyone’s nerves. They did, however, kindly suggest that ‘Miss North’ and ‘Miss West’ should join their party, but Joan declined, and wandered back. For even when her grandmother was in her normal state, she preferred to keep apart. Curiously enough, just as Mrs. Lennox had found it difficult to accommodate herself to a new circle when her daughter had dragged her into it, so now she found it difficult to accommodate herself to the old circle when her granddaughter dragged her back. They were all so vulgar, she complained; while, with respect to Mr. Terence, she had conceived a positive aversion. Here the anxious grandmother had more grounds for her dislike. The man had repeatedly tried to carry the lovemaking in ‘Vivi’ over the footlights into real life. Joan herself had been rather amused until the existence transpired of a Mrs. Terence; then she turned a decided cold shoulder. The only one of their new acquaintances who had won Mrs. Lennox’s approval was Mr. Montgomery, alias Jimmy Squabs. The true grandmaternal relationship had even been divulged to him under a solemn pledge of secrecy.

Lunch time had by now come round. This Mrs. Lennox had brought from motives of economy, and Joan now unwrapped the meagre little packets. To her dismay, her grandmother refused to eat anything. “But you can’t go all day without food, Granny,” she urged. Finally Mrs. Lennox consented to drink a cup of tea that Joan had somehow procured. “I am just tired,” the poor lady repeated.

“Well, put up your feet then; I’ll cover them with a cloak.” As Joan adjusted the wrap with unusual solicitude, she patted her grandmother’s hand. “You do feel nice and warm, Granny; that’s a good thing. Have a nice sleep, darling.” She moved to another seat at a little distance so as not to disturb her grandmother.

The afternoon passed much as the morning had done. Two or three times the train came to a standstill for an hour or more; even when it moved it seemed to drag itself along painfully. Joan finished her book, and began to day-dream. Oh, if only this long journey could have the effect of reducing Miss Bransom’s overwhelming energy, of making her take the next evening off! There was nothing in the world, Joan felt despairingly, that she would not give just to get her one chance. The porter came in; he turned on the lights and lowered the shades, blotting out the wintry aspect. Outside the wind howled, but the cars were well heated and comfortable. How soundly Granny was sleeping—why, she was almost snoring. She would feel quite herself after this rest.

Presently Mr. Montgomery again came along. As he saw Joan alone, he stopped and sat down opposite her. “Miss West having a nap?” he asked cheerily. The question seemed unnecessary in view of the loud breathing.

“Yes, and she will be vexed if I tell her that she has been snoring in such an indiscreet way.” Joan laughed softly. “Truly, I have never known Granny do it before. She will say I ought to have waked her, but I don’t like to, when she’s so tired out.”

“The longer she can sleep the better, considering we ain’t at Washington yet! We’ll be lucky if we reach Norfolk for breakfast.”

“For breakfast! Why, it’s quite an adventure.” Joan clasped her hands joyously. “But suppose it wasn’t Sunday and we were playing to-night.”

“That did happen to me once.” The little man began to relate various theatrical experiences, but in a low tone so as not to disturb Miss West. “But about provisions?” he asked presently. “They tell me the restaurant car’s hung up somehow, so one can’t dine on board.”

Joan’s face fell. “We’ve not got much, and Granny does not seem to like it. She hasn’t had any lunch. Oh, what shall I do?”

“Don’t you worry,” Mr. Montgomery reassured her. “I’ll make a raid on the buffet at Washington whenever we do get there. I daresay I’ll find something Miss West will fancy.”

When at last they got to Washington it was after the hour they should have reached Portsmouth. However, for the last part of the way the train had certainly been going faster. Joan rightly guessed that the blizzard had been left behind, and it was now a mere question of distance. As they steamed out of the station Mr. Montgomery reappeared. “Guess you folks must be about famished,” he observed, and triumphantly displayed hard boiled eggs and ham sandwiches. “I grabbed ’em right under Miss Bransom’s nose.—Why, Miss West’s never still asleep!”

“Yes, she is. Isn’t it funny? She must have been dreadfully tired.”

Mr. Montgomery was listening to the heavy breathing with a slightly startled look. It was quicker than when he had been in three or four hours earlier, and much more strange. He tiptoed along to the enveloped figure. Joan followed him. She was suddenly feeling rather frightened, she did not know why.

Perhaps it was the sound of the steps, or perhaps it was mere coincidence, that made Mrs. Lennox raise her head with a jerk as they came up. Her cheeks and lips were red, almost like a girl’s, and her eyes bright. She stared at Mr. Montgomery without any sign of recognition. Joan grew still more frightened, but she resolutely forced down her fears. “Why, Granny dear,” she said in a voice that was almost gay, “Here is Mr. Montgomery. He has been so kind, and has got us some supper, for we shan’t be in until very late—or rather very early! You have had such a lovely, long sleep, darling. Why, I believe you are half asleep still!”

“I want to go to bed.” Mrs. Lennox spoke thickly and with a difficulty. “Where is my bed?”

“But, Granny, you are on the cars; don’t you remember? I don’t see how you can go to bed—unless there is a sleeper—Oh, thank you, Mr. Montgomery.” The kind little man had rushed off to enquire. “Won’t you have something to eat, Granny?” Joan proffered the eggs and sandwiches.

A quiver crossed Mrs. Lennox’s face. “Water,” she muttered.

Joan got it for her. “There, lean against me, Granny, dearest,” she murmured tenderly, and sat down on the same seat. As she did so, she felt that her grandmother was shivering. “Are you cold, Granny?” she asked, puzzled. “It isn’t cold in the car and you feel so hot.”

Mr. Montgomery was only away a few minutes. But by the time he came back Mrs. Lennox was again dozing, with her granddaughter’s supporting arm around her. The curious breathing had recommenced. “There is no sleeper, Miss North,” he whispered. “Would you like me to fetch Miss Bransom, or one of the other ladies?”

“Oh, no, no. Granny would hate it.” Joan’s whisper was energetic and conclusive. “Besides, what could any of them do?”

Mr. Montgomery did not persist, although he felt sure that Miss West was very ill. But, as her granddaughter said, what could anyone do? The train did not stop before Richmond. Of course, Miss West might get out there, but she could not get out alone, and the company must go straight on to Norfolk. However, that was only some two or three hours further. The delay would probably make little difference, especially as it seemed inevitable. Mr. Montgomery had already enquired whether there was any physician on the train. Now he went off to make a thorough search, but without success.

Mrs. Lennox continued to sleep noisily, and her granddaughter continued to support her. An occasional tremor still shook the sleeping form. As Joan sat there her realization of the position grew clearer. She felt sick with terror. If only she had had more experience with illness. Of course, her mother was an invalid, but invalidism seemed to have no connection with ill-health. Certainly her mother had never looked like this. Indeed, Joan could hardly remember ever having seen anyone who was ill. At home, if any of the servants ailed, she had naturally been kept away from them, while her superior boarding school had made a feature of unvarying health. This was achieved by taking the pupils’ temperature night and morning, and promptly dealing with any deviation from the normal in a separate sanatorium. Thus this one subject had been entirely omitted in her education.

It was not only incompetence that was unnerving the girl, but also remorse. Indeed, the pain that the strained position now began to cause her arm, came as a positive relief. Her grandmother was very ill, she told herself with dramatic intensity, and it was her fault. She had dragged Granny away from her comfortable home, her easy life. With agonized recollection Joan went through the conversation at the Dorset that had preceded the visit to Mr. Hobson. Granny had not wanted to go back to the stage; she had said she was too old, and had practically refused. No doubt she had felt that she was not strong enough for such a life. But she, Joan, had insisted. Not once had she considered the question from Granny’s point of view. What a beast she had been! No wonder she could play ‘Vivi,’ she told herself with exaggerated disgust. She was only another ‘Vivi’ herself, egoistic and selfish!

Mrs. Lennox woke with a start. She asked for more water. This time kind Mr. Montgomery, who had established himself near by, had brandy ready to add to it. For a time the stimulant seemed to do Mrs. Lennox good. She looked more normal, and her breathing grew quieter. Mr. Montgomery and Joan made up a sort of bed, filling up the space between the seats with travelling bags. They got the sick woman into a more comfortable, recumbent position. Soon after she again went to sleep.

It was six o’clock, and the cold dawn was breaking when at last they reached Norfolk. All night Mrs. Lennox had dozed uneasily, muttering sometimes and waking with a start. The odd, raucous breathing had, if anything, grown more pronounced. At the station there were no vehicles, but frantic telephoning on Mr. Montgomery’s part secured a taxi. He had left the ladies in the train; now he went to fetch them, and found that Mrs. Lennox had roused. She clearly understood that they had arrived, and made an unaided effort to stand. But, to her granddaughter’s dismay, she fell back. Joan and Mr. Montgomery almost carried her to the vehicle.

The kind little man had already instructed the driver where to go. He knew of a nice hotel, he told Joan, reasonable in price and not far from the station; he had stayed there before. As they drove along, the girl dully noticed that snow had fallen even here, though it was rapidly turning to slush, while a fine drizzle made the empty, early-morning streets seem even more cheerless. As soon as they reached the hotel, Mr. Montgomery jumped out to make arrangements. There was some little delay in the office, but at last a sleepy young lady appeared. Yes, they had rooms, she said, running her finger down the hotel book—one single and one with two beds for two ladies. Yes, they were all ready.

Mr. Montgomery’s solicitude was now his undoing. He proceeded to make further enquiries. Was the double room warm and thoroughly aired? One of the ladies was sick. She had been taken ill quite suddenly on the cars.

The hotel girl’s face changed. She again consulted the book. She was sorry. She had made a mistake, she said. The double room was engaged.

“Then the ladies will have the single room. The sick lady must be got to bed at once. If you have no other room, I’ll go elsewhere.” Mr. Montgomery turned decisively.

The girl hurried after him. She was still nervously holding her big book. She was terribly sorry, she stammered, but neither room was vacant. They had not any rooms at all.

Mr. Montgomery swore under his breath at her stupidity. However, it was no good wasting still more time in recrimination. He rushed out to consult the taxi driver as to other hotels.

The man not unnaturally took them to the best in the place. Again Mr. Montgomery hurried in, leaving the two ladies in the taxi. He was met by the shattering announcement that here also there were no rooms. A lady and two gentlemen had just that moment arrived, the man in the office said, and had engaged the last. The two gentlemen had even to share a room between them.

Mr. Montgomery eagerly asked the names. As he expected, it was Miss Bransom, Clark and Terence. He explained that he knew them. “What is the number of the gentlemen’s room?” he demanded impetuously. “One of the ladies of my party has been taken very ill suddenly. I am sure these gentlemen will give up their room to her.”

“Impossible.” The man’s tone was curt. “The gentlemen gave an order that they were not to be disturbed until they rang. It would be as much as my place was worth to send up to them.”

Mr. Montgomery stormed with as much violence as his gentle nature would admit, but the man was obdurate. If the lady was so ill she ought to go to the hospital, he said sulkily. He mentioned its name.

Armed with the suggestion, Mr. Montgomery went out and again opened the taxi door. Miss West seemed mercifully asleep; or was she unconscious, he wondered uneasily. With that queer breathing, driving around in the damp like this must be about the worst possible thing. The granddaughter’s young face looked grey in the cold, early light. Indeed, Joan was feeling as though she were in a hideous nightmare without an end. Every now and then, sheer terror, like some wild beast, would spring upon her and clutch her throat; but for the most part she was sunk in a stupor of misery. Nevertheless she was shocked when Mr. Montgomery suggested a hospital. “I thought hospitals were only for poor people,” she said. With an effort she pulled herself together. “I should like to go to a good doctor. He would know of a nursing home and be able to give Granny something at once to make her better.”

The taxi driver was again consulted. Dr. Strachey was considered the best physician in Norfolk, and lived only a few blocks away. Again the taxi sped through the quiet, sloppy streets. When they reached the doctor’s door, Mr. Montgomery got out to announce their arrival, but he resolved this time to leave the interview itself to Joan. He was nervous of making another failure. “I have told them it is your mother who is sick,” he warned her.

Dr. Strachey was fortunately an early riser, and the girl was only kept waiting a couple of minutes. Mrs. Lennox was, of course, still in the taxi, for until the doctor decided what had better be done, they did not want to rouse her. The very sight of the dark, capable-looking little man inspired Joan with confidence. He listened in silence to her brief account of the train journey. “But my dear young lady,” he observed, as she finished, “if your mother is so ill, she ought to be in bed. Why didn’t you take her to an hotel first and then send for me!”

Joan explained the position. Dr. Strachey thought he understood. There had been an outbreak of scarlet fever in Norfolk. The hotel people did not want to run any risk, especially in view of the golden harvest they expected the Exhibition to bring. But clearly, from the girl’s description, this was not scarlet fever. “I thought you could tell me of a nursing home,” Joan suggested.

Apparently there was one with which Dr. Strachey was actually connected. He knew they had a room vacant. He was looking at the girl sharply as he spoke, trying to appraise her social position. The fur coat was certainly costly. Still he had better warn her. “Of course this nursing home isn’t by any means cheap. I suppose that won’t matter to you.”

“Oh, no!” For the moment Joan had quite forgotten that it did. The mental attitude of a lifetime is hard to reverse. In any case money seemed trivial and intangible compared with a reality like her grandmother’s illness.

The doctor was scribbling something on his visiting card. “There, give this to Miss Bland, the lady superintendent,” he said kindly. “That will make it all right. I’ll be round in a quarter of an hour. No, it is no use my seeing your mother here; it would do more harm than good. We want to get her out of this damp air and into bed as quick as we can. She’ll be in good hands.”

The nursing home was mercifully quite close. Once there all external difficulties melted away. The transit from the taxi, which Joan had so much dreaded, was made quite easy by means of a carrying chair and skilled nurses. The sick woman was taken upstairs into a pleasant, warm room and laid on the bed. She hardly even seemed to feel being undressed, it was done so deftly. Joan was sitting watching from a corner. It had been suggested that she should wait in another room, but she had resolutely negatived the idea. Her ‘mother’ might awake, she said, and want her. As she saw how dexterously Mrs. Lennox was being handled, she felt more reassured. Indeed, she would have been almost happy had she not caught a significant glance that passed between the nurses as they removed the patient’s wraps. The girl herself was startled. Granny’s face looked quite thin; she would hardly have known her. But it could not really have changed in so short a time, she told herself. Besides her cheeks had a nice colour. The girl’s inexperience took this as a hopeful sign. If only Granny would not breathe so curiously.

Dr. Strachey now appeared. He either did not see Joan or ignored her. His whole attention was for the patient. But as he took Mrs. Lennox’s temperature, Joan came forward. It was the only medical process of which she had any knowledge. “What is it?” she asked.

“Eh, what? Oh, rather high.” It was no good frightening the girl by telling her it was over 104°. Joan retreated, and Dr. Strachey continued his examination, occasionally issuing sharp directions to the nurses. “I’ll get the serum right away,” he announced presently. “No, I’ll have to go myself. There’s no one at the hospital at this hour that I’d trust to find it. But my car’s waiting. I won’t be more than ten minutes.”

He was as good as his word. A tiny stoppered glass tube was in his hand when he came back. This time he turned to Joan. “Your mother has pneumonia,” he said. “I’ve known this serum work wonders, although sometimes it has no effect. I suppose you’d like it tried.”

“Ye-es. If it doesn’t hurt her giving it.” Joan felt as though she were a captive in a magician’s cave. She winced in sympathetic anticipation as the nurse bared her grandmother’s arm and Dr. Strachey produced a little instrument with a sharp, needle-like point. However, to her relief, the operation seemed trifling. Her grandmother hardly stirred. Finally, as Dr. Strachey was leaving, he beckoned Joan out of the room. “I don’t know if there’s anyone you would like to send for. You have brothers or sisters perhaps?”

“No; there’s no one.” The doctor’s words had turned her numb with dread. “You don’t mean you think she’s going to die,” she whispered piteously.

“Oh, no; I hope the serum will pull her through. Of course, it is a critical case. It isn’t as though your mother were a young girl. Where are you staying, by the way? Oh, I remember, you told me.—Nurse!” he called one of the print-clad women from the sick room. “This young lady has been travelling all night. Is there any room here where she could rest and have breakfast?—We can’t have you ill too,” he continued in a kindly tone to Joan as the nurse went off to enquire. “Have you no friends at all in Norfolk?”

“No, only Mr. Montgomery. He is in the same company—the ‘Vivi’ theatrical company, you know,” Joan explained as the doctor looked puzzled.

“Yes, I’ve seen the announcements. You are ‘Vivi’ perhaps—or is it your mother?”

“Oh no; I’m only an understudy. And my—Miss West—that’s her theatrical name—isn’t playing in this piece at all.”

The doctor looked perturbed. He could not understand how understudies in a touring company could afford to patronize expensive nursing homes. It would be only fair to give the superintendent a hint, although, of course, the patient couldn’t be turned out in her present condition. And the case had been taken on his recommendation, confound it. However, the poor woman probably wouldn’t be there long. At her age, Miss West—or whatever her name was—was not very likely to recover. “Well, you had better have a sleep yourself, young lady,” he said with a perceptible increase of stiffness. “I shall be looking in again later in the morning.”

The nurse now returned with the information that there was a small room vacant downstairs, which Miss Bland had said could be used, and some breakfast was being prepared. Joan protested, but feebly. Her grandmother still lay apparently asleep. The nurse assured her with rather brutal candour that her presence was of no earthly use in the sick room, and, indeed, Joan herself realized it. She extracted a promise that she should be called if ‘Miss West’ awoke—or grew worse. “I shall only lie down for a few minutes,” she went off murmuring.

CHAPTER XIII.

It was three hours later when Joan awoke in a daze. Her healthy youth had insisted on this repose after the sleepless night. A curious, heavy depression was upon her. She looked around the strange room in surprise. It was not its strangeness that puzzled her—new bedrooms had become normal—but this one, although small, was so comfortable. Surely she must be in a private house. And why should she be sleeping in her clothes?

Suddenly the events of the last twenty-four hours came back. She started up in horror. How could she have been such a wretch, a heartless brute? As she reached the upper landing, the sound of the same loud breathing coming from her grandmother’s room struck her ears with positive relief. She peeped in. Granny was lying apparently in exactly the same position as when she had left her. Yes, the patient’s condition was unchanged, the nurse corroborated. She did not mention that there had been paroxysms of pain, nor that the temperature had gone up another degree. What was the use? Dr. Strachey did not anticipate any immediate collapse. The following night would be the critical time, he said. It was this verdict that had made the nurse break her promise of summoning Joan. For her own part she much preferred not to be worried by the presence of relations in the sick room; besides it had been evident that the girl was exhausted. She would need all her strength for what lay before her, the nurse had felt, with a touch of unprofessional pity.

Joan sat down by the bedside. At first she felt fortified by her sleep, but as she listened to the quick, gasping breathing, the old horror again began to grip her. Presently the nurse handed her a letter. “From Miss Bland,” she said. Partly to distract her mind, Joan noiselessly opened it. Enclosed was the tariff of the nursing home. The charge for the best rooms was seventy dollars a week. In all cases the payment must be in advance. This was underlined in red ink.

Well, she couldn’t pay in advance because she had not got the money. And Granny had none either, for she had spoken of having to cash a cheque directly they reached Norfolk. How much was there left of her last Saturday’s salary, Joan speculated. She did not like to open her purse under the nurse’s inquisitive gaze, but she could easily reckon it up. The last hotel bill had been $4.80, and tea on the cars seventy-five cents, and the taxi this morning, five dollars. How extortionate, Mr. Montgomery had thought it, but to Joan, who had retained her old standard in taxis, it had seemed most reasonable. That made ten dollars fifty-five cents, and then there had been one or two little tips. So there would be about a dollar left—and these people asked her for seventy! Well, they must just wait, that was all, in spite of their red ink.

But suppose they wouldn’t wait. Suppose they turned Granny out—sent her to the hospital. It might kill her. Oh, they couldn’t be so cruel, so wicked and cruel! But suppose they were? She dare not run the risk, Joan felt. She must get these people their seventy dollars. But how? In books people sold their jewellery. If only she had some jewellery to sell. Her mind went back to the argument with Granny in New York, when she had refused to take the trinkets that her father had given her. But she had given in about the fur coat. Why, that was valuable! She remembered Mrs. Dupuy discussing the price with the shopman. It had cost eight hundred dollars. Of course, then it was all right. Her fur coat would pay for lots of weeks.

Her grandmother still lay immovable. It was the torpor of exhaustion, but Joan thought she still slept. So, telling the nurse that she had to go out on business, but would soon be back, the girl crept out of the room.

The easiest way to take the coat would be to wear it. Underneath Joan had on a tailormade street suit. How fortunate that it was of Scotch tweed and thick. She went out quickly, but once in the street, she hesitated. Probably her best plan would have been to take the coat to a high-class furrier, but selling clothes was connected in the girl’s mind with extreme indigence, so she asked the way to “a very poor district.” The policeman looked amused as he gave the direction. He thought she was a society woman who was trying her ’prentice hand at slumming. “There’s a queer lot of crooks about in them streets,” he warned her. As a matter of fact, either out of solicitude for her youth or for her costly furs, he had not told her of the really rough quarter down by the docks, but had only indicated a thoroughfare of moderate indigence.

As Joan went along, she looked about her with interest. It was the first time she had been in the South, and the Spanish oaks, with their dangling trails of old man’s beard, gratified her eyes. Chiefly, however, she was fascinated by the chattering knots of darkies, whom a gleam of watery sunshine had brought out of their congested wooden shanties. Joan almost laughed aloud as she noticed the coiffure of some of the girls—innumerable, miniature pigtails each curled round and speared with a hairpin. It was the nearest that they could achieve with their short ‘wool’ to the hairdressing of their white sisters. And how different their gestures were, Joan realized with keen interest, and the intonation of their voices! Granny had told her that she once acted a negro Mammy, but she did not seem to have cared about it. Why, Joan felt enviously, she would simply love to do it! She began murmuring phrases to herself, trying to give them the queer, sing-song darkey cadence. Suddenly she pulled herself up. How could she be so heartless? To be thinking about acting when Granny was so ill!

She soon found herself in the kind of street she wanted. A large placard, “Cast off wardrobes purchased,” announced the end of her search. In the window a discarded naval uniform figured prominently, together with a pile of dirty satin slippers and a large bowl of false teeth. Above the latter dangled a notice, “Acceptable Gifts.” Possibly it had fallen from some other object. Who could want other people’s teeth? Joan speculated with amusement.

However, it would not do to loiter. She nerved herself and took off her coat to her job. As she pushed open the door, she thought it was the most uninviting shop she had ever seen. And what a horrible smell! The proprietor, a rather corpulent, oily man, came forward rubbing his hands obsequiously. This well-dressed lady must have taken a fancy to something in the window. “What can I show you, Madam?” he asked.

Joan explained, the hot colour flaming into her cheeks. The man’s manner changed at once. He took the coat and examined it minutely. The dirt in his nails, as he pawed it about, made her feel sick. Once he wetted his finger so as to part the fur and examine the skin. Anyway, she couldn’t wear it after that, Joan felt. When he had finished, he glanced at the girl curiously. Probably the young lady had got into debt, and didn’t like to tell her poppa. The question was did she know the value of her coat. “Dis is a good coat, and so I will give you”—he paused. “I will give you fifty dollars.”

“What?” Anger came to Joan’s help. “How dare you offer me such a sum!”

“Na, na, fifty dollars does not grow on every bush. Well, for de sake of your pretty face, we’ll say fifty-five, though I swear to you, I will be de loser on it.”

Before the philanthropist had realized what was happening, Joan had snatched up her coat and marched out. “Not so quick, my dear, not so quick. Maybe we can make it a little more,” he called out and shuffled after her. He had, however, to make the circuit of the counter, and so by the time he had reached the shop door, his prey was irrevocably lost. Indeed, the girl was almost running to get away from this detestable place.

Half unconsciously she retraced her steps, and found herself nearing the nursing home. She paused wondering what to do next.

Should she throw herself on Miss Bland’s mercy, and offer her the coat in lieu of payment? She hated the idea, but it might be the best plan. “Miss North!” She suddenly heard Mr. Montgomery’s familiar voice behind her. “I was just coming up to enquire.”

“Granny is about the same.” Joan told him what had passed since he had left them on the doorstep of the nursing home some five hours earlier.

As she spoke, Mr. Montgomery had been glancing at the fur coat over her arm. “Don’t you think, Miss North,” he now suggested kindly, “that it’s a bit risky to take off your furs. One feels warm in the sun, but this is a tricky climate. It’s so damp, you know.”

“I have been walking quickly. I am quite hot.” This, indeed, was true. The argument with the cast-off clothes dealer had in itself considerably raised her temperature. Suddenly she decided to confide in this new friend. “Besides, I am trying to sell my coat.”

“Dear, dear, that’s bad.” The little man’s voice was comprehending and sympathetic. He did not question her decision, as Joan had feared he might. Instead, he reassuringly told her that he knew of a place in the town, where they’d do the square thing and give her a decent price. “I can’t remember the address, but I can show it you,” he said. Mr. Montgomery’s acquaintance with the cheap hotels and pawn shops of the South and Middle West was probably unrivalled!

As they were walking along, however, the little man seemed to reflect. “Are you sure you can spare that fur coat, Miss North?” he suggested. “The nights are still real cold, even down here. Ain’t you got any jewellery now, or something in that line, that you’d miss less?” As Joan shook her head, he continued with some hesitation; “I’ve noticed Miss West wearing a nice ring.”

“I’m not going to steal Granny’s jewellery when she is ill and helpless. I haven’t sunk as low as that!” Joan blazed out passionately.

“Well, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Mr. Montgomery deprecated, rather amazed at his companion’s violence.

But Joan also had cooled. “I don’t suppose I should mind the idea so much,” she began penitently, with a recollection of all Mr. Montgomery’s kindness, “only you see, I feel I’ve been such a beast.” There was a tremor in her voice. “All this time I have been wanting the weather to be bad. Yes, I have been actually glad at the snow and the cold and everything, so that it should make Miss Bransom ill—not really ill, only enough to give me my chance—and I never even thought of Granny. And now instead of Miss Bransom being ill, it’s——” Joan turned her head aside quickly.

Mr. Montgomery’s soft heart was touched. “Anyway your wanting the blizzard didn’t make it,” he suggested with sound common sense, “so I don’t see you need blame yourself. I often think what a mercy it is, we haven’t got command of the elements—there’d be more worry than ever. But, look here, Miss North, about this fur coat, you said you were going to sell it. Don’t do that anyway—just pawn it. Of course, you won’t get so much on it now, but then next fall, if you’ve a good engagement, you can get it back.”

Joan acquiesced. “And I couldn’t very well be offered less than for selling it,” she observed cheerfully. “What do you suppose a horrid, dirty little man wanted me to take—fifty dollars!”

To Mr. Montgomery, it sounded a very nice sum, but he made no comment. “Do you know what the coat cost?” he asked instead.

“Yes, eight hundred, and I’ve not had it two months.”

“What!” The actor stared incredulously. “Eight hundred—eight hundred dollars? My! I didn’t know a coat could be that costly.” He had been carrying it for Joan, and he now gazed at it hanging over his arm with an almost comic awe. “I’d be afraid to wear it! Eight hundred dollars—enough to keep a family for a year. I suppose you ain’t Miss Pierpont Morgan in disguise by any chance?”

Joan flushed. The laughing suggestion was too near the truth to be comfortable. “Oh, the coat was a present,” she said hastily. Then it struck her he would only think her grandmother had given it and still be suspicious. “It was a present from a gentleman.”

Mr. Montgomery gave her a startled look. What a pity, he was thinking; a terrible pity. Then with the charitable morality of the stage, he concluded it was none of his business. Besides the girl’s words might bear another explanation. Her next remark almost convinced him of it. “Would it be bothering you too much to come into the pawnshop with me?” she remarked. “You see I only left school at Christmas, so I don’t know very much about things of this sort.”

“No, it ain’t usually part of the scholastic curriculum. Of course, I’ll see you through.” But how young she must be, Mr. Montgomery was thinking in surprise, much younger than he had imagined. It made her acting more wonderful than ever! Why, if she had only just left school, she wouldn’t be more than eighteen—perhaps less—not more than three or four years older than his Sadie. Suppose one of his little girls were ever in such a plight. “I hate you having to come into this thing at all,” he said with a rush of paternal tenderness. “I’d send you home right away, but folks might wonder what I was doing running around with a lady’s eight hundred dollar coat—think I’d lifted it off an automobile maybe! So I guess you’ll have to come along to carry it off.” He realized suddenly, as his awakened eyes rested on her, that her tweed costume was of quite a different cut from any to which he was accustomed. Yes, he had seen clothes like that on the swells in Central Park.

Despite Joan’s attire and despite Montgomery’s haggling, the utmost that could be raised on the fur coat was two hundred dollars. However the girl was jubilant. It was with difficulty that Montgomery kept her from taking a cab back to the nursing home. Instead, he insisted on further delay in the shape of lunch. “It’s late, and they may have finished up there,” he wisely observed. Gratitude made Joan consent. Just as they were separating at the door of the nursing home, he suggested he might see her round at the theatre later on.

“At the theatre?” The girl had absolutely forgotten her professional engagement. “Oh, at six o’clock. Do you think I need come? It’s such a farce, and Granny might be awake then and wanting me. I have been out so long to-day already.”

As she truly said, it did seem a farce. “I guess that will be all right,” Mr. Montgomery agreed. “I tell you what, I’ll get down to the theatre early myself, then we can always tell Clark that I could have ’phoned you if you had been wanted. Well, good-bye. I do hope Dr. Strachey will say Miss West’s better next time he comes. I’ll be round first thing to-morrow morning to ask.”

Joan found when she got into the hall, that she had only been gone a little over two hours, although it seemed so much longer. A passing nurse informed her that Miss West’s condition was unchanged. Reassured, the girl decided that, before going up to the sick room, she had better have her interview with Miss Bland. The superintendent—a stout, black-gowned figure, with a flabby, yet hard-looking face—was sitting writing in a comfortable, little office. She looked up with cold, hostile eyes as Joan walked in. Of course the girl had come to say she couldn’t pay. It was really scandalous. As for Dr. Strachey he was a soft-hearted fool.

“I have come to pay the week in advance,” Joan observed.

At the words and the sight of Joan’s bulky pocket book, Miss Bland’s face underwent a sudden change. “That is very good of you, Miss, er—” “North,” Joan interpolated—“Miss North, but there was really no hurry. Unfortunately we are obliged to make a rule as to advance payment, owing to some people being so unscrupulous, but, of course, we had no anxiety in your case.” As Miss Bland was cooing these vague, mellifluous phrases, she got out and signed a printed receipt form in an incongruously definite manner. “Yes, seventy dollars, that is quite correct—exclusive of medical attendance and drugs. As I was saying we have had patients actually brought to this house, who had not a dollar in their pocket. As though that class of person can expect the advantages of a nursing home.”

“No, of course not,” Joan agreed. “That class of person ought just to be satisfied to die.”

Miss Bland looked up sharply. Was the girl making fun of her. Joan’s face was blankly innocent; her dramatic talent was not confined to the stage. “Well, perhaps one can hardly say that,” the lady superintendent replied with a lurking discomfort. “But we have an excellent hospital—at which Dr. Strachey also visits.” She felt uneasily that it might be better to change the subject. “Dr. Strachey tells me that you have no friends in Norfolk, Miss North. If you care to stay in the Home for a few days, the little room you have already occupied is quite at your disposal. We rarely require it for patients. There would be a nominal charge of five dollars a day for board and attendance.”

With her recent experience Joan was amused at the ‘nominal’ charge. However, she accepted gratefully for one night. The fur coat justified that. “Now I must go to my—to Miss West,” she said.

Of the afternoon that followed, Joan never afterwards consciously let herself think. It was too horrible. Indeed, she sometimes felt that she was never quite the same again. Some of the gay assurance of youth was irretrievably lost. In those black hours, a doubt, a fear of life, had come to her, which, until then, had been unknown. That morning her horror had been that her grandmother should die. In the afternoon, as she sat watching the paroxysms of pain, as she heard the awful struggle for breath, it was changed to a horror that her grandmother should go on living like this. “Can you do nothing—nothing?” she cried at last to the nurses, tears rolling down her white cheeks.

“She’s probably unconscious,” they told her. But at the sound of the girl’s voice, the sick woman’s hand had moved, as though seeking something. Joan took it in her firm clasp and the groping fingers were still. The nurse ceased to urge that Miss North was only causing herself unnecessary distress by remaining in the room.

Naturally these attacks were intermittent, or the patient could hardly have lived through the afternoon. During the intervals the figure lay motionless as before, only stirred by the dreadful breathing. It was in one of these pauses that a message came to the sick room. “A gentleman, Mr. Montgomery, wants to see you downstairs,” the nurse whispered to Joan. “It is most urgent, he says.”

The girl looked round dazed. However, her grandmother’s clasp on her hand had loosened; she was lying quite still. Mr. Montgomery had been so very kind. It would be better to run down for a minute and see what he wanted.

The little man was standing in the reception room. There was no one else there. He looked distressed and nervous. The manservant, who had opened the door, had told him that Miss West’s condition was very serious. Mr. Montgomery did not offer any sympathy as Joan came in, although his eyes rested pityingly on her colourless face. “You have got to come with me, Miss North. Miss Bransom can’t appear to-night.”

Joan stared at him. Then his words penetrated her consciousness. “I can’t come,” she whispered. “Didn’t they tell you? Granny is worse.”

“The show must be given. People are lining up already.” Mr. Montgomery was inexorable.

The blood rushed to Joan’s face. “Then Miss Bransom must give it,” she cried. “All these weeks I have longed to play and she wouldn’t let me. Now because she knows I can’t leave Granny, she says she will not appear.”

Her companion felt relieved at the outburst. Anything was better than that unnatural white calm. Miss Bransom’s throat was relaxed, he explained, choosing his words carefully, as though speaking to a child. The fatigue of the long journey had tried it. She could not speak above a whisper. “Do you think she would give up one of the best houses of the season just to spite you?” he asked almost sternly. “Why it is our opening night here; we shall have all the press. And every seat is sold.”

“But I can’t come,” Joan repeated dully. “Don’t you understand? They think Granny is—-” Her voice failed her.

“You must come.” Mr. Montgomery crushed down the sympathy he was feeling. “If you don’t appear to-night it will kill you with the management; it will kill you with every management in the country. You will never get another engagement. What will you live on—and your grandmother—when she gets better.”

“If I don’t act, we shan’t need my salary,” Joan replied enigmatically.

“And your career—are you willing to give that up, too?”

The words were ill-advised; they pricked the girl’s galled conscience. “I shall be glad to give up my miserable career,” she broke out. “I’ve thought too much of it already. I’ve sacrificed Granny to it—now I’ll sacrifice it to Granny. It is my right punishment.”

“But suppose Miss West doesn’t want it sacrificed?” Montgomery suggested. Then he told himself that brutality might be the greatest kindness—besides, he must hurry, time was getting on. “Look here, Miss North, you say you have thought too much of yourself—you’re still doing it. You talk as though your appearing to-night were a question for you to decide—a question of your feelings. It ain’t. It’s nothing to do with you, nor with your Granny either. You’re on the salary list of this company, and you owe it to us not to shut down the performance.” He paused and then went on more slowly. “And that’s not all; there’s something more to it—something bigger. You’re new to this business and you don’t understand. But an actor’s not an individual; he can’t have the privilege of private feelings like other people. What he’s got to think of, first and last, and all the time, is the audience. My God, don’t you think we’ve all been through it?” the little man burst out with unexpected passion. “Once my wife was sick and I had to leave her—not with every care like this—Get your hat.”

Joan was staring at him curiously. Something new had come into her face. “But if I appeared, I’d be so bad, that it would ruin the performance just the same,” she said slowly.

“You’ll be all right. I will answer for that. Now, hurry, or Clark will be committing suicide.”

The theatre was on the direct car line, so they got there a little after half-past six. Although Mr. Clark had not yet taken the irrevocable step foreboded by Montgomery he was very near it. What a happy place the world would be, if all the leading ladies could be eliminated, he was thinking, as he frenziedly paced up and down. It was like Miss Bransom to have left it to the very last minute to tell him she’d got no voice, just because with her damned selfishness she couldn’t bear to give up the part. And now Montgomery’s news about Miss North! Why the goodness couldn’t the mother have chosen any other day to fall ill. Well, the girl would just have to come, that was all there was to it. If she didn’t, he’d he’d—oh here she was. His face cleared. “Hurry, hurry, Miss North. I’ve got a lady waiting from the best modiste to alter your gowns. You’re about Miss Bransom’s height, and that’s the one bit of luck about it,” he muttered to himself.

Like a lay figure Joan submitted to the various dressmaking and dressing operations. It was only the gown for the second act that needed much alterations. The others fitted fairly, and the big scene was played in an accommodating negligée. All the time, though Joan’s body was in the stuffy, little dressing room, her thoughts were——“It’s a wonderful house, they say,” the dresser announced, as she put on the finishing touches.

The audience had been exceedingly disappointed when they had heard that the star could not appear. However, very few troubled to get back their money. With American kindliness they gave the understudy a clap as she came on. “Poor girl, she must be nervous—they say it’s her first appearance,” a whisper went round.

But Joan did not feel nervous; she did not feel anything, except dazed and frightfully tired. It was as though she had had a blow on the head. The lines were so familiar that she could not go wrong, but it all sounded dull and mechanical. Yes, it was dragging horribly. There was no contact between her and those rows of white faces beyond the lights. Or were they real faces at all? Perhaps she and they were dream figures in a dream world.

In the wings Mr. Clark was raging futilely. “And to think what a performance she could have given,” he almost sobbed. “Isn’t there any earthly thing you can suggest to pull her together?” He turned fiercely on Montgomery, who happened just then to be ‘off.’

That little man of resource recommended champagne. So the property boy was sent scurrying off for Mumm, extra dry. As he returned, Clark and Montgomery snatched the bottle from him and invaded ‘Vivi’s’ dressing room. Fussing like two clucking hens with a very large chick, they stood over Joan until she drank some.

“Second Act” shouted the stage manager’s assistant outside.

When Joan went on again, the audience hardly recognized her. She looked alert, vital. As she began to speak there was a sudden, surprised attention. The effect of the wine had been magical, probably because she was quite unused to it. Her fatigue seemed to have dropped away. She was still conscious of a vague sense of depression, but as she went on, it faded into the infinitely remote. She was Vivi and no one else. Presently there came a burst of clapping; then another; then applause at frequent intervals. “She’s getting it across! Lord, she’ll slap the show through yet,” Mr. Clark exclaimed rapturously.

The excited manager insisted on repeating Joan’s modest potion before the third act. Whether this was the cause or not, the girl gave a wonderful performance. The audience was impressed, startled, perhaps shocked. The silent attention of the house was almost painful. One woman was carried out in hysterics. At the end an uproar broke loose. The applause was like a cannonade as Joan came forward. Flowers rained upon the stage. Women waved their handkerchiefs. Men stood and shouted. Such a scene had never been known in Norfolk. The curtain went up and down fourteen times, while Joan, first in various combinations and then alone, stood silently bowing.

The fourth act was very short. Joan carried it through in quiet, decisive triumph. The audience dispersed still under the spell of the great central scene. Who was this girl, everyone was asking? Indeed, Joan was asking it herself as the curtain finally descended.

Suddenly the stage became crowded with people. Everyone was shaking her hand, congratulating her. Mr. Clark was flurrying about wildly, talking about the next evening’s performance. He indiscreetly hoped aloud that Miss Bransom’s voice would remain in abeyance. The advance manager, wearing a brown bowler tipped very far back, was agitatedly improvising an account of the new star’s career for a group of pressmen. Strange faces passed before Joan as in a phantasmagoria. One alone stood out, a typical American hatchet face of the intellectual type with clear grey eyes and a humorous mouth. “I’m sorry, Miss North,” this man said quietly, as he clasped her hand in his long, bony one. What was he sorry for, passed dimly through the girl’s mind. Then Mr. Terence came up. He was presenting someone who was vaguely familiar to her. Who could it be? No—yes—it was Eustace Chalfont, her mother’s tame poet. How surprising! Would he recognize her? That would be very improbable, Joan felt. Apart from her present make-up, Mr. Chalfont would hardly see in her the funny pig-tailed schoolgirl whom he had last met. The poet’s first words revealed all absence of suspicion. “Dear lady,” he said, almost fondling her hand in both of his. “A marvellous performance! Why does not America know you to worship at your shrine? In what enchanted castle have you been held captive?”

The spell of the acting had been broken by this sudden apparition out of her past, real life. She was Joan Vandeleur. And Granny? How could she stand there talking when Granny was so ill. “I must go back. I must go back at once,” she cried suddenly.

Mr. Montgomery had been standing near protectively. “Come,” he said, and escorted the girl off the stage. As they got near the back door, she began to make her way out, oblivious of her costume. “You must change first,” Mr. Montgomery reminded her. She fled to the dressing room and wildly pulled off her gorgeous evening gown with the dresser’s deprecating help. In an incredibly short time she reappeared in normal attire. A motor was waiting for her—at the expense of the management, Mr. Clark whispered. Apparently for stars who could afford to pay, such things were provided gratis. Mr. Montgomery got in with her, eclipsed under the floral tributes which Joan had utterly forgotten. He added to his kindness by saying nothing. A crowd had gathered, and they raised a cheer as the auto drove off.

The face of the man who opened the door at the nursing home from being coldly impassive had now become distinctly interested. “The press people have been keeping us pretty busy on the ’phone all the evening, Miss North,” he said with American familiarity combined with a certain deference. “They wanted all the particulars that we could give them.”

Joan stared in absolute bewilderment. “How is—” she began, and dared not trust herself to finish.

“How is Miss West?” Mr. Montgomery interposed sharply—“Miss North’s mother?”

“I haven’t heard lately. I think she was about the same. Supper has been left for you in the dining-room, Miss North. Shall I fetch you some vases for your flowers?” The man evidently could not give up his sensation. Death is a common incident in a nursing home, but this was the first time he had been associated with the début of a theatrical star.

Joan was already running upstairs. By the time she reached the landing her heart was pounding so, that she could hardly breathe. She clutched at the banisters and listened. Her grandmother’s door was a crack open, but no sound came from it. Or was it only that her own pulses were throbbing so loudly she could hear nothing else? She began to shake all over; she dared not push open that door. At last, by an almost impossible effort, she nerved herself to do so. The figure under the bedclothes lay very still. Two nurses were on the other side of the room. They turned as the door opened, and one came softly out on to the landing. “The breathing is much better,” she whispered. “Dr. Strachey thinks the serum is already having an effect. The temperature has gone down too.—May I congratulate you on your triumph, Miss North? One of the staff was at the theatre, so we have heard all about it.”

“I am so tired,” Joan said weakly, “so very tired.”

CHAPTER XIV.

The next morning Miss West was distinctly better. Dr. Strachey’s gratification, both professional and human, was evident. It was not unmixed with surprise. “Your mother must have a wonderful constitution,” he told Joan. “We’re not out of the wood yet, but if she goes on like this, we can soon feel pretty safe.” Joan’s career also seemed assured. The ‘Virginian-Pilot and Landmark’ came out with inch-high headlines, “America’s Great New Actress,” while the ‘Press,’ another morning paper, was equally laudatory. Joan learnt with amused bewilderment from their turgid columns, that she was the daughter of Frances West, the well-known comédienne, who had retired from the stage on her marriage, and had since lived in Paris. The illustrations were equally fallacious, for although scenes from the play were given, the inextinguishable Miss Bransom still figured as ‘Vivi.’ Joan now understood the advance agent’s agitation the night before when he had demanded her photographs. “You should never move without one,” he had told her in excited reproach when she said that she did not possess any.

It remained a mystery what desperate remedies Miss Bransom undertook in order to recover her errant voice, but certainly they were successful. A message reached Mr. Clark, as he was having his breakfast, that the star would appear that night. When the evening came, Miss Bransom not only played, she played exceedingly well. Obviously she was in the vilest of tempers, and this may have supplied the touch of passion that her performance usually lacked. After the great scene, she received ‘an ovation’ only second to the one Joan had had the night before. A certain rivalry in front may have contributed to this result. The audience on this evening and on each of the following evenings did not wish to admit that the first-night’s house had enjoyed any superior advantage, nor that they were now being put off with a star of lesser magnitude. Moreover, Miss Bransom was an old favourite; her following here in the South was considerable. It was also possible that the star was not unversed at the manipulation of journalistic strings. Certainly the ‘Times Herald’ that evening gave a curiously subdued praise to Joan’s performance, while the whole show was entirely ignored in the ‘Ledger Dispatch.’ The latter omission could not, however, be ascribed to Miss Bransom’s machinations, but merely to her good fortune. As the advance agent had already learnt to his horror, the ‘Ledger Dispatch’ editor had a long-standing feud with the proprietor of the theatre at which they were playing, and never mentioned his productions. “If the President himself came to that house to give a show,” the editor had observed genially, “he’d have to do it without our support. Next week, when you’re playing Portsmouth, my boy, you shall have all the space you want.”

But Miss Bransom’s journalistic influence was positive as well as negative. Wednesday’s papers were again filled with a wild panegyric on ‘Vivi,’ but this time they hymned the praises of the authentic leading woman. The unabashed ‘Virginian-Pilot’ gave a whole page of photographs showing Miss Bransom’s beautiful profile from every conceivable point. America suddenly found itself provided with two great actresses!

After this the whole matter dropped. Norfolk found a new excitement. But the final advantage remained with Miss Bransom, for she held the stage. Joan realized to her dismay the strength of possession, and also that one sensation does not make a success.

Possibly had the girl been able to accept some of the invitations that rained upon her after her wonderful début, things might have been different. There was a local ladies’ club that wanted to give a reception in her honour, a dramatic society that asked her to open a debate, one or two private hostesses who pressed her to dine. All this would have kept her in the spot-light, at least metaphorically. But her grandmother’s illness prevented any such arrangements. Although Mrs. Lennox continued to make an excellent recovery, it was some days before the doctor would pronounce her entirely out of danger. In any case, Joan could hardly bear to be out of the sick room. She clung to the dear, feeble presence with a new intensity, feeling that she had so nearly lost it, while the fact of the girl being near seemed to bring Mrs. Lennox distinct comfort and relief. Economy had made Joan move to a cheap hotel, instead of staying on at the nursing home with its nominal five dollars charge, but this merely tied her the more. Her time was not only taken up in seeing her grandmother, but in the constant journeying to and fro.

In addition to this, the daily expedition to the theatre at six o’clock had naturally to be resumed with its old discouraging negative result. Only on one occasion did Joan draw anything but a complete blank, and that was on the very evening after her solitary triumph. She had just heard from Mr. Clark that Miss Bransom would definitely appear, when she almost ran into the long, lean man whose face stood out among the misty, congratulatory throng the evening before. He evidently did not recognize her, but her involuntary exclamation attracted his attention and he looked again. “Why, it’s never Miss North?” he said as he held out his hand. “Well, I guess this is luck!” He gave a pleasant, rather boyish laugh. “I didn’t think ‘Vivi’ was so young.”

It had also struck Joan that her new acquaintance was younger than she had imagined—not that she had given conscious consideration to his age. He had that bony type of face that shows little change with years, but there was an unmistakable look of youth about his clear, grey eyes and sinewy form. He could not be more than twenty-seven or eight, Joan imagined. “But I am not ‘Vivi’ any longer,” she said aloud with doleful inflection. “Miss Bransom is playing again.”

“Is that so? I was just going to get a seat for to-night, but if Miss Bransom is playing I don’t think I’ll trouble them—I hope you are less anxious to-day about your mother?”

“Oh, she is really better.” Joan smiled.

“That’s good news.” The man’s voice was pleasant and sympathetic, despite its rather toneless quality. “When I heard about it all last night, I thought it must be terribly hard for you to have to come down and play—not that your performance showed it after the first act. I partly came round this morning to ask after her.”

Joan was quite touched by this stranger’s solicitude; neither had his attitude about Miss Bransom displeased her! Apparently their ways lay in the same direction, for, as she now started home, she found him walking beside her. She began to tell him about the disastrous journey from Huntingdon and the vain quest for an hotel. “It was like a nightmare,” she said with a shudder. She was vaguely surprised at herself for talking so freely to a stranger, but the man rather attracted her. No one could have called him handsome, but he looked interesting and ‘straight’—a little bit like the pictures of Abraham Lincoln, Joan thought.

Presently she came to the end of her narrative. “Why don’t we know you, Miss North?” her new acquaintance asked suddenly, putting the same question as Eustace Chalfont, but in less flowery language. “I mean, where have you been playing?”

He was obviously astounded to hear that she had not been playing. “You’ve never acted before but once, and that in school dramatics?” he repeated incredulously. “Never at all? My, I can hardly believe it.—Where have you got it all from then?” After a pause he began to question her about her future plans, but in such a simple and impersonal way that it did not occur to Joan to resent his curiosity. Indeed, it all seemed surprisingly natural. She told him that she had no future plans. “Last night is likely to be my first appearance and my last,” she said dismally. “After Portsmouth there’s only three more weeks of the ‘Vivi’ tour, and Miss Bransom is sure not to give me another chance.”

“I suppose true chivalry would make me offer to abduct Miss Bransom,” her companion suggested with a laugh. “But I guess she’d be something of a handful! Besides, I wouldn’t have time to put the little job through. I’m leaving Norfolk early in the morning.”

“Oh, you don’t live here then?” Joan felt vaguely disappointed. But it was absurd, she felt. What did it matter if she never saw this man again? He was nothing to her. Indeed, she did not even know his name, although the fact did not occur to her until afterwards.

“Live in Norfolk? I shouldn’t live long! No, little old New York for mine! But I take this trip quite often for my mother has come back to her old home here. She is pretty much of an invalid or I would suggest your meeting.”

Joan expressed sympathy. “Are you a Southerner then?” she asked.

“My mother is. My father came from way up in Maine. I can’t remember him though. Naturally my friends tell me that I’ve got all the faults both of the North and the South!” The talk turned to less personal topics, chiefly plays, of which the man seemed to have considerable knowledge.

Joan had meant to take the car up to the nursing home, but now she walked instead. The evening was pleasant, and she was interested in her companion’s conversation. Usually the girl was rather tongue-tied, except with her grandmother, but presently she found herself talking quite well. Indeed, her new acquaintance evidently considered one or two of her remarks were clever, and this in itself was inspiring. She was sorry when she found they had reached the nursing home. “Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Good-bye.” There was something more than the conventional interest in the stranger’s tone. “Maybe we’ll meet again some day.”

Although Joan was too engrossed by her grandmother to think of much else, she was rather surprised as the time passed, that Mr. Clark did not once refer to her triumph, nor tell her that he had written about it to Mr. Hobson. Some curious change seemed to have come over the stage-manager. He seemed almost afraid to speak to her. The girl was too innocent to suspect that the true cause of the sudden shyness lay with Miss Bransom. The star’s rage at her temporary eclipse had driven her to take every possible method of effacing its effect. One of these was the captivation of the fickle Clark, whose injudicious words after her rival’s success had been repeated to her. Within two days, by a judicious blending of sweetness and temper, she had reduced the susceptible stage-manager to the necessary state of cowed and obedient adoration.

As no suggestion came from Mr. Clark, Joan decided to take the matter into her own hands. She cut out the ‘Virginian-Pilot’ critique and enclosed it in a letter to Mr. Hobson, asking him to give her a part at the end of April, when the ‘Vivi’ tour came to an end. A couple of days later, there arrived a letter from Mr. Walker, the agreeable secretary. Mr. Hobson had just sailed for Europe, he said, and he contemplated a considerable automobile tour in Algeria, and his letters were not being forwarded. In any case no companies would be going out until the fall. Mr. Hobson would himself be back in the beginning of July. He would then doubtless give Miss North a part in one of the autumn productions. The letter concluded with Mr. Walker’s cordial congratulations, although privately the young fellow thought Miss North must have turned the head of some susceptible Norfolk journalist, and he resolved to await Clark’s more unbiassed report before forming any opinion.

It was staggering! All Joan’s thoughts and hopes had been pinned on the one appearance, her great ‘chance.’ After that she had firmly believed everything would be easy. Now her chance had come and gone and everything seemed exactly the same as it was before. Indeed it was all far worse. Dr. Strachey said that her grandmother would be a semi-invalid for months, needing every care and luxury. Mr. Walker spoke of an engagement in the autumn, but here they were still in March! In a very short time even her miserable twelve dollars a week would stop. How were they going to live?

Thus the money problem that had weighed on the grandmother for so long, now transferred itself to Joan. For, curiously enough, Mrs. Lennox seemed to have forgotten it. Perhaps she was too weak to look either forwards or backwards, and so was content to live in the very comfortable present. Also on the strength of the fur coat, Joan told her grandmother that everything was all right. All Granny had to do was to get well. A vague realization of the girl’s recent triumph and the sense of a hovering millionaire son-in-law made the invalid accept the assurance unquestioningly. She obediently smiled and went to sleep. But, as the days passed, a little upright line began to show itself between Joan’s straight, black eyebrows. For the first time in her life, her thoughts became largely material. “I see the chief thing money can buy is the possibility of forgetting it,” she told Mr. Montgomery.

The first step, she felt, was to arrange somehow that her grandmother should stay at the nursing home until the end of the ‘Vivi’ tour. For it was certain that Mrs. Lennox would not be able to travel by the end of the following week, and how could she bear to leave Granny alone in Norfolk, Joan asked herself, unless she was certain that every care were being taken of her. With this end in view the girl got out her grandmother’s cheque book, and with great difficulty reckoned up that there was still a hundred and twenty dollars to her credit. Mrs. Lennox was then asked to sign a blank cheque, which she dutifully did. “We aren’t wanting the money now, Granny,” Joan told her with fictitious gaiety. “It is just as a safeguard.”

The next proceeding was again to interview Miss Bland. This lady was still gracious, although considerably less so, when she heard that a cheaper room was wanted. Finally it was arranged that Miss West should have one on the second floor for the next four weeks at fifty dollars a week. The cost would be more than covered, Joan reckoned, by the balance in hand from the fur coat and by her grandmother’s cheque. As for herself, she meant to live on her salary.

Thus the next month was secure—but afterwards? Well, she would get a summer engagement, Joan decided. If she couldn’t get theatrical work, she would go as a housemaid—anything rather than give in. But at the best, she foresaw that her salary would be small. How was she to pay Dr. Strachey out of it? How was she to support Granny during that long, hungry interval that divided them from the fall?

Joan’s love for her grandmother drove her to take a step that she would never have dreamt of on her own account. She wrote to her father. “Granny has had pneumonia,” the letter began abruptly. “The doctor thought she would die. She is now out of danger, but she will need great care for a long time. She certainly won’t be able to act for six months, and perhaps not then. So I think you ought to recommence her allowance. I think it would be only fair. Of course I shall not use any of your money. If I stay with Granny or have any meal with her I will pay for it as though I were at an hotel.” In a postscript was added: “I mean I will pay as though I were at one of the hotels that I stay at, not one that you would stay at. The rates are different.” The qualification was prompted by a recollection of a lunch at Sherry’s to which her father had taken her and Maude Dupuy soon after Christmas. Why, she had seen him set aside two or three dollar bills as a mere tip to the waiter. The whole thing had certainly cost more than her entire week’s salary.

Mr. Vandeleur discovered this letter among his morning’s mail as he sat down to his solitary breakfast in the great Fifth Avenue dining-room. His daughter’s large, black writing with its strong lines and its hint of immaturity was easily recognizable. A sudden excitement came over him, which showed itself in his quickened breath. Why should he be thus moved, he felt, with annoyance? Perhaps it was to punish himself that he put aside the offending envelope to be dealt with last. He had cast off both his daughter and his mother-in-law, once for all, when he had received that letter nearly two months ago telling him of the proposed theatrical adventure. How angry it had made him, angrier than he had ever been in his life before—and that was saying a good deal. For days he would hardly speak to his wife; not that he disbelieved Imogen when she protested that she had been entirely ignorant of the project, but rather because he felt she ought not to have been ignorant. If Imogen had cared for her daughter, as other mothers cared for their children, the girl would never have taken this disgraceful step unknown to her.

But, somehow, the ‘casting off’ had not been as easy as John Vandeleur had imagined. He had never found his mother-in-law congenial and it was, perhaps, a relief not to see her, but he missed his daughter surprisingly. Joan had a way of coming into his thoughts at unexpected moments that was exceedingly disconcerting. The fact was, that, to his own astonishment, he had enjoyed the new atmosphere of girlish gaiety that Joan and her friend had brought to his house. His old-fashioned heart had quite succumbed to little Miss Dupuy’s pretty gentleness, and, although his own daughter had not thawed him to the same extent, yet he had found himself viewing her with a certain irritated respect. What a son she would have made, he had told himself more than once, with a return of the old pain, as he realized her straightness, her grit, her frank independence. It was a refreshing contrast with her mother’s languors and equivocations!

Indeed, it was the growingly unsatisfactory nature of his relations with his wife that increased Mr. Vandeleur’s unadmitted longing for his daughter. Although he himself had cast off the culprits and had forbidden the mention of their names, he resented the ease with which Imogen complied with his command. After all they were her own mother and child. It was another proof of his wife’s unfeminine hardness of heart that she was thus cheerfully able to shed them. Still more did he resent the reason that he shrewdly ascribed for her indifference. Imogen had acquired a new admirer, this time of a very different type from the young artists with whom she had hitherto dallied. Indeed, John Vandeleur himself was responsible for this introduction. Mr. Lee-Baxter was a business acquaintance of his own, of forty or perhaps forty-five, a Senator from Kentucky, and travelling on a rapid ascent of wealth and success. John Vandeleur had never liked the man, with his loud voice and domineering manner, but a chance encounter, on one of the rare occasions when he and Imogen were out together, had almost forced a presentation. The previous distaste felt by Mr. Vandeleur was soon intensified. He had not seen the Senator before in a lady’s society, and he disliked what he saw. How could Imogen tolerate the man’s fulsome compliments and half-concealed sensuous stares? Bah! they gave him a feeling of nausea! But Imogen chatted to the newly-made senator with sweet languor, and finally, to her husband’s angry surprise, asked him to call. That was the beginning of it. Now, as Mr. Vandeleur took up his daughter’s letter, a sudden thought came to him that Joan would never have taken up with a man of this type. He had once overheard a jesting, level-headed comment of hers on the subject of the ‘attachés.’

And it was not that Joan was more sensible because of being plain, her father now reflected. Certainly, as a child, she had been very ugly, but lately there had been a surprising change. The girl’s sudden, amazing beauty on the night of her dance had deeply impressed him, although at the time he had felt less pleased than perturbed. Sometimes, he thought he must have imagined it, but then he reminded himself of the utter subjugation of Grierson—and Grierson was no longer a callow boy—and the almost awed admiration of the devoted Maude. No, taken altogether, Joan was not an easy person to cast off.

And now, after all these weeks of silence, at last, she had written. He was fingering the letter nervously, but he still had not opened it. Perhaps he was afraid to do so. But it could only be to say that she had repented of her mad adventure and wished to come home. No doubt the silly grandmother had by now begun to realize on which side her bread was buttered. Joan must have failed to make the wonderful success, she had expected, and their last dollar had been reached. Otherwise she would not have written, he told himself grimly. He tore the envelope open.

As he read, his forehead flushed. Still he was not quite as angry as he had been at his daughter’s previous communication. For one thing his irritation was tempered with pity on account of Mrs. Lennox’s illness. What an awful experience for a girl not eighteen to have her grandmother dying on her hands! He wondered how Joan had met it. It was like her not to say a word of herself, nor of what she was doing. Norfolk, Virginia, the letter came from. Presumably she was acting a minor part in some fifth rate company there. How could she be such a fool? Not one word about coming home! John Vandeleur was more acutely disappointed than he had ever been in his life, although he would have died sooner than admit it. All the same his mouth twitched as he came to the end of the letter. He could just imagine the sort of restaurants she patronized. Once by chance, not very long ago, he had penetrated into a Childs’. The clatter, the smell, the commonness of it, still gave him a sensation of disgust. And did his daughter propose sending her little payments to him or giving them to her grandmother? The dimes and quarters would no doubt mount up into quite an income! What should he spend it on, he reflected with an unusual touch of humour. The whole suggestion reminded him of the funny little square-faced girl, who had so unexpectedly accosted him on those two or three occasions long ago.

He waited until the evening to answer, and then wrote with great care. After all, though he had resolved never to see Joan again, he was very lonely. Yes, he was getting an old man, he realized suddenly. Why, he would be seventy on his next birthday! It was no good denying it, he wanted his daughter. With a sudden dismay he felt that he wanted her more than she wanted him. Well, he would make her an offer that would be easy for her to accept. If Joan and her grandmother, he wrote, would bind themselves to have nothing more to do with the stage, the cheque for Mrs. Lennox’s quarterly allowance would be sent by return, and Joan would receive two thousand dollars a year dress money, besides being provided for in every respect as befitted his daughter. Further, and Mr. Vandeleur not unnaturally regarded this as the greatest concession, Joan should continue to live with her grandmother if she preferred it—possibly a trip to Europe later on might re-establish the invalid’s health. Even if she decided not to reside at home, he hoped that they would often see her, the father rather pathetically concluded.

The letter finished, John Vandeleur sat with an unusually softened expression on his cold face. He unlocked a little drawer and took out a photograph of Joan that had been done the previous winter. It was like her, and, as he looked at it, his face changed still further. Well, he would soon see her again, for surely she could not stand out in the face of such a proposal. Could anyone ask for more? Not one word of blame, or even of criticism; indeed, he had especially stipulated that bygones should be bygones. He was glad that he had never corrected the press announcements of Miss Vandeleur’s departure for Europe. No one now need ever know of the mad escapade.

Mr. Vandeleur would have been very surprised had he seen the reception of his generous offer. Its very liberality seemed to outrage Joan almost beyond endurance. “Trying to bribe me,” she cried with tears of anger starling to her eyes. “Yes, trying to bribe me through my love for Granny. It isn’t fair! It’s base! It’s contemptible!” The underlying affection was lost on her; she only thought that her father was using a mean pecuniary advantage to try and bend her to his will. She tore up the letter furiously and sent off a curt refusal.

The money problem was the more trying because Joan had so much time in which to think of it. After the first critical days of the illness, there seemed literally nothing for her to do, and nowhere for her to do it. As soon as her grandmother was pronounced definitely out of danger, she found that the nurses resented her constant presence in the sick room. This would have had little weight with her, but she herself felt that a point had been reached, when her grandmother was really better alone. When she was there, Granny would try and talk, instead of lying in the comatose state, which Dr. Strachey recommended. “Absolute rest—that’s the best medicine in the pharmacopœia,” he had observed.

With the nursing home thus debarred to her, there was little else left. A spell of rainy weather had set in, turning the streets into a positive morass and making walks a penance, if only for the skirt-brushing labours they afterwards entailed. Her tiny bedroom at the third-rate hotel was unheated, and its one chair a triumph of discomfort; still it was preferable to the public lounge filled of an evening with expectorating male humanity. It was, indeed, the evenings that Joan found most trying, for her grandmother was definitely secluded for the night at eight o’clock, while Mr. Montgomery and all the other members of the company were, of course, at the theatre. Some of them, who were staying at the same hotel, used to urge her to come down too, but this Joan refused. She would not go back as a ragged Cinderella to the ball where she had dazzled as the Princess.

The second week was even more depressing, for the company migrated to Portsmouth, depriving Joan of the meagre society she had up till then enjoyed. The girl remained where she was, so as to be near her grandmother. A few miles added to her daily six o’clock expedition of enquiry made little difference, except in cost. In a burst of good resolution she had set herself to live on a dollar a day, so the car fares meant docking her scanty meals still further. Her healthy young appetite resented the treatment. And the solitary evening hours seemed particularly long when she was hungry.

Consequently when, one day, she received a note from Eustace Chalfont, forwarded from the theatre, inviting her to a concert the following evening, she was inclined to view it favourably. “Dear and wonderful lady,” the letter characteristically began. “You would have heard from me long before, but the day after your triumphant ‘Vivi,’ I fell a victim to that modern scourge of the furies—la grippe.” He asked further whether before the concert a humble bard might be honoured by her presence at dinner.

Joan certainly hesitated. She had never liked the man, and she thought the wording of his letter silly. Moreover she had a shrewd idea that her grandmother would disapprove of such an unchaperoned expedition. But, of course, she could not worry Granny by discussing it with her in her present condition. And, after all, it was not as though Mr. Chalfont were just anyone. He was a distinguished poet, from whom an invitation was a certain honour. It showed that he regarded her as an equal, a fellow artist. Yes, she now belonged to the glamorous country of Bohemia, where ordinary Philistine conventionalities did not apply.

Besides, so Joan’s self-justifying thoughts ran on, even from the ordinary standpoint, where was the harm? Mr. Chalfont was quite old, and an intimate friend of her mother’s. It was true that during the last two or three years she had not seen him at home, but that was probably because she had been there so little herself. Anyway, she knew him quite well. This fact made her forget that the poet, on his side, was proposing a tête-à-tête dinner after what he imagined to be a three minutes’ acquaintance. Such a proceeding was, to say the least of it, precipitate. But Joan, unless consciously studying a part, was not given to considering other people’s points of view. Instead, the dramatic piquancy of a situation, in which she knew the man while he did not know her, finally decided her to accept.

All the same, she told herself, she had better word her answer discreetly, and thus set the right tone from the beginning. She even contemplated the third person, but decided that it would become troublesomely involved. “Dear Mr. Chalfont,” she finally wrote, “I have much pleasure in accepting your invitation for the concert, but I regret that I cannot dine with you first. I am engaged every evening at that time. Yours faithfully, Joan North.”

After she had finished the brief communication, she sat looking at it wistfully. A yearning came over her for a well-cooked, nicely-served dinner—or, indeed, for any dinner. Besides, a man like Eustace Chalfont must have an interesting side. She would have enjoyed talking with him, and there would be little opportunity at a concert. Still it could not be helped. Although she always got back from Portsmouth before dinner, the hour from seven to eight was consecrated to Granny; even the disagreeable nurses had come to look upon it as an institution. Indeed, apart from this time, it was difficult for her and Granny to see each other. The various invalid rites and rests and her own expedition to the theatre seemed to take up all the day. If only things could have been arranged differently. Joan added a sudden postscript. “Would it be too late after the concert to have dinner?”

Had she seen Mr. Chalfont’s face as he read the letter, she would certainly have withdrawn her acceptance. At first he was puzzled. He could not remember any ‘dear lady’ signing herself ‘yours faithfully’ before—indeed faith was not a quality that entered much into Chalfont’s relations with women. But at the postscript he smiled with a shade of contempt. “Oh that type—réculer pour mieux sauter.” Indeed, had he not imagined Miss North to be more or less of ‘that type,’ he would probably not have asked her. Certainly it never crossed his mind that a woman who played Vivi, and played her so amazingly well, could be very innocent. His opinion in this respect had been strengthened by Joan’s unchaperoned departure with Mr. Montgomery at the end of the performance. In Chalfont’s eyes the blameless little man still figured as Vivi’s decadent lover, and so his obvious care for the star seemed to admit but of one explanation. A desire to cut him out had been the final spark to fire Chalfont’s easy amorousness.

According to arrangement, Miss North was to meet him in the lobby of the Concert Hall. She was wearing rather a beautiful evening cloak of a kind of golden brocade, for, owing to the retirement of the fur coat from active service, she literally had nothing else. It was somewhat grand for the occasion, but it suited her, giving her straight young figure a regal air. She looked a good deal more than her age as she stood there under the bright light, but Chalfont, as he came in, was startled by her youth, as well as by her beauty. He had imagined on the ‘Vivi’ night that Miss North was a woman of thirty-five or forty, whose looks were chiefly the result of a judicious make up—which was, indeed, the effect that Joan had always aimed at producing. But this girl must be years younger, he now realized, and if she were made up, it was extraordinarily well done. Perhaps the life he had led for so long had dulled Eustace Chalfont’s susceptibilities; otherwise he surely would have realized that his mistake went deeper. As it was the discovery of Joan’s youth, instead of suggesting her innocence, only suggested her desirability.

The music was good, exceptionally good for so small a town, and Joan joined heartily in the enthusiastic applause, resulting in frequent encores. Only one thing detracted from her pleasure, and that was the way in which, every now and then, her companion pressed his arm against her own. She shifted uneasily, but the seats were narrow, and if she moved any further, she, in her turn, would be leaning indecorously against an old gentleman on the other side. However, she supposed it was inadvertence on Mr. Chalfont’s part, especially as, when it occurred during an interval, his flow of talk went on undisturbed. What a lot he knew about music, Joan felt admiringly. And she, although so fond of it, was very ignorant. Her final thanks were quite genuine. “I have loved it,” she said gratefully. Her eye happened to catch sight of the clock at the end of the hall. It was pointing to twenty minutes to eleven. Of course, it was far too late for dinner, she realized. Underneath the grand cloak, there was a sensation of uncomfortable emptiness, which her interest in the music had hitherto kept away. Even if she allowed herself the extravagance, it would be impossible to get anything to eat at the hotel at this hour. “You must have thought it silly of me to suggest dining after the concert,” she said to her companion with rather a faint laugh, “but I had no idea the programme would be so beautifully long.”

Eustace Chalfont was looking at her curiously. “It is too late for dinner, but just the right time for supper,” he said. “I have ordered it at a little place quite close; they do you very decently. So you must come now.”

Joan still hesitated. A nice supper was very tempting. “Would you have to pay if we didn’t go?” she asked, prompted by her new instinct for economy.

“I certainly should.” Chalfont was again puzzled. He had never met an artiste with this solicitude about money—especially someone else’s money! Besides she couldn’t really want not to come. No, the ‘réculer’ theory still seemed to meet the case. And, by Jove, it did make her more interesting than if she had dropped into his arms. How magnificently that gold cloak suited her. He was conscious of quite an unusual and spontaneous excitement.

There was no doubt that the supper had been ordered, as Mr. Chalfont had said. The bowing proprietor received them at the door. “This way, Madame,” he said as he ushered them through the restaurant and up some stairs. To Joan’s dismay she found herself in a private sitting room. A dainty little supper was laid for two. The crisp rolls and the hors d’œuvres made her feel suddenly ravenous. “Oh, but it isn’t necessary to have a private room,” she said. “I would sooner be downstairs.”

“Madame will find this much quieter and more pleasant,” the proprietor assured her.

Well, it was silly to make a fuss. There was nothing to be afraid of. They weren’t in a savage country, the girl told herself. She let the waiter hang up her cloak.

Sheer hunger carried her happily through two courses. Besides, she was interested in what Mr. Chalfont was telling her. He was working at a long poem on Andromache, he said, and he even recited a verse or two that he had composed that morning. They struck Joan as rather fine. A renewed feeling came over her of the privilege she was enjoying. Wouldn’t the girls at school have envied her? To think of all the thousands and thousands of tables on which lay the slender mauve volume of Eustace Chalfont’s selected poems—but at her table she had the poet himself. If only he would not stare at her in that unpleasant way! Well, after all, she need not look at him; indeed, at any time she preferred not to do so. Although the girl had modified her childish comparison of Chalfont to a blackbeetle, and had even realized that his features were almost faultlessly classical, she still did not like his face with its eruptive tendency.

It was when Mr. Chalfont was discussing the possibility of a music-poetry made up of sounds without sense, that Joan suddenly felt his foot press hers. But, of course, this too was an accident, she reassured herself, as she moved hastily. For the moment it had given her a shock; indeed, she still felt a little breathless. The waiter had come in and was serving the fish. How good sole au gratin was! Why had she never appreciated these nice things, when she could always have them? Mr. Chalfont’s talk now veered to the English men of letters. He seemed to know them all intimately, the familiar names that Joan had looked up to from childhood. Now they suddenly became embodied. She was, indeed, keeping interesting company to-night, she felt! The dignity of Mr. Chalfont’s confrères was hardly enhanced by the anecdotes he told of them, but the lively talk, if a trifle malicious, was most amusing. Several times Joan laughed aloud. She had laid her hand carelessly on the table, when suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Mr. Chalfont’s fingers closed over it. Flushing furiously, the girl jerked it back. The waiter again opportunely appeared.

A sick dismay had come over Joan, almost paralysing her thoughts. There could be no doubt about this being intentional. The fact that on the stage men held her hand, and even embraced her, made no difference. Then she was someone else; this was she, herself. All the time that the waiter was carving and serving the chicken, she was wondering numbly what she should do. Never, never would she put herself in such a horrible situation again! She did not want to make a scene, but if Mr. Chalfont touched her again, she would simply walk out. Anyway he couldn’t keep her by force. She tried to eat the chicken but her appetite had gone.

The waiter once more left them alone. As Joan had dreaded, Mr. Chalfont again tried to take her hand. She rose to her feet; he rose too. The man still genuinely believed that his companion was far from adverse to his advances; even Eustace Chalfont had not sunk so low as to thrust himself forcibly on an unwilling girl. His pulses were beating fast; he had not imagined that nowadays he could ever feel so stirred. “You wonderful creature,” he murmured, “Why do you put me from you when destiny has linked us?” He leant forward. Joan felt his breath on her cheek.

She had been standing almost frozen with disgust and fear. Now, suddenly, she struck out. It was no ladylike box on the ears, but a blow from the shoulder with her clenched fist. Eustace Chalfont went over backwards as though he had been shot. There was a terrific crash—a whole series of crashes. It sounded to Joan as though the universe was clattering about her ears. She would not have thought so much noise possible.

Her blow had taken Chalfont utterly unawares. In any case his elderly frame, weakened and rotten with ill use, was no match physically for the girl’s fresh young strength. It was not for nothing that Joan had learnt gymnastics all her life, and had been the best tennis player at school. In falling, Chalfont had knocked against the supper table, which also went over; then in a last futile attempt to save himself, he had clutched at the cloth. Thus, all the paraphernalia of the meal were shot into the air as from a catapult, knives, forks and glasses rebounding madly from the walls. The appalling uproar penetrated even to the restaurant below. There were questions, exclamations. The waiter rushed into the room, his eyes almost starting from their sockets; he was closely followed by the pale and panting proprietor.

Joan was standing in the middle of the room. Her breath was coming a little fast, but otherwise she seemed undisturbed. Mr. Chalfont lay groaning in a corner draped in the tablecloth, amid a débris of broken plates, wine bottles, roast chicken and fruit. “The gentleman slipped,” Joan observed quietly, “and in falling he unfortunately knocked over the table.”

Not only was she calm superficially; she was almost enjoying the position. The nervous shrinking she had felt all through supper had given place to a sense of competent performance. Indeed, for the first time, she felt the security of the unreal. This amazing episode was surely not part of her everyday life. “I hope you have not hurt yourself, Mr. Chalfont?” she enquired in coldly sweet tones.

The waiter and the proprietor had meanwhile gone over to the prostrate figure. One of the flying dishes had cut his eyebrow, but otherwise he did not seem to be injured. Indeed, Chalfont himself was beginning to realise that although he was bruised and shaken from head to foot, he was still alive. Also it occurred to him that although Bacchus might be vine-crowned, to lie with your head in a mess of squashed grapes, while iced champagne trickled down your sleeve, was neither comfortable nor dignified. It did not seem worthy of the poet of those delicate volumes in their dainty boudoir bindings. Previous episodes with his dear ladies had brought him inspiration, but who, he reflected wrathfully, could base a lyric on this?

The realization of the indignity of his position, together with the feeling that he could not lie groaning there for ever, now prompted Chalfont to move. Aided by the waiter, he staggered to his feet. But the tablecloth, which with the spite of inanimate objects, had wound itself tightly around him, clogged his effort, and brought him stumbling down again on to his knees. “The penitent’s sheet,” Joan murmured meditatively.

“Damn this cloth. Damn, damn, damn,” Chalfont muttered under his breath.

“Oh, please don’t apologise.” Joan’s misunderstanding was purposeful and malicious. “I am sure you could not help falling—such an unfortunate slip!” She turned to the proprietor, “My cloak, please.” Her tone was so dramatically commanding that the man took down the beautiful wrap and held it for her automatically. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Chalfont. I hardly think we shall meet again, as we leave on Sunday. Thank you so much for your hospitality.” With a stately bow, she sailed out.

The exhilaration of her theatrical exit survived the car ride home and the undressing in the cold little hotel bedroom. All the same she was a good deal perturbed. Life was a more complicated business than she had imagined. If only Mr. Chalfont had been entirely base, the problem would have been easier. Then one would have just wished that he had been anæsthetized at birth. But what about “A Little Lily on the Madonna’s Shrine?” She couldn’t wish that anæsthetized too. However, she refused to be worried. The experience might be useful in her work. With this comforting reflection, she fell asleep.

Meanwhile Eustace Chalfont at the restaurant was discussing the price of crockery, a subject which had never before even entered the purlieus of his mind. The proprietor, judging rightly that the gentleman would not bring the matter into court, had presented an appalling bill for breakages. After an exhausting quarter of an hour of wrangle, Chalfont had given way. Even his gold watch went to make up the total. Certainly he found this ‘dear lady’ dearer than he had anticipated. The proprietor’s pretence at generosity as he refunded his customer’s cab fare was even more galling than his extortion.

A cab was certainly indispensable to shelter the deplorable looking object that presently emerged. Despite much mopping, the poet’s shirt and collar were limp with wine and gravy, while a torn coat and a bunged-up eye, already beginning to discolour, completed the wreck. Even the waiter could hardly conceal his grin as he helped him into the taxi; indeed, he made no effort to do so, knowing the impossibility of any further tip.

Nor was Chalfont’s mental condition more serene than his outward appearance. What on earth was he going to do? he was wondering. It would be two months before the next cheque was due from his publisher. Already he had been hard up. This, indeed, was the reason of his protracted stay in Norfolk. The manager of the hotel had a pretty and extremely foolish little wife with artistic aspirations, and, under such circumstances, Chalfont had already discovered that his bill was apt to be postponed or even ignored. But perhaps this silly little fool too would turn on him, he now gloomily reflected. Indeed, the poet never quite recovered his trusting faith in the frailty of woman.

CHAPTER XV.

Joan did not appear again in ‘Vivi.’ But during the remaining three weeks of the tour she continued to live and even to save on her salary. The sensation of being entirely self-supporting brought her a distinct joy. She now patronized the theatrical boarding house in preference to the cheap hotel—the cost might not be lower, but the living was certainly higher. Indeed, it would have been impossible for her to go on as during the fortnight at Norfolk. Apart from a deepening disfavour in the hotel staff due to her penurious meals, the girl had found herself growing languid and perceptibly thinner. The fare at the boarding houses, although inelegant, was usually ample. She wondered regretfully why her grandmother had shunned these establishments. There would have been at least another hundred dollars in the bank. She did not guess that she was the cause of Mrs. Lennox’s abstention. The fond grandmother had shrunk from the mixed boarding house society for her cherished child.

It may have been the more liberal diet that now brought back Joan’s self-confidence. The money problem ceased to worry her. The girl never wavered in her confidence as to her ultimate success, but now the immediate future also seemed to smooth out. As soon as the tour was over, she would return to Norfolk to make more economical arrangements for her grandmother and then go to New York. At a theatrical agency, her flaming critiques, would, of course, secure her an immediate engagement—what else were theatrical agencies for? She still could not understand Mr. Clark’s indifference in the whole matter. Probably the manager himself in his less love-besotted moments had some prickings of conscience. After a performance such as Joan had given, his duty to the management had, of course, demanded that he should urge her immediate engagement. Instead he had not even reported the success. One day, at Washington, in the last week of the tour, he happened to come across Joan at the theatre, and nervously murmured something about Mr. Hobson wanting her for the next season. “Yes, I know,” the girl replied; “but I must get an engagement at once.” She went on to explain that in consequence of this, she might not be free in the autumn. “Oh, of course, in that case——” Mr. Clark acquiesced hurriedly, and the subject dropped.

It may have been as a salve to his conscience, or merely to relieve Miss Bransom a day sooner of the understudy’s noxious presence, that Mr. Clark was so unusually liberal when he heard of Joan’s proposed return to Norfolk. Her contract only specified that the tour should terminate in New York. The stage manager now not only waived the condition of her travelling there with the rest of the company, but even handed her a mileage ticket that almost covered her journey to Norfolk and back. “It is little enough,” he stammered in reply to her thanks.

Joan was still farther heartened on reaching Norfolk to discover the progress that her grandmother had made during her absence. Mrs. Lennox was naturally still weak and easily tired, but it was clearly unnecessary for her to remain longer at a nursing home, even if they could have afforded it. Dr. Strachey again came to the rescue in recommending a family who lived at Virginia Beach, an ocean pleasure resort some fifteen miles out of the city. These people did not take boarders professionally, but he thought they would welcome a solitary paying guest. This was arranged, and the terms of fifteen dollars a week seemed so moderate compared with the fifty at the home, that Joan hardly remembered they had equally not got it. This time her grandmother’s fur coat went the way of her own. The weather had turned so mild that its departure seemed only a disembarrassment.

Another incident that marked the few days the girl spent at Norfolk, was a letter from Maude Dupuy. In Joan’s initial letter to her father she had asked that any correspondence might be forwarded to her grandmother’s bank, which they had kept duly notified of the many changes of address. But hitherto she had received practically nothing—who, indeed, was there to write to her? Maude had been her only real friend at school, and Maude, she imagined, was too hurt by her desertion to make any sign. So she was overjoyed to get the letter. When she had finished it, she was more doubtful about her feelings. Certainly it was a great surprise! For after a page of plaint over her friend’s absence, Maude related that Mr. Grierson had suddenly appeared in Venice expecting to meet Joan. He was terribly disappointed, Maude said, and they had had to console each other. This they had done so effectually that they were now engaged. Maude was evidently in the seventh heaven of happiness. She hoped that some day this joy would come to her darling Joan. ‘Charlie’ was the dearest person in the whole world. She did not know how she should bear it when he went back to America. They were to be married the following year. It was so wonderful that he should care for her!

So that was over, Joan reflected soberly. Mr. Grierson was now holding Maude’s hand and bidding her ‘a rivederla.’ She had not thought much about her whilom adorer during the three months of tour—indeed, she had not had the time—but he had remained in the background of her mind as a pleasant and devoted figure. Well, her work was quite enough to fill her life, she told herself. She was very, very glad that Maude was so happy.

The first step in Joan’s programme was coaxing her grandmother over to the idea of an unchaperoned visit to New York. As she had expected, Mrs. Lennox was horrified. She insisted that a young girl like Joan could not stay there alone; she would have to come too.

“But, Granny, you aren’t strong enough yet,” the girl remonstrated. “You know that you would only be ill.” She pointed out further that she would certainly get an engagement within two or three days, and no one could tell to what part of the States it might take her. Suppose she had to come straight back South! How absurd it would have been then for Granny to have had the long and expensive journey for nothing. Her final argument, to which Mrs. Lennox yielded, was to produce the address of a New York boarding house for ladies only, at which Mr. Montgomery’s wife had stayed.

In addition to the name of the boarding house, Joan had also obtained from the kind little man, details as to the best dramatic agency—it never even occurred to her that she might have to do with more than one. So the morning after her arrival in New York she confidently sallied out to find it. The office was fairly full. Several smart ladies were sitting in rocking chairs, while two or three men of indeterminate age, and belonging to the theatrical type she could already recognize, were standing idly about. They all seemed to know each other, Joan noticed, and were carrying on an animated conversation. A sensation of being an alien immigrant assailed her as she advanced to the wire fence that railed off half the room. Despite her secret discomfort, her manner was assured. This and the perfect cut of the spring suit she was wearing, seemed to impress the haughty employees on the other side, for one of these young ladies, merely pausing to give her hair a couple of pats, sauntered slowly forward. “Kindly take my card to Miss Hoskin,” Joan observed.

“You’ve got an appointment, I presume?” There was a slump in the girl’s civility as she heard there was no appointment. However, another appraising glance at Joan’s Fifth Avenue costume seemed to have a subduing effect, and the damsel disappeared with the card. Joan herself subsided into a chair—a mere, plain, stable one—a little apart from the other women, who eyed her with a slightly hostile curiosity, and went on talking. They seemed to be discussing plays, new and old, and there were several references to ‘The Under Dog.’ What a run that dog was having, Joan reflected humorously. She unfolded a newspaper that she fortunately had bought on her way.

After a wait of more than an hour, during which several of the assembled company departed, Miss Hoskin came out from an inner room. She seemed to be on friendly terms with the assembled Thespians, for she walked round and had a little chat with each. At last she came to Joan. Perhaps Miss Hoskin, too, was impressed by the girl’s appearance, or perhaps the sublimity of her position as boss did not need the reinforcement of rudeness, for on hearing her errand, she graciously invited her into the inner office. Joan followed, quite unaware of the unusual privilege, or of the slightly-elevated brows of the established rocking-chaired ladies.

Miss Hoskin looked surprised when Joan related her very limited theatrical experience. She was beginning to say that this was hardly the right agency, when the girl produced her Norfolk clippings. These were evidently mollifying. “They are very good, very good indeed,” Miss Hoskin murmured. “Perhaps you have friends among the Virginian pressmen?” She gave Joan a sharp look.

“Certainly not. I don’t know any journalists at all.” Joan flushed angrily.

“Oh, it does one no harm to have a little influence of that sort,” Miss Hoskin deprecated. “Well, you certainly have wonderful critiques, Miss North, but the trouble is our New York managers don’t pay much attention to the provincial press.”

“But I can’t have a New York press until I have appeared in New York, and apparently I can’t appear in New York until I have had a New York press!” The absurdity of the position restored Joan’s good humour. “It is like a man who would not go into the water until he could swim,” she suggested laughingly.

Miss Hoskin also smiled. “Well, call again in two or three days and I will see what I can do for you,” she told her.

Joan was intensely surprised at finding herself in the street again without a definite engagement. However, her confidence was still unshaken. It kept her from even approaching another agency before her return to Miss Hoskin’s a couple of days later. This time the principal did not see her. “Miss Hoskin is sorry, but she has not heard anything for you yet,” one of the superior young ladies behind the wire fence informed her. “Will you call back again in a few days’ time?”

New York was evidently not on tiptoe to acclaim a new actress. The names starred in fire outside the Broadway theatres seemed daily more incredibly aloof. She had better try one of the other agencies, Joan realized rather soberly. Indeed, during the next few days she tried them all. For the most part she was received politely enough, her name entered, and she was asked to call again. When she called again, it was always to be told that they had heard of nothing yet. Once or twice she was sent to see managers, only to hear, to her stupefaction, that she was not suited for the part. The number of stairs she toiled up and down in these days would, she was sure, have totalled into millions. Why theatrical agencies were not approached by elevators, like all other offices she could not imagine. At last she solved the riddle; the elevators had all worn out! Gradually the ‘two or three days,’ of which she had spoken to her grandmother, dragged into weeks.

Although it was still only May, the weather had suddenly turned warm. The feminine boarding house, with its perpetual clatter of high-toned voices and pervasive smell of cooking, grew almost unendurable. The agencies were even worse, packed with anxious and perspiring applicants. Either the heat, or the perpetual negative, began to get on Joan’s nerves. She grew white and got up each morning feeling even more tired than when she went to bed. Her assurance deserted her just when she most needed it. The incredulity she had felt at not getting an engagement began to change into an incredulity of ever getting one. Like her treasured Norfolk cuttings, she felt herself becoming dingy and worn. How she had got to loathe these fulsome encomiums as she heard them run through sotto voce by successive agents in her presence. Certainly no New York manager could have had a greater contempt for them than she acquired!

And yet other people got engagements, other people who, she felt sure, had not a tenth of her power—that was the curious part of it! Apart from the occasional celebrity, a denizen of another sphere, who trod a haughty way straight through the waiting room into the inner office; apart from the aristocracy of the rocking chairs that sat fanning itself in one or two of the most select agencies; apart from such superior beings, mere humdrum, unknown applicants like herself, with not a tithe of her appearance or distinction, seemed to get taken while she was left. By the end of May the waiting crowd perceptibly thinned.

All this time the girl had been existing on her best evening dress and the gold brocade cloak that had won Mr. Chalfont’s undesirable admiration. Like an inverse crustacean, Joan consumed instead of forming her successive protective coverings. She had thought herself lucky in thus raising fifty dollars, but the sum was melting away at an uncomfortably rapid rate even at the extremely economical boarding house. And, after this, she had nothing left to pawn. Her outfit for Europe, although costly, had not been large. It would be madness, she felt, to part with the business asset of well-made clothing in order to buy inferior substitutes, and a dubious gain even pecuniarily. Of course, her grandmother still possessed objects of luxury, but she would sooner starve, Joan felt, than touch one cent accruing from these.

For the girl’s earlier careless acceptance of her grandmother’s sacrifices had, since the illness, been replaced by a rather dramatically exaggerated sense of her own responsibility. Whatever happened, Granny must be maintained in, at least, her present state of comfort. The poor lady’s words when she heard of the refusal of Mr. Vandeleur’s offer had bitten deeply into Joan’s consciousness. “Oh, my dear child,” Mrs. Lennox had cried with tears of weakness welling into her eyes, “I do wish you had discussed the matter with me before taking such a decisive step.”

“But, Granny, you were too ill to discuss it.” A sudden horrible fear had seized the girl that perhaps for the second time she had sacrificed her grandmother. “How could we have accepted Father’s offer when he wanted us both to promise to give up the stage for ever?”

“No, I suppose not.—Of course, you must go on with your career, darling,” Mrs. Lennox had reassured her. “It is only that I get so tired since my illness. Sometimes I wonder whether I shall ever play again. I am afraid your poor old Granny is only a drag on you, dear, instead of a help.”

It was this episode that made Joan glide so lightly over her discouragements in her frequent letters to her grandmother. Indeed Mrs. Lennox still had the impression that Joan was on the point of getting a first class engagement, when the girl, in despair, was contemplating posing for the films. She had a long struggle with herself. The cinema had not then attained its present gilded respectability, and she felt such work a degradation, a prostitution of her art. However, for Granny’s sake she decided to make the sacrifice—only to find that no one would accept it. The film managers did not even get as far as reading her notices. “You may be all right in ordinary drama,” they told her bluntly, “but that don’t make you any good for us.”

When June came and the girl found that she had only twenty dollars left in her purse, a sudden panic seized her. It was not so much for herself—she had no doubt that she could somehow worry through—but there was Granny. Already Mrs. Lennox’s fur coat must have been consumed; indeed the doctor’s bill had accounted for more than half of it. Of course, Granny still had her onyx ring. Also in the three trunks, that Joan had now got out of storage, there were a good many things with which her grandmother could comfortably part. But one would not be able to raise much on these odds and ends, Joan realized with her newly-acquired wisdom. She felt sure that all together they would not pay Granny’s fifteen dollars a week for four months. Well, for the time being she must give up the stage and look about for a lucrative job.

As a first step she would get back again to Norfolk, while she still had the money for the fare. She must be near Granny to look after her and see about pawning the ring. Even if Granny had been well enough to come to New York, she wanted to get away from the constant nervous dread that had seized her here of meeting her father whenever she went out. Besides, she supposed that domestic service was her obvious opening, and she knew that in the South white labour was at a premium. A dramatic realization of herself in a neat, white apron, earning fabulous sums, passed before her eyes.

During the long railway journey, unalleviated by a sleeper, the girl had plenty of time in which to think out her plans. The possibilities of the Jamestown Exposition from the money-earning point of view came into her mind. One of the nurses at the Home in Norfolk—a terrible gossip—had chattered to her about a friend who was going to be a waitress there. “She expects to make quite a good sum by the end of the summer,” the nurse had said. Apparently a lot of girls would be engaged in this capacity, while peanuts would be sold, tickets taken, and wheel-chairs pushed by young fellows earning their college fees.

Well, why shouldn’t she be one of these girls? Joan now asked herself. It would be far pleasanter to have daily work than to live with a strange family. Of course, the Exposition had been opened since she went to New York; possibly they might have got all the waitresses they needed. Her soaring optimism, however, refused to be depressed. Nor did her entire lack of experience weigh with her. She felt certain that she could do anything of which a friend of Nurse Brown’s was capable. How lucky it was, it occurred to her suddenly, that she had not had a photograph to give to the pressmen after her solitary triumph. It would never have done for a star, however transient, to be handing iced drinks! But without the photograph she was safe. No one could possibly know ‘Vivi’ again without the make up. She remembered the nice, unknown young man’s astonishment, and odious Mr. Chalfont’s start of surprise. And, as for recognition in her own capacity, her circle had hitherto been so limited—the girls at school, the guests at her small coming-out dance, a few friends of her parents, and of the Dupuys. How unlikely that any of these would just happen to come to the restaurant where she was employed. And if they did, it would never occur to them that John Vandeleur’s daughter could be waiting on them. At the most they would comment on the likeness. Of course, she on her side, would not give any sign of recognition. Whatever the managers thought, she could act well enough for that! She would study the proper accent, the proper way of doing the hair, all the accessories for the part of a waitress. Her spirits rose at the dramatic possibilities of the new occupation.

This time Joan’s confidence in herself was more justified. There had been an unexpected rush of visitors in the first month of the Exhibition, and the sudden hot weather had strained the resources of the buffets to their utmost. The new type of ‘manager’ whose acquaintance she now made, was only too glad to secure the services of such a respectable, capable-looking girl. “Oh, you’ll soon pick it up,” he replied to her frank confession of inexperience. “Start right in to-morrow morning.” The hours were ten to nine, with an hour off during the afternoon. Food was provided, and the nominal pay one fifty a week. “But, of course, you may make anything in tips,” the manager assured her. “Why, some girls get three or four dollars a day if they are smart.”

It sounded an El Dorado after her recent experiences. Evidently waitresses were in more request than actresses. She might even be able to pay for Granny herself without pawning anything else. On her arrival in Norfolk the night before, the girl had gone to her old hotel, but now she set out to find a furnished room in the neighbourhood of the Exhibition. She was rather startled at the rents they were asking in these ramshackle little houses, many of which had been merely temporarily run up. Still it would be no economy and a great waste of time to take the car four or five miles into Norfolk each day; and the other cities, such as Newport News, Portsmouth and Hampton, were even further. At last, she found a clean, little room in the house of a respectable old carrier and his wife. The charge here was a little lower—four dollars a week. Moreover a vague, glittering prospect of limitless tips seemed to justify the expenditure.

All this time poor Mrs. Lennox was not even aware that her granddaughter had left New York. For Joan knew very well that her scheme would be opposed, and so wished to present it as a fait accompli. Now, with all her arrangements settled, she started off for Virginia Beach. It was quite a little journey from the Exhibition, and, worse still, an expense. But, in any case, the girl told herself, her work would have prevented her visiting Granny more than once a week.

Mrs. Lennox’s delight at seeing her at first precluded questioning. Joan was equally enraptured, both at being with her grandmother and at finding her looking so much stronger. Granny seemed to like her ‘family’ very much; indeed, they must be nice people Joan felt, when they all tactfully withdrew and left her and Granny alone together. How pleasant it was, sitting rocking on the shady piazza, with a cooling breeze coming from the ocean, and the humming birds—tiny, prismatic flashes in the sunshine—darting their beaks into the white, trumpet-shaped blossoms of the broad-leaved creeper. The peace was soon shattered by the bombshell of Joan’s announcement.

“My dear child, it is impossible!” Mrs. Lennox gasped. “You cannot go as an ordinary waitress. What would your father say?”

“I’d love to hear him say it! Why, Granny, I am going to enjoy myself enormously. Think of what a lot of funny people I shall see, and how interesting it will be to get all those new types! It is an open air buffet, you know—such a relief after four weeks of stuffy agencies. But I do wonder what happens when it rains? Do we just swim round to the customers dressed in neat, little bathing suits with trays balanced on our heads?” At last, after a good deal more of this laughing chatter, the girl succeeded in winning her grandmother’s reluctant consent. Indeed, as her refusal would obviously have made no difference, Mrs. Lennox probably felt that in this way her authority would be best preserved.

The work at the buffet was certainly not so terrible as Mrs. Lennox had imagined. At first standing all day was tiring, but Joan soon adapted herself. If she was a waitress, her ambition forced her to be a star waitress; she was unfeignedly delighted when she found herself outstripping all the others. “Why you want to fly around so, my dear, I can’t imagine,” one of the other girls protested. “It makes me real tired to look at you. Let the customers wait! It don’t harm them any.”

Certainly Joan’s activity could not be explained by her desire for pecuniary gain, for in this respect, the job was an utter disappointment. She got, of course, her specified pay, but the three or four dollars a day in tips, which the manager had dangled before her, were a figment of his imagination. None of the girls at this restaurant received anything like it, and Joan, despite her ‘smartness,’ received the least of all. The fact was her lofty manners and evident refinement made people nervous of ‘feeing’ her. She was too superior, they felt. But, indeed, the clientèle that patronized the buffet had not the tipping habit. Most of them were humble folk, teachers, storekeepers, farmers, cotton agents, who would have been insulted to receive a monetary gratuity themselves and considered it equally insulting to offer one. The waitresses were their equals—not niggers to have surreptitious dimes and nickels slipped into their palms. Occasionally a couple hailing from New York, or hardened by European travel, would leave a quarter beside their empty plates. Once a gilded youth tried to press a dollar bill on the good-looking waitress, but Joan almost threw it at him in her indignation. Indeed, she soon decided that the people who wanted to fee her were the only ones she did not want to serve!

For, on the whole, she liked the customers, she liked their kind patience, their blunt courtesy. Often when she was carrying a heavy tray, some man would rise and silently take it out of her hands. Had she been there as Miss Vandeleur she could not have been treated with more politeness. She was even amused by the constant enquiries to which she was subjected with regard to the Exposition. Its distinguishing features, according to the handbills, were the great “naval rendezvous” and “the exploitation of history.” On both of these subjects Joan now found herself constituted an authority. “Say, Miss”—an anxious seeker after knowledge would begin, and then a string of questions followed. By retailing scraps of information gleaned from previous customers, Joan usually managed to come out successfully. A favourite tit-bit, she discovered, was the value of the fighting craft in Hampton Roads—“two hundred and fifty million dollars,” she would announce impressively, “and double that amount on gala days.” “You don’t say?” the awed interlocutor would exclaim, and hurrying to the shore line, gaze at the multi-million spectacle with rapt enthusiasm.

But although Joan liked her work, its financial aspect began to be acutely worrying. Far from paying for her grandmother, it was all that she could do to support herself. For there were many incidental expenses that she had forgotten—aprons to be bought and laundered—shoes—these wore out at an appalling rate. She had never known before that it was possible to have boots mended—but now the discovery became a commonplace! Every other week a pair seemed to need soling, and what a lot it cost! With a new enlargement of her sympathies, she wondered how poor people managed who had several children, each with two feet!

Often the thought came to her of giving up this job and getting something better paid. But she had no time to look for other work, and she dared not give notice on an uncertainty. Besides what else was open to her? For domestic service a reference was necessary, she had discovered; how, in her peculiar position, was she to procure one? Factory work of any sort would spoil her hands—she was not vain, but nice hands were a stage necessity. And, after all, would factory work in the end bring in more money? Here, at least, she got her food and plenty of it. Indeed, too much! At times the constant sight and smell of things to eat and drink quite sickened her. Would she ever enjoy a meal again? A diet of meat lozenges became her epicurean ideal.

As the summer went on, the position grew more trying. The restaurant was shamefully understaffed; rushing around in the intense heat became almost unbearable. Certainly the greater number of the customers now ordered sodas and ice cream, and these were cool and pleasant to handle, but some misguided folk still demanded their planked steak, or pork and beans, even for the sweltering mid-day meal. Pork and steak with the thermometer over a hundred in the shade! Joan used to speculate in dejected amazement over their salamander-like constitutions. For herself, she grew to eat less and less—now that she could have all she wanted free of charge! She had never in her life experienced such heat. July had always found her at Firenze, or in the mountains, not grilling down South in Virginia! Her buffet was at some distance from the shore line, but from it she could see the blue water. It added the tortures of Tantalus to her toil. Oh, how she longed to plunge into the sea, to have it cover her all over, to be for once cool. Even the hated Long Branch took on an alluring aspect in her memory!

It was not only the heat that tried her; the whole Exposition had got terribly on her nerves. She hated the noise, the crowds, the gritty paths, the tawdry unreality. At night the place was really rather beautiful with its lagoons and white buildings outlined with myriads of tiny electric lamps, while the ships in the roads took up the same starry effectiveness, and great searchlights played over the whole with weird solemnity like pointing fingers of fate. But the beauty, instead of soothing, only galled Joan further. What was the use of it all? she asked herself impatiently. Scenic effects should be a means and not an end. This was a dead playhouse, a theatre without a soul.

The fact was that perhaps for the first time in Joan’s life, she was experiencing an attack of intense depression. Her sanity and coolness, inherited from her father, had hitherto almost concealed an artistic temperament, but now this had asserted itself. The present was intolerable and the future worse. Her drab outlook gradually deepened to an inky sable. She was losing her courage—she knew it herself—and it was almost the last thing left to lose. Everything belonging both to her and to her grandmother was slowly being pawned. The last time she had been to Virginia Beach—a rare luxury nowadays—Granny had said that she meant to give notice. She could not wish for a nicer family to board with, but the financial position was becoming impossible, particularly as her ring had proved a disappointment. If Joan wanted to try the stage again—the girl had here been conscious of her grandmother’s wistful, interrogatory look—then she too, Mrs. Lennox said, must find some method of earning her living. The fact was, that with returning strength, the grandmother was shedding her apathetic acquiescence. Did Joan think they would employ an old woman at the buffet? she asked.

Joan had exclaimed in horror at the idea. Indeed, it would have been absolute folly. Mrs. Lennox was already looking pulled down by the heat. If she felt it resting there quietly in the pleasant, shaded house, it was inconceivable that she could stand being a waitress in the hot, bustling Exhibition. But what then was to be done, Granny insisted. They simply had not enough, either in cash or in goods, to carry on like this for another two months. If she did not work, at least she must come and share her granddaughter’s little room. That, in itself, would be an immense economy. Joan, knowing the oven-like properties of her abode, again demurred. There was hardly a scrap of green round the house and no screens to the windows. Granny would certainly fall ill in such a place. And where was she to get her meals? At last, after much persuasion, Mrs. Lennox consented to wait until the end of the month before giving her hosts notice.

But as Granny had said, what was to be done? The decision, though postponed, was not avoided. Joan asked herself the question with growing despondency during the next few days. How were they to get on until the autumn? And even if they managed it, would it be of any use? For the girl had heard nothing from Mr. Hobson. Mr. Walker had told her in his earlier letter that the great man was returning from Europe early in July. So to make sure of not being forgotten, on the first of July Joan had written to him. That was three weeks ago. Her letter had not even been acknowledged!

But there was a still deeper shade to the gloom, a lower circle to the Inferno. If Mr. Hobson did give her an engagement, was it in the least likely that he would give her anything but a small part? She would be lucky if she got fifteen dollars a week. How was she going to support Granny in any decent comfort and keep herself on that sum? It was very unlikely that Granny would be strong enough to tour in a piece herself, even supposing she were able to get an engagement. Oh, why had she persuaded Granny to ‘elope’? Out of sheer selfishness she had broken up Granny’s comfortable life, she had exposed her to all this hardship, she had nearly killed her. Well, she was being punished now, the girl reflected bitterly. If Granny had not been there, she would have been able to win through. Why hadn’t she had sense enough to ‘elope’ alone? Her father would not have been so unfair as to stop Granny’s allowance, if she had known nothing about the project. At the worst he could only have made Granny promise never to see her—and how often did they meet now? She had seen Granny five times in the last three months.

At last one night Joan’s despair reached its climax. She got out of bed—it was far too hot for sleep—and began to write to her father. The letter showed a business-like instinct that should have appealed to Mr. Vandeleur. For the girl had determined that if she had to give up her career, she would get a good price for it. The terms that her father had offered her before were fair enough, but they were not lasting. For herself she did not mind; but she meant to have a clear understanding with respect to her grandmother. So she wrote, with a vague recollection of the phraseology in her theatrical contract, that if her father, John P. Vandeleur, would settle on Mrs. Lennox her former allowance unconditionally for the term of her natural life, then she, Joan Vandeleur, the third contracting party, would agree to renounce all idea of appearing on the theatrical stage, such an undertaking on her part to be terminated either by the decease of the aforesaid John P. Vandeleur or of the aforesaid Frances Lennox. As she appended her signature to the queer, semi-legal document, she suddenly pushed it aside and buried her face in her hands. “But I can’t bear them to die—not even Father,” she sobbed wildly, “and if they ever did, it would be no use. For I’d be much too old by then, much, much too old. I am losing it all, I am losing everything. I am giving up my life.”

CHAPTER XVI.

The letter to Mr. Vandeleur was not of course sent that night. Even the fervour of Joan’s renunciation stopped at that. She was too tired to dress again and take it out to the mail box. When the morning came, after an almost sleepless night, she decided to postpone the irrevocable step until the end of the month. This gave her eight days of grace. It was conceivable that something might turn up during that time. In any case the waiting would do no harm. As her grandmother was only giving notice on August 1st, she could not leave Virginia Beach until the 8th, so there would be time for Father to reply before that refuge had to be abandoned.

During the next few days Joan went about with the miserable missive in her pocket and the feeling of a condemned criminal at heart. Perhaps there was a slight mitigation in her previous gloom, for the irresponsibility of despair had seized her. She had done all she could. Now fate must take its course. If the gods made no sign, she told herself dramatically, the letter should be mailed as the clock finished striking midnight on July 31st.

During the two months that Joan worked at the restaurant, no one she even knew by sight had ever come in. Now one evening, the day before the fateful thirty-first, she did see a familiar face. It was the ugly, interesting-looking man who had walked up with her to the nursing home the day following her ‘Vivi’ appearance. Joan felt a distinct pleasure. Although her acquaintance with the man was of the slightest, he somehow, curiously enough, gave her the impression of an old friend. Perhaps, though, she ought to pretend not to know him, she reflected. Should she conceal her identity as she had planned? But after all what did it matter? Joan North, the actress, would soon be dead; it made no difference now her being discovered as a restaurant girl. Besides, in any case, this man would probably not recognize, or even see her.

At this moment the new-comer, who was standing scanning the crowded tables for an empty seat, happened to glance in Joan’s direction. Their eyes met and he evidently did recognize her. An unmistakable pleasure and interest flashed into his face, to be followed by a stare almost of stupefaction. He came over quickly and held out his hand. As Joan was dexterously balancing five ice cream sodas, she naturally could not take it. “Miss North,” he exclaimed, “what in the world are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Joan smiled. She had not smiled for so long that her muscles felt quite unaccustomed. Suddenly her experienced eye caught sight of a chair being vacated. “Look, there’s a seat, if that’s what you want,” she exclaimed, indicating it with a nod of her head. “If you don’t take it quickly, someone will grab it. That is one of my tables, so I will come for your order in a minute.”

The man was sitting obediently in the place when she returned. It was a small table for one only, so talk was not impossible. “Are you playing a waitress next season, that you have taken on this job?” he began with a perceptible shade of anxiety.

“I am playing a waitress now. What can I get you?” Joan firmly proffered the bill of fare. The comedy of the situation began to appeal pleasantly to her theatric instinct.

He disregarded the professional question. “But why are you here, Miss North? Is it just for the experience?” he persisted.

“No, for the dollars—but a waitress mustn’t wait. This is our busy time.” She hurried off to various diners who were sitting before their empty plates, monuments to the amazing patience of America.

The next time she came up, her new friend had his order ready. “Fried chicken and salad,” he started off breathlessly, “but, Miss North, does this mean you have severed your connection with the Hobson management?”

His voice trailed away lugubriously, for Joan had already darted off. To-night she beat even her previous record for celerity. How amusing it was, she was thinking, the man being so anxious to talk to her, and under conditions so farcically adverse. In any case she did not want to discuss her plans. How could she, when she did not know them herself? Or rather she did know them only too fatally well. However, she would not let herself think of that. “Here you are,” she said gaily, as she returned with his order. Unfortunately the course was a substantial one, in which the main plate was circled by several little saucers of ‘trimmings,’ like a planet with its satellites. The man’s dismayed face as he regarded it, nearly made Joan laugh. He was evidently thinking that if he had to consume all this between his sentences, the conversation would not progress far. Other gallants might drink to fair ladies, he had the harder task of eating to one. “But you haven’t told me—you aren’t with another manager?” he asked rapidly.

“Yes, I am—the manager of this buffet.” A bell tinkled her away.

After that the baulked talker was wiser. He warily ordered the lightest items in the menu. “Is your mother with you? Might I call?” he enquired in the next breathless pause.

“No. Impossible—I have got no parlour—You did say sarsaparilla?” Joan again vanished.

After his fifth ice cream soda, the young man gave up the effort. However, as a reward for his gastronomic exertions, a faint lull came in the business, which permitted a little relaxation of Joan’s activity at the moment that she brought him his bill. “I was a good deal surprised to see you here this evening, Miss North,” her customer observed unnecessarily.

“I could see you were!” Joan laughed. She was really enjoying herself. “I suppose you were shocked at my doing work of this sort?”

“Well, no, a socialist would hardly be shocked—”

Joan interrupted him eagerly. She had often heard her father inveigh against socialism, but she had never, so far as she was aware, met one of its exponents in the flesh before. “Are you really and truly a socialist?” she asked.

It was the man’s turn to laugh. “I guess that’s one over on me, Miss North,” he said good-humouredly. “One crows on one’s own little ash-heap and thinks the whole world is standing still to listen!”

“But I couldn’t know your name as a socialist, because I don’t know your name at all,” Joan retorted. The entry of a new and large party claimed her attention.

When Joan was again free, her friend had gone. She wondered whether she should ever see him again—not that she had much doubt of his soon making his way to the restaurant again, but would she still be there herself? A sudden revulsion of feeling seized her after the last hour of comedy. Never had her future loomed so unutterably black. Her despair seemed an actual weight crushing her down to earth. How she dragged herself through her work during the rest of the evening, she hardly knew. It was only a feeling of its not being fair on the other tired waitresses that kept her from running away. What was it one of them had said only that morning? ‘It’s a dog’s life and I’d as lief be dead.’ Dead! A sudden picture came to Joan of herself lying white and stark on her little lodging house bed. Yes, and how easily it could happen. She had read in newspapers of people committing suicide by turning on the gas. What a simple solution! It involved no pain; everyone would think it an accident. Perhaps then her father would be sorry for his behaviour. Tears came into her eyes at the thought. “My poor child,” he would say as he bent over her straightened corpse, “how I have wronged you.” He would regret then that he had not acceded to her wishes, that he had not helped her a little in her career. Why, he might have bought the best theatre in New York for her and hardly have known it. He might have commissioned the greatest dramatists to write her plays. But now it was too late; now she was lost to him, lost to the world for ever; dead, without ever having had her chance. “Say, Waitress, could you please bring two Vanilla ice creams?” The order jerked her back into life out of the dramatic reverie.

At last nine o’clock came; the attendant began to shut up the buffet. Joan got her hat and started homeward along the gravelled path. Suddenly she found her new friend by her side. “I hope you won’t think it an impertinence, Miss North,” he said, raising his hat, “but there’s some business I want to talk over with you, and this seems the only chance.”

Joan looked at him quickly. Since the episode with Mr. Chalfont she had been on her guard. But it was absolutely impossible to imagine anything of that sort with this man. He was a person of honour, she felt instinctively, as her eyes passed over his lean, irregular face, with its clear, almost boyish, eyes. But what business could he possibly have with her? Did he want to capture her support for the socialist movement? Or, perhaps he kept a restaurant and had been impressed by her powers as a waitress. “What is it?” she asked as they walked along together.

“You said you didn’t know my name—it’s Adam Fletcher. Most likely you still don’t know it, but you will have heard of my play, ‘The Under Dog.’”

Joan stopped short in her amazement. “You don’t mean to say it was you who wrote ‘The Under Dog?’” she gasped. As her companion nodded, she went on excitedly. “But it is quite fine! I thought it was the best modern play I had seen.” She pulled herself up. “Of course you don’t need me to praise it, when it has been such a terrible success. Why, they called it the record breaker in New York, and said there were to be four companies out in it next fall—a whole pack of little underdogs running all over the States! Though that doesn’t mean so much,” she went on meditatively. “A play may be popular and not be any good. But your play is good. If you hadn’t tried too hard to show how badly the underdog had been used, it might have been great.”

Mr. Fletcher had been looking both amused and interested. “That is about the best bit of criticism I have heard,” he said, “and I have heard quite a good deal! But you see, Miss North, I wasn’t out for greatness, but to rub into folks the scandalous unfairness of present conditions. Not that the play has achieved it—perhaps, just because it isn’t great. People crowd to it; they find it new and exciting; but not one of them cares a hang about what I mean underneath.”

“I don’t know. It made me think of things like that for the first time,” Joan told him simply.

Mr. Fletcher looked almost grateful. “Well, you will understand then, Miss North, how I felt at seeing ‘Under Dog’ cigars selling at thirty cents apiece.” There was a slight change in his tone. “They call the play a record-breaker. I call it a failure! I almost hate its running so long.”

“But it wouldn’t be less of a failure from your point of view, if it were more of one from Mr. Hobson’s,” Joan urged. “If the play were not running at all, no one could be improved by it. Besides you must think of your actors.”

“Yes, and that is just what I want to think about. I didn’t come here to talk of that old ‘Dog.’ Hobson is producing a new play of mine in the fall—‘The Combine’ it is called; it deals with a garment workers’ strike. Ever since I saw you in ‘Vivi,’ I have wanted you for the lead.”

“For the lead?” They had just reached one of the frequent seats along the path. Joan sank down on it; she felt herself trembling all over. A realization came to her of what these three words meant. She need not post the letter to Father. She could go on with her own work. Granny could live in comfort. Suddenly, to her surprise and dismay, she began to cry. “It’s too much. I can’t help it,” she sobbed.

Mr. Fletcher stood looking at her. “What a blamed fool I am,” he muttered. Then with a tact, for which Joan was infinitely grateful, he murmured something about seeing whether the ships were lit up to-night, and strolled to the next corner.

When he came back, the girl had got herself in hand. He sat down beside her. “Do you want to discuss it all now or wait till to-morrow, when you aren’t so tired?” he asked. She eagerly said now, so he began again. “I wrote Mr. Hobson about your playing the part the day after I had seen your performance at Norfolk.”

“But I have heard nothing from Mr. Hobson, nothing at all,” Joan protested doubtfully. “He can’t be willing for me to play it.”

“That’s where I’ve been such a fool. Mr. Hobson answered me in his own hand. He’s been motoring around the Desert of Sahara or some such place all his vacation, so he couldn’t trail his typist after him. Well, Mr. Hobson’s handwriting at any time is like a cuneiform inscription, but this letter was the limit. I made out something about writing to Miss North, and I thought for sure he’d written you direct, but now I guess he meant me to do it. Indeed, if I’d had any sense I might have concluded that that would be more probable, for Mr. Hobson hates letter writing like poison. Poor Walker nearly goes out of his mind every summer!”

“But Mr. Hobson was to return at the beginning of July, four weeks ago,” Joan still demurred. She dared not let herself believe the good news and then find it untrue.

“Oh no, Mr. Hobson only got back a couple of days since. He’s been running round Italy after Duse, trying to book her for an American tour, Walker said. I was at the office myself only last week slamming Walker for not knowing what had been fixed up with regard to you. And now it seems I am the culprit. I don’t know how to apologize enough, Miss North.”

“Nothing matters if I get the part. Do you really think I will?” Her voice was tense with anxiety.

“Well, I don’t promise Mr. Hobson will engage you straight away without hearing you read the part, but after your ‘Vivi,’ I can’t imagine there is much doubt.” There was an unexpected gentleness in the young man’s tone. Apart from Miss North’s tears, he could realize from her patched boots, her shabby gloves, from the whole situation in which he had found her, what this would mean to her. “Any way, I feel you can do it, and what I say goes for something. When a play has made as much money as ‘The Under Dog’ these people get a new respect for an author. You take it from me, Miss North, it is all right.”

Joan had taken a letter out of her pocket, and was meditatively tearing it into very small pieces. Now she stood up, and, in reckless defiance of the many notices, flung the fragments into the water at her feet. “Only my acceptance of another engagement,” she told her companion. It was getting near closing time, so they walked towards the nearest exit. “Can I see the script of your play?” she asked.

“I’ll bring it to your restaurant to-morrow—that is if you promise not to make me eat another sixty course dinner.” It was arranged that he should come at three o’clock. “We might run through an act or two together,” he suggested, when he heard that she then had an hour off.

“Yes, but tell me more about it now. I can’t wait.” Nothing loth, Mr. Fletcher began. With the ardour of a creator or a lover, he expatiated upon his heroine ‘Sue.’ “It sounds a great part,” Joan said at last with a sigh of rapture, as Mr. Fletcher left her at her humble door.

The remarks that Adam Fletcher addressed over the ’phone to Mr. Hobson the following morning were both free and forcible. When America did produce a dramatic genius, he observed scathingly, it was odd that no better use could be found for her than washing up dishes in a popular restaurant. He guessed the girl was starving, he informed the astonished manager—indeed, Mr. Hobson had more reason for astonishment than the indignant young man realized.—Anyway, her clothes were worn out, and he was certain she hadn’t a cent. A little more and she’d be dead and off Mr. Hobson’s hands for ever.

This outburst, the exaggeration of which was due as much to Fletcher’s chivalrous anger with himself as with Mr. Hobson, resulted in a telegram—in length a letter—being immediately dispatched to Joan from the New York office. As her address seemed uncertain, it was sent care of Mr. Fletcher. He brought the missive in his pocket when he came to the restaurant that afternoon.

Joan did not get it at once, for Mr. Fletcher was thoughtfully afraid that she might again break down. Naturally he did not know how exceptional the last night’s scene had been. Indeed, that Joan should have cried before a stranger was the strongest testimony to the severity of the ordeal through which she had been passing. So he suggested their finding a secluded corner in the Exhibition grounds, where he could start reading his play. Only when they were established on a quiet seat under some trees did he produce the dispatch.

Joan opened the envelope without a tremor, although her heart was beating fast. Her life had been passed in an atmosphere of copious telegraphing, so she was not surprised at there being several pages, although she would have preferred a terser fate. As she read, she gathered that Mr. Fletcher had been right; Mr. Hobson did not positively commit himself. But she was asked to come to New York at once, all her travelling expenses being paid. If they did not think her suitable for ‘The Combine,’ some other opening would be offered her, either in New York or in a touring company. And—at last here was something definite—she was guaranteed a salary for three months of not less than a hundred dollars a week. Further an advance of five hundred dollars should be wired her immediately on receipt of her exact address.

Joan felt a little breathless—almost as though she had been running. Perhaps that was why she handed the dispatch to her companion without comment. “I must wire to my mother,” she said presently, when he had finished it. This name for Mrs. Lennox now came almost naturally to her lips.

At the telegraph office she found that she had only a dime in her pocket, the solitary tip she had so far received. Indeed, Tuesday usually found her penniless, for on that morning she paid her weekly bill for rent, breakfasts and laundry. Mr. Fletcher lent her the necessary sum on her laughing security of the managerial advance. “I guess we’ll wire Mr. Hobson your address right away, so that you get that advance to-day—then I’ll be sure of my money!” he told her with a serious concern underlying his pretended rapacity.

There was only time left for the first few pages of ‘The Combine.’ “But why can’t you cut the restaurant from now on?” Mr. Fletcher suggested. “Let us go round and hand in your ‘walking papers.’ Then we can come back here and I’ll be able to read you the whole play. Afterwards we would have dinner—at some other restaurant! We might take a boat for a bit, too; it would be good and cool on the water. You are looking about used up, you know, Miss North, and I can’t have that for my heroine. The author’s stage direction is ‘Sue assumes an attitude of complete repose.’”

It was very tempting. For a moment Joan hesitated. But perhaps from her father she had inherited a certain respect for a contract, even an unwritten one. On the Street ‘old John Van,’ although hard, was noted for never going back on a deal. “No, I can’t,” she said. “Of course I’ll give in my notice to-day, but I must stop till the end of the week—that is the rule. Besides, it would not be fair on the others; you don’t know how hard we are worked! What about Sue’s principles?” she went on with rather a weary smile. Had not Mr. Fletcher told her that the play was to preach the strength of union to working women? “I have got to live up to your ‘Combine.’”

“I don’t know but what you’re right,” Mr. Fletcher agreed regretfully. He looked at the girl with a new respect. His approval even made him lend her the manuscript of the play, despite its being his cherished and only script.

Although Joan had been honest in her unselfish desire not to leave until a substitute could be found, it was doubtful whether her services for the rest of the week were of very much value. From the star waitress she became one of the worst, indeed almost a ‘chaser.’ Oblivious of hungry, fidgeting customers, she would stand in a sort of trance, her lips moving and an ecstatic smile on her white face. Remarks addressed to her passed unheeded, unless they came from a certain fellow-waitress hailing from a Pittsburg shirtwaist factory. To this very ordinary girl Joan accorded an attention so rapt that it was almost painful to witness, and certainly bewildering to its recipient. In reply to the many enquiries as to why she was giving up the restaurant work, Joan stated that she was becoming a garment worker; her tone of hushed awe as she said it, seemed to confer on that humble pursuit the sanctity of a consecrated mission. At last a general opinion became current that poor Miss North was ‘going woozy in the head.’ “I always told her something would happen to her if she would fly around all the time the way she did,” one of the girls deplored almost tearfully.

“Oh, she’s all right.” This was the opinion of an older and more perspicacious waitress. “She’s going to get married; that’s what’s the matter with her. The garment worker lay is just to kid us. Ain’t you seen her beau—that long, lean feller that’s been hanging round all the week?”

It would have been considered still more certain that matrimony was in question had the girls known that Joan was taking Mr. Fletcher to Virginia Beach on Sunday to introduce him to Mrs. Lennox. Not that they were travelling down together, for Joan had asked the dramatist to tea, while she herself was going in the morning by a nine-thirty train. It necessitated a very early rise, for she had her things to pack and a final settling up with the kindly old landlady. On Tuesday she and her grandmother were going to New York, and for the two intervening nights, she had been hospitably invited by Mrs. Lennox’s ‘family.’ How delicious it would be to sleep again in a comfortable, and a fairly cool room, she told herself. The weather for the last few days had not been quite so unendurably hot, but her lodging appeared to have a private calorimotor of its own and had gone on simmering tropically. However, to her surprise, when the moment came to leave the bare, little room for ever, Joan found herself looking round it quite affectionately. Indeed, she almost resented the presence of her big trunk that stood ostentatiously in the centre ready strapped for the expressmen. How unhappy she had been here, she felt, but also how happy! These last nights, too hot for easy sleep, had been spent chiefly in an ecstasy of work. ‘Sue’ had begun to take life and shape; it was the birthplace of her first real part. The fact cast a glamour over the varnished pine walls, the carpetless floor, the scanty, ill-made furniture of the sweltering attic.

When the girl arrived at Virginia Beach, her grandmother was shocked at her appearance. She had the same abstracted, inhuman look, as when she had been studying ‘Vivi’ at Albany, but now it was even more pronounced. Her eyes were sunk with fatigue, and her face colourless. “My dear,” Mrs. Lennox exclaimed, “it is splendid about the play, but how dreadfully ill you look!”

“No, I am not ill—only tired. But to-night I am going to sleep and sleep. And, oh, Granny, I have got such an idea—it’s just immense! There’s a part in ‘The Combine’ that you would do absolutely perfectly. It might have been written on purpose. One of the garment women is much older than the rest; she has got a sick husband and a whole tribe of children. So when Sue calls the strike—that’s me, you know—this woman turns blackleg; she just can’t bear to hear the children crying with hunger. She and Sue have a scene together; I think it’s the biggest thing in the play. Oh, Granny, do you think you would be strong enough to do it?”

Mrs. Lennox’s face had flushed. She looked ten years younger. “I guess I would,” she said slowly, “especially as they are opening in New York. It isn’t like tearing around the country on tour.” Then she gave herself a little shake. “But what a ridiculous way we are talking! As though I could pick and choose. Why, my even asking for the part might be bad for your chance. Mr. Hobson would think it an imposition; he didn’t like my suggesting such a thing before.”

“But that’s where my idea comes in.” Joan gurgled joyfully. “It is going to be Mr. Fletcher who does the suggesting. You know I am going to read the play through with him when he comes here this afternoon. Well, I am going to remark, quite casually, that perhaps you would be kind enough to read one or two of the parts. As I am Sue, the old woman would naturally fall to you, and then—But let us start in, Granny. We shall have about three hours altogether and we must work hard.” They sat down on the couch, side by side, as in the girl’s school-days, and began to read the scenes together—only now it was Joan that gave the advice and Mrs. Lennox who accepted it.

At about four o’clock Mr. Fletcher arrived; after tea the play was brought out. Joan innocently observed that her mother was longing to hear it—might she be present at the reading? All unsuspecting, the young man agreed, both to that, and to the further suggestion that Miss West should take one of the parts. As Miss North’s mother began, he looked surprised; there was an unmistakable professional note in her voice. “I had forgotten you had been on the stage too,” he said pleasantly at the first pause. “Miss Frances West, isn’t it? Yes, I remember now; I suppose Miss North inherits her talent.”

During the first scene Joan had been feeling tired, perhaps anxious; she could not warm into it. Adam Fletcher was not disappointed; at this early reading he did not expect more. Now the girl suddenly took fire. Both the author and her grandmother stared at her. How had she had the time, they both were thinking, to bring her work up to this level? It had the effect of lifting Mrs. Lennox up too. The old garment worker had not yet spoken. When she did, Mrs. Lennox knew that she was reading it well—better than she would have imagined it possible. Presently there came the big scene. Joan had evidently already got her words. Almost unconsciously, it seemed, she started from the chair and began to act. She was upbraiding the elder woman for betraying the Cause. Mrs. Lennox’s defence, her description of the hungry children, was very tender and pitiful. The two played together admirably. “I had given them all there was in the house. We had no more. I could not see them suffer,” wailed the elder woman. “Even those we love must suffer for the future happiness of humanity,” the inexorable ‘Sue’ decreed. With a sudden inspiration, Mrs. Lennox staggered forward, evidently fainting. Was it not probable that she would do so? She had given her own breakfast, most of her meals for many days, to feed her hungry brood. ‘Sue’ caught the tottering, feeble figure as it fell and sustained it in her strong, young arms. She seemed the triumphant embodiment of the cause that Adam Fletcher was trying to preach.

The author got up. “I guess I’ll wire Hobson that both these parts are filled,” he said quietly.

CHAPTER XVII.

The interview with Mr. Hobson in New York passed off satisfactorily. He did not seem very enthusiastic about the play, Joan thought, but he was quite satisfied both with her reading and her grandmother’s, and the contracts were duly signed. The rehearsals did not start until September, so Mrs. Lennox and Joan were now free to seek a cooler place. This they found in Wood Haven, a little village on the coast of Maine, and here a blissful, quiet month was spent. Joan continued to work at her part, but in a more temperate manner. She soon regained her old colour and spirits, while Mrs. Lennox declared that she had not felt so well for twenty years.

They had not been at this ideal spot many days before Adam Fletcher suddenly appeared. A proposed camping party had fallen through, he explained. Besides he had made some small alterations in the play, and he thought it might be desirable to go through them together. Joan received him with an enthusiasm, chilling despite its warmth. There were several points in her part, it appeared, on which she had wished to consult the author. She had never been so glad to see anyone, she told him rapturously, but her pleasure took the form of retiring to her own room with the script directly he had given her the ‘pointers’ she required. Still she could not work the whole day long. The morning was devoted to study, but after that she idled. She and Mr. Fletcher joined the gay bathing parties on the shore, or went for boating picnics, or long tramps in the woods. At first Mrs. Lennox accompanied the two young people, but she had never been fond of exercise, and she found these expeditions tired her. A rocking chair on the piazza was infinitely more comfortable. Besides the young man would only be staying a few days. When the days prolonged themselves into weeks and finally his departure was postponed to correspond with theirs, Granny began to wonder!

But although Joan and Adam Fletcher became increasingly friendly, they did not become anything more. The girl, and perhaps Mr. Fletcher as well, seemed almost too much taken up with the play to be able to think of living people, even of themselves. Soon they were all three back in New York and in the thick of rehearsals. Joan was now absolutely absorbed. She had no eyes or ears or any sense for anything but ‘The Combine.’ With some trouble she found a working girls’ club and insinuated herself into it, not as a helper, but as an actual member. Her accent and her phraseology became so deplorable that her grandmother wondered whether they would ever recover. Had the daily rehearsals not precluded it, Mrs. Lennox felt sure that her granddaughter would have sought a job as a real garment worker in her desperate pursuit of perfection.

It was doubtless this same spasmodic capacity for taking infinite pains, that caused Joan to come to the first rehearsal letter perfect. Mr. Wright, the producer, nearly fainted away! The author was obviously pleased, but Mrs. Lennox betrayed some annoyance. “Who ever heard of a leading woman knowing her words?” she scolded Joan afterwards. “That’s not the way to reach stellar eminence!” A more sensible objection to the innovation was the certainty of cuts. “Besides, you want to get the words and action together,” the grandmother added.

“I didn’t think about cuts, but I have got the words and action together, Granny. I can see every movement right through the play.” The girl certainly seemed to be amazingly definite. She was so sure, that Mr. Wright largely followed her ideas. “She’s star material of the first rank,” he told his chief.

Perhaps it was on account of this report, that the great little manager came down to rehearsal the next day. Up till then Mr. Hobson had taken small interest in the play. As he frankly told the author, he did not think the piece would be a financial success. Indeed, it was probably only gratitude for the phenomenal takings of Adam Fletcher’s previous play that had made him stage it. The young man reminded him that ‘The Under Dog’ also had not at first been viewed with managerial optimism. Might not Mr. Hobson be equally mistaken with regard to ‘The Combine?’

“That’s so.” The fat little manager gave his comfortable laugh. “I don’t pretend to infallibility. You may be all right, Mr. Fletcher, and I may be all wrong. Still I can’t see the play somehow. But don’t let that worry you. Whatever my opinion may be, the play is going to be staged in a manner worthy of a Hobson production. And you’ve picked your own leading woman—you can’t want more. No, I don’t go back on my offer to buy all your time.”

An evident flutter went round the company when it was known that Mr. Hobson was in the parquet, witnessing the rehearsal. Even Joan was conscious of it, and it keyed her up to do even better than usual. The great manager sat in silence, and then bustled off directly the piece was over. “That’s always his way at the first rehearsal,” she was told.

The next day he came again. This time directions came constantly from the dark auditorium. They were usually in so low a tone that they had to be repeated by Mr. Wright. At first Joan resented the deference that was being paid to this fat, Buddha-like little man sitting in his easy remoteness. She quickly realized, however, the ability of the criticism which pierced its jerky and illiterate delivery. Soon she found herself listening eagerly for Mr. Hobson’s suggestions, even when they did not concern herself. Though the great manager could not act at all, he seemed to have an uncanny instinct for dramatic errors in others. Once there was an argument between him and Joan over some proposed alteration. “Just try it my way,” he suggested pleasantly. She did, and had to confess it an improvement.

At last, after three weeks of strenuous work, the great first night arrived. Joan had never been so excited in her life. Not only did her own interest depend on the success of this evening’s performance, but the interest of her grandmother, of all the other actors, of Adam Fletcher, of the great Mr. Hobson himself, of the property boy, the supers, the scene shifters, the carpenter, the man who worked the spot light, even of the orchestra! The excitement felt by each of these individually, resulted in a huge, cumulative excitement unlike anything Joan had experienced before. Probably Mr. Fletcher’s socialist doctrines expressed in the play increased the girl’s consciousness of this community of feeling. Together with her artistic individualism was now mingled a wonderful sense of co-operative effort, which was probably her best preparation for the rôle she had to play. It was truly a ‘combine.’

And ‘The Combine’ succeeded; of that there seemed no doubt. Even the socialistic speeches, about which Joan had been a little dubious, called forth loud applause. The great scene with her grandmother received an ‘ovation.’ Again and again she and Mrs. Lennox came forward to bow. The third act went well, although perhaps not quite as well. Still there were loud and prolonged cries for the author at the end. When Adam Fletcher reluctantly came forward, leading Joan by the hand, they were greeted with a storm of clapping. In answer to the calls for a speech, he said a few words on his creed. “If this play should make the life of even one sweated garment worker more tolerable, I should feel it a success,” he told them with a rather noble simplicity. Again a thunder of cheers swept the house. Joan was transported with joy. “Isn’t it too lovely?” she cried as the curtain finally came down. “Granny, we’ve got a success, a real success!” She flung her arms around her grandmother’s neck, kissing her rapturously. Then she turned to Adam Fletcher, who was standing near, and put her hands in his. “Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I am so glad, so very, very glad.”

Mr. Hobson and Mr. Wright suddenly appeared on the stage. They were talking earnestly and with ill-omened seriousness. Mr. Hobson smiled, however, as he came near. “Fine,” he said to Joan in a kindly tone. “You never gave a better performance. Miss West, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house at the end of your big speech. Mr. Wright”—his voice changed suddenly—“please see that no one goes home without knowing that a rehearsal is called for to-morrow.”

“A rehearsal!” Joan exclaimed in surprise. “Are we going to have a rehearsal? Why, I thought it went so well.”

“Well is as well does—Mr. Fletcher, can you spare me a little time to-night? Unless we can find some way of cutting those socialistic disquisitions, the play won’t run a week.”

“Won’t run?” Adam Fletcher echoed in amazement, while Joan stood by too astounded to speak. “I suppose the audience applauded to show its disapproval then?” the young man enquired ironically.

“The audience applauded because, for the most part, they were your own socialist gang. Unfortunately they ain’t numerous enough to support my theatre. I know what I’m talking about, Mr. Fletcher; wasn’t I up in the gallery? I tell you, apart from your cranks and highbrows, the audience found all that trade union talk downright tiresome. Of course they applauded you when you came on, if only to show they knew you’d written ‘The Under Dog.’ And Miss North too. I’m not denying that both of you scored a personal success. Your little speech was beautiful, just what was wanted, but that ain’t going to carry the play. You see what the box office says about it to-morrow night!”

“I am not going to hack about my work!” The sudden request, after the strain of the evening, was proving too much for the dramatist’s usually equable temper. “I didn’t write for the box office, and I don’t care a hang what it says.”

“Well, I do then!” Mr. Hobson gave his genial laugh and laid his hand soothingly on Mr. Fletcher’s arm. He was unexpectedly fond of this young visionary, who was so unlike most of the men he came across. “My dear fellow, no one wants you to hack about your work, but if you could pull it together a trifle here and there—you’ll know how. Otherwise, I tell you, even Miss North’s acting isn’t going to save us. I wish you could have seen your way to making Sue a wee bit more sympathetic,” he went on regretfully. “A line or two would do it, just to show she really did feel for that old worker, don’t you know? The audience want a woman with red blood in her veins, not a Statue of Liberty exuding noble principles. And the ending—it wants uplifting. I’ve always mistrusted a falling curtain.” The two men went off together, the unfortunate author still protesting that he would rather have a failure than mutilate his play.

The next morning’s papers proved the sagacity of Mr. Hobson’s insight. For the piece was universally condemned, the “New York Journal” even coming out with a bold headline, “Fletcher’s New Play a Frost.” Perhaps, indeed, the critics would have run down any play by this author in their reaction from the adulation lavished on ‘The Under Dog.’ They had also clearly been annoyed at having had to listen to nearly three hours of a thinly-veiled socialist tract. As regards Joan the notices were far more laudatory. As one critic wrote, “Miss North has evidently been caught up in the Hobson star machine, and she will deserve her success. For quiet, reserved strength we hardly know her equal.” Another wished the heroine “better luck in the next starring vehicle,” for they all agreed that the character of Sue was unsympathetic. It was probably on this account that the highest encomiums were reserved for Miss West. Joan was delighted at her grandmother’s success, even while she was naïvely surprised. “What do you think of this, Granny?” she asked, and read triumphantly: “Miss Frances West’s touching representation of the old garment worker will awaken a responsive echo in every heart. Why has this talented actress not been seen before on Broadway?”

But in spite of the sympathy aroused by Miss West, in spite of Joan’s steady brilliance, in spite of Mr. Hobson’s rigorous cutting—or perhaps because of it, as Adam Fletcher maintained—the play was a failure. The public was evidently puzzled and uneasy at this new type of heroine who put a cause before human affection, and, as Mr. Hobson had said, they found the sermonizing an unmitigated bore. For in this play there was little of the heart interest and none of the dramatic thrill that had successfully formed the jam to render ‘The Under Dog’ powder palatable. Here Fletcher had offered his medicine openly—and the public refused to take it. The box office receipts fell lower and lower. After two weeks the theatre closed suddenly and the piece was sent on tour.

It now did a good deal better. For once in his life Mr. Hobson ‘featured’ the author, the play being everywhere billed as the successor to ‘The Under Dog.’ This at least ensured a good opening in each town. Moreover some weeks ‘The Combine’ achieved a certain success on its own account. In Pittsburg they had rising receipts, and on the Saturday night played to capacity. Cleveland was satisfactory. Then followed a dreary succession of poor houses and indifferent audiences. But Denver, for some unknown reason, violently espoused the production. The week’s takings ran into eight thousand dollars. It proved a ‘life saver,’ causing Mr. Hobson to alter his previous intention of cancelling the tour.

But the hope that the play would raise Joan to the ‘stars’ was doomed by the New York failure. Had it been another ‘Under Dog,’ she might have had her name up in that Broadway heaven of electric lights before the season was over. Now her stellar début appeared indefinitely postponed. Even if Mr. Hobson gave her another New York appearance, the best she could hope for was to be put opposite some male star, and even this was improbable. She would more likely have an ingénue part.

But Joan did not worry very much about the future. She had thought that the initial failure meant the end of the play, and her relief when she found that this was not so, quite eclipsed all other feeling. For despite the public’s disapproval, the girl herself liked her part; she wanted to go on playing it. Her rendering could still be improved, she felt. To abandon it before she had reached her highest level would be maddening. The touring made her anxious with regard to her grandmother’s health, but apart from this, she was not sure that she did not prefer it. To have a different audience every week, that took up different points for applause, or laughter, or disapproval was supremely interesting. It gave a certain solidity to her performance, she felt.

Despite Joan’s fears, Mrs. Lennox did not seem to find the travelling too tiring. The fact was, touring on a joint salary of a hundred and seventy-five dollars a week was a very different matter to touring on twelve. They could now afford to pay for the cushioning of life. Moreover the tour was a transcontinental one. Christmas would find them in California, which, from Mrs. Lennox’s point of view, seemed ideal. But, probably, the chief factor in the grandmother’s well-being was her continuous success. For in whatever else the audiences differed, they were all alike in their appreciation of the pathetic figure of the elderly garment worker. Each night a tearful audience frantically applauded Miss West at the end of her big scene, calling her again and again before the curtain. It almost seemed, as Joan suggested, that the public had an unconscious feeling of wanting to make up to the old needlewoman for her life of toil and self-sacrifice, and of mitigating by their affection the cold severity of Sue’s decree. “I don’t believe they appreciate your acting one bit, Granny,” the girl laughed; “they just think it’s you.” However this might be, Mrs. Lennox pursued a shining, watery way across the continent.

If uneasiness about her grandmother was the one thorn in Joan’s present life, uneasiness, not about her granddaughter, but about her daughter, was the one thorn in Mrs. Lennox’s. It was not hard for Joan to forget an indifferent mother for whom she cared so little, but it was not easy for Mrs. Lennox to forget her only child. For although they had grown estranged of late years, Imogen was, after all, the little baby who had come to her in a time of black distress; she was the exquisite fairy child who had danced like a sunbeam through those strenuous years of touring life; she was the beautiful girl-bride who had clung to ‘Mother’ in an agony of apprehension during the months before her baby’s birth. What was Imogen doing now? came ceaselessly to Mrs. Lennox’s mind. Did she miss them? Was she well? Although in the past, Mrs. Lennox had rightly felt that her daughter’s invalidism was largely a pose, she now reminded herself that, eleven years ago, it had started in a real and painful trouble, which had been courageously concealed. Had she throughout judged Imogen too harshly? Mrs. Lennox wondered. Perhaps the growing alienation had been her fault. But though she had her daughter so much in her thoughts, practically there seemed nothing to be done. For she felt in honour bound not to communicate; that had been in spirit the original pact with John Vandeleur. Only why did not Imogen write to her, Mrs. Lennox asked herself, or had she too made some promise? Her daughter must have known of their appearance in New York. Even if she did not recognize Joan under her stage name, the many notices of ‘Frances West’ could hardly have escaped her attention. Surely she might have found some means of getting into touch.

The truth was that Mrs. Vandeleur had not written, simply because she had not the faintest desire to do so. From the first, the theatrical adventure had struck Imogen as a blessed relief. The early distaste she had felt for her daughter had grown with years, and a crowning touch had been put to it by Joan’s triumph on the night of the dance. A little more, Imogen felt, and she would hate this tall, dark girl who was called her daughter, but who had always seemed to her a contemptuous and hostile stranger. Her affection, too, for her mother, which had once been quite genuine, had since evaporated. Here again Joan was largely responsible, for Imogen had always been desperately jealous of her mother’s love for the child. Indeed the contrast between Mrs. Lennox’s admiring devotion towards Joan, and the humorous and rather scornful tolerance that she accorded to the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur, was patent to all, and, perhaps, would have awakened resentment even in a more generous nature. Nor could John Vandeleur’s attitude afford his wife much rehabilitating satisfaction. He was by nature rigidly honest, and when he had once discovered the artificiality of Imogen’s character, he despised her for it far more than her mother ever could or did.

Probably nothing could have been much worse for Imogen’s spiritual development than this attitude of contemptuous indifference on the part of those nearest her. After all, she had only been seventeen when she married. Had her husband and her mother guided her more cleverly, had they tried to take her at her own valuation, they might have brought out her finer qualities and produced a less ignoble woman. Instead, Mrs. Lennox concentrated her love upon little Joan, and John Vandeleur, in his disappointment, grew not only bitter towards his wife, but unfair. He told himself that she had never cared for him, that she had had no thought but for his money; he failed to realize that her craving for the money had been so intense as genuinely to glorify in her eyes the elderly husband who brought it. During that first year of marriage Imogen had been really attached to ‘old John Van,’ as well as deeply grateful to him for being so rich. Her baby’s birth had then come, with the pain and subsequent ill-health, and had set up a repulsion towards the man who had occasioned it. Probably if John Vandeleur had taken as much trouble over his wife’s fluctuations as over those of the copper market, he could have overcome the feeling. He did not try, and the breach between them widened.

Loneliness, boredom, and perhaps resentment had subsequently caused Imogen to take up Society, and she had become conscious of the charm of masculine society. “My family does not care for me,” she used at that time to lament to successive admirers with a certain truth. Thus, shadowed by domestic disapproval, the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur felt herself forced along a path that constantly deepened it. If her own family did not appreciate her, then she would fall back on others who did, she told herself angrily. The worshipping young artists were first called in, more as a salve for her wounded self-esteem than from a desire for sex excitement.

Lately, however, this new and far more dangerous element had come into Imogen’s life in the shape of Senator Lee-Baxter. That the Senator should be attracted, was not surprising, for Mrs. Vandeleur was still beautiful despite her thirty-eight years, but that Imogen should be attracted by the Senator, a gross, middle-aged, business man, was more remarkable. It may, indeed, have been his very grossness that appealed to her. For Imogen was growing tired of her artists, tired of all their posing and pretences, and incidentally of her own. After a life of make-believe, her whole being clamoured for something real. She was sick to death of always attitudinizing, although she did not know it. The admiration of her usual adorers was of a vapid, reverential character. Before she grew too old, she wanted to provoke a dominant, elemental passion. At times she had been afraid that she was too old already. In the morning, prior to her maid’s magic ministrations, she often looked quite elderly and faded. But the Senator had dispelled her doubts. Unlike her young artists, he saw through her pretences, he gauged the value of her sham delicacy, her pretended reticence; unlike her own family, he could penetrate without despising. On the contrary, he laughed and kissed her with a still rougher passion, calling her a damned clever little fraud. For Mr. Lee-Baxter did not worry about his lady-love’s soul; it was frankly her body that he desired. Sometimes Imogen felt it an unspeakable relief to be with someone who was no better than she was herself—who was, indeed, a good deal worse. The man’s masterful bearing fascinated, even while it frightened her. She was more in love with him than she had imagined she could ever be with anyone. Where would it end, she wondered, with a half-delighted terror.

For with a man of Senator Lee-Baxter’s temperament an end of some sort could not be long postponed. So far, Imogen had been able to avert a climax, though discretion was the better part of her virtue. The same prudence had made her absolutely refuse to run away with her lover, as the Senator continually urged. For Imogen’s new passion had not so clouded her native shrewdness as to make her trust the man to this extent. No, any happening of that sort must be prefixed by a legal marriage. With this end in view, she toyed with the idea of taking steps to get a divorce from John. In Kentucky, the Senator’s own State, she learnt that six months’ habitual behaviour by a husband indicating aversion to his wife and causing her unhappiness was a sufficient ground for divorce. “For me there have been sixteen years of such suffering, not a mere six months,” Imogen was beginning with a sigh of pensive sadness, when Lee-Baxter engulfed her. “Why should a lovely woman like you to be tied up to a parchment-faced Methuselah? That’s grounds enough,” he said hoarsely.

It was just at this time that ‘The Combine’ opened in New York. Imogen did notice that her mother was to appear in it, and, she supposed, with an acute jealousy, that the heroine must be Joan. Indeed, she could not repress a certain pleasure at the run of the play being cut short. It would do her daughter good, she felt spitefully; Joan had always been conceited. But, anyway, she could not trouble about other people’s affairs, when her own were so critical. Did she, or did she not, want this divorce? She really did not know. That is, she did not know in her calmer moments when she was alone and unswayed by the Senator’s almost brutal love-making. Although Imogen did not respect her husband—indeed, she considered him an exceedingly tiresome old man, who would grow still more tiresome with advancing years—she had retained the very greatest respect for his apparently limitless wealth. Mr. Lee-Baxter was wealthy too, of course, but not at all to a comparable extent. Oh dear, what was she to do? Was ever poor woman so tried in the struggle between love and duty?—for that was how she phrased it.

But while Imogen was thus dallying with the situation, events shaped themselves. There had already, indeed, been some minor accidents. On two occasions, the inopportune entrance of a servant had broken short a compromising embrace. But although the domestics had no doubt gossiped among themselves, the incident evidently did not come to her husband’s ears. Indeed, why should it? Mr. Vandeleur was not particularly popular with his entourage, while the Senator scattered largesse freely. Moreover the servants realized that the certain result of any disclosure would mean, from one cause or another, the loss of a good situation. With regard to visitors, Imogen was safe, for she had given the strictest orders that no one was to be admitted while the Senator was there. So only John remained, and from him, Imogen felt, there was no danger. Unless her husband was out of New York, Mr. Lee-Baxter only called in the daytime, and, from the Fifth Avenue point of view, John Vandeleur was then non-existent. Only two or three times during their whole married life had he come back in office hours.

But one afternoon the unexpected happened. It was about half-past three when Mr. Vandeleur let himself in at the front door to the scarcely-concealed astonishment of the footman in the hall. “Is Mrs. Vandeleur in her boudoir?” he asked.

The man hesitated. “I am not sure, Sir. I will see.” He started to go upstairs.

The curious expression on the man’s face had not been lost on his master. “It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Vandeleur said sharply. “I am going up in any case.” He did not consciously tread more softly than usual, but he was a light weight and the thick pile of the stair-carpet dulled his steps. He reached the first landing and gently pulled aside the portière.

Imogen was lying on her usual couch, her head turned away. On a low chair beside her sat Lee-Baxter. His thick arms sprawled across her recumbent form, while his face was buried in the curve of her neck. She was wearing a ‘rest gown’ cut low.

John Vandeleur gave a slight exclamation of disgust. It seemed inadequate to the situation, but disgust was his only sensation. He felt as though he had accidentally stepped on something dirty. He walked across the room and pressed the bell. Presumably his ejaculation had been heard by the affectionate couple, for when he looked round, the Senator was standing in a normal attitude at some distance from the couch. Imogen’s face was still invisible, for she was holding up a fan ostensibly to screen her eyes.

The man servant, impelled by curiosity, had followed his master almost to the top of the stairs. So, directly the bell rang, he came in eagerly. “Senator Lee-Baxter’s hat and coat,” John Vandeleur commanded. “If Senator Lee-Baxter calls again Mrs. Vandeleur is not at home.”

The Senator had been red before, now he grew almost purple. He had been prepared to have a scene with the husband, but to be thus humiliated before a flunkey made him feel that the reparation was due to himself. He was a powerful man and physically courageous; and it was with difficulty that he contained himself. He would indeed have made short work of John Vandeleur, who had never been athletic and whose seventy years had changed his former spareness almost to emaciation. The young footman also would probably have been easily mastered. But, as Lee-Baxter knew, there were two or three other men-servants within call. Although, at that moment, he would have given his entire fortune to wring John Vandeleur’s wizened neck, he managed to control his rage. “I’ll be even with you for this,” he shouted, and marched downstairs.

As soon as they were alone Imogen began to weep. “Oh, my poor heart,” she moaned; it was indeed beating tumultuously; the shock, for once, had been real. As her husband did not speak, she went on whimperingly: “You must not draw false conclusions. Senator Lee-Baxter came to-day to tell me about a bill that he is going to introduce. Although you think me so brainless, he considers me very clever. He says my opinion is extremely valuable to him.”

“Please spare me these imbecilities.” John Vandeleur could hardly trust himself to speak. “For the future you will dispense with Mr. Lee-Baxter’s acquaintance or discontinue residing in my house.”

“But I tell you there has been nothing really wrong between us,” Imogen began indignantly.

He waved her down. “I am absolutely indifferent as to whether there has been anything really wrong, as you call it, or not.”

Imogen stared in genuine surprise. “John, how can you be so immoral?” she said indignantly. “You don’t deserve to have a good woman for your wife.” Probably Mr. Vandeleur himself at another time would have deprecated his speech. The fact was, the whole incident had given him such a feeling of nausea, that the difference between the more or less really became immaterial. “Of course you can prevent Mr. Lee-Baxter coming here,” his wife went on spitefully, “but I fail to see how you can prevent us meeting elsewhere.”

“You overlook the existence of our justly celebrated detective force.” Mr. Vandeleur was trembling with anger. “I merely repeat that if you meet that man you will find this house closed to you on your return.” He abruptly left the room.

The conversation was not re-opened. Two days later, while Imogen was still debating as to what she should do and lamenting the difficulty caused by the possession of extraordinary beauty—“like poor Helen of Troy,”—she happened to see in an evening paper the sale announced of a large house at Long Branch. Curious to know whether it belonged to any of her friends, she began to read the advertisement. The description struck her as familiar. Suddenly she came to the name—Beau Site.

A perfect fury seized her. So this was how John was trying to pay her out! He was probably in the library. She rushed downstairs. “How dare you sell Firenze! How dare you!” she cried. “I suppose this is your revenge because another man admires me.”

“Kindly do not indulge in histrionics. Do you suppose I care enough about you to have any desire for revenge?” John Vandeleur carefully blotted the letter he was writing. “As it happens I had come home on purpose to discuss this subject with you the day before yesterday, when I so inopportunely interrupted your tête-à-tête. I am selling Firenze because I cannot afford to keep it.”

“What? You cannot afford it?” Imogen thought that she could not have heard aright. Surprise quite obliterated her previous rage. In their twenty years of married life, it was the first time the word had ever crossed her husband’s lips. She had always thought of his wealth as a boundless, inexhaustible sea of gold into which she could dip and dip without leaving any impression. “Not afford it?” she repeated incredulously. “What do you mean?”

“Surely the words are simple. Firenze is too expensive. It costs too much. I have not sufficient money.—Probably even you are aware of there having been a great financial crisis last year. I lost incredibly. Since then I have formed the Vandeleur Syndicate, as you may possibly have heard. Although I hold the majority of the shares, my profits will not be as great as in the past.”

Imogen had turned pale. “Not afford Firenze?” she murmured as though dazed. “But perhaps then you won’t be able to go on affording even this house?”

“At present I can do so. I will let you know if such a time occurs.” Mr. Vandeleur took up his pen again. “You need not fear real poverty, Imogen,” he added in a more kindly tone. “You will always be what most people would consider well-to-do. I have made that secure. And possibly I shall be able to retrieve the disaster. This largely depends on my being able to keep it from becoming known. At present no one suspects—or rather they do not suspect the magnitude of the loss. I must ask you therefore to treat the matter as absolutely confidential.”

This revelation was the last straw, Imogen felt. John spoke of retrieving his loss, but she felt certain he would not be able to do so. The fact was, he was growing too old, she reflected contemptuously. She herself had noticed of late a distinct decrease in his former vigour and decision. Instead of weakness appealing to Imogen’s protective instinct, as it would with most women, it merely aroused her antipathy. John could no longer compete with virile men in the prime of life—such as Mr. Lee-Baxter. Well, if she must consider expense, if she would only be ‘well to do’—an odious phrase—it should not be in the company of a doddering septuagenarian.

Although this was the decision Mrs. Vandeleur reached, she did not word it in this crude fashion, even to herself. A mist of noble sentiments transfigured her selfish plan almost into a renunciation. Great mental play was made of finding herself indispensable to the happiness of a distinguished man, of aiding him in his life’s work. Had John needed her, of course, she would never, never have left him. But doubtless, with his crabbed and fidgety ways, he would actually prefer to live alone. At this point a tiny tear rolled down Imogen’s cheek. How pitiful it was to be so forlorn, so unappreciated, when she had always tried so hard to do her duty. First her mother and her only child had abandoned her, and now her husband. Regardless of herself she had ever striven for the good of others—why, even now she would be condemned to pass long, dreary months of solitude in some barbarous Kentucky town in order to fulfil her mission. Afterwards, indeed, a happier prospect might open before her, but no one could imagine it was her own happiness that she was seeking. No, she only wished to devote her life to a great man’s welfare, to taste with him the divine communion of spiritual love. All this, and much more, she poured out in a scented epistle to the Senator—she had already informed him fully of her husband’s financial troubles—and she concluded by remarking that John would be away the following week, so if her ‘Beloved’ came to New York, they could together make the necessary plans for her departure.

The Senator laughed as he read the letter over his breakfast table in his Washington apartment. “She’s a devilish lovely woman,” he murmured, “but what a lot of words she takes to say that she wants a good hug!”

CHAPTER XVIII.

‘The Combine’ was playing at Cincinnati, when one day at the hotel, Mrs. Lennox happened to take up a publication which devoted itself largely to the doings—or the misdoings—of the great Four Hundred. Her daughter’s name caught her eye, and she read, to her astonishment, that the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur had taken an apartment in Paducah, Kentucky, and was making a considerable stay there. Mr. Vandeleur did not intend to accompany her, the paragraph ended rather pointedly.

What in the world could Imogen be doing in Paducah, Kentucky? Mrs. Lennox had never even heard of her daughter having an acquaintance in such an unfashionable region—far less of her wanting to live there herself. It suddenly occurred to her that Cincinnati was on the borders of Kentucky, and next week they would be playing in Louisville, which was, of course, the chief city of the State. Could this have anything to do with Imogen’s strange visit? But if her daughter had wanted to see them, why had she not come to a town where ‘The Combine’ was being actually given? Perhaps, however, she had been misinformed; their itinerary had been changed several times. The thought that Imogen might have been yearning for her, as she had been yearning for Imogen, brought a warm rush of affection to the mother’s heart.

But whether or no Imogen had made this journey with the object of seeing her mother or daughter, the fact of her having made it, pointed to some sort of breach with her husband; which, indeed, was emphasized by the sting in the tail of the paragraph. In such a case, Mrs. Lennox felt, she was absolved from her promise to John Vandeleur. If her dear girl wanted her, if she were feeling lonely and miserable, nothing should keep them apart. She would write to her this very minute.

A letter of the warmest love and sympathy had already been dropped in the mail box when Joan came back from her walk. The grandmother excitedly showed her the paragraph. The girl was equally surprised, although the loving interpretation that Mrs. Lennox put upon the strange departure did not occur to her. “Do you think Mother has gone on the stage too?” she asked with a laugh. “I always thought she had a lot of dramatic talent running to waste. It seems a bit hard though on Father!” As she spoke, she began idly turning over the pages of the periodical, when suddenly among the advertisements, another item of family interest caught her eye. “Granny, what do you think? Firenze is for sale!” A small picture of the house left no room for doubt. “Gee, there must have been a scrap!” the girl went on slangily. “Mother was real fond of that hateful place, although Father always loathed it. But what ever does he want to sell it for? He need not live there, and the money can’t make any difference.”

This further discovery made Mrs. Lennox still more glad of having written to her daughter so lovingly. It was mean of John, she felt, to have taken away Imogen’s favourite residence. She eagerly awaited her daughter’s reply. Two or three days later she saw in the hotel rack a familiar mauve envelope addressed in Imogen’s delicate writing. It seemed incongruous that it should be jostling with all the other ordinary mail. Snatching it out, Mrs. Lennox carried it off to her own bedroom and opened it with a beating heart.

She read it; then she read it again more slowly. It was as though she had been struck. Not that the letter was rude—Mrs. Lennox almost wished it were. Anything would be better than this frigid decorum. Her daughter began by thanking her for her kind letter—‘kind,’ when she had put her heart’s blood into it! “I have not quarrelled with John, as you suggest,” Imogen then explained. “I hope that I have sufficient self-control never to quarrel with anyone, however great the provocation. I do feel, however, that John has behaved in such a manner that I cannot live with him and be true to my higher self.” So she was taking steps to obtain a divorce, she related in many unnecessary phrases. Of course, as her mother had guessed, she was deeply sorrowful and lonely. “But I fear no happiness could come from the meeting you propose. You and Joan have always shut me out of your lives; you have always been antagonistic to my friends. Just at present I am hardly strong enough to bear a hostile attitude. Perhaps I fear again being swayed by your advice, as I was in the past with such disastrous results. For even when you urged my union with John, I mistrusted the step, ignorant child as I was. Not that I doubt your having acted from the kindest motives, but, dear Mother, love is more than lucre.”—As Imogen had written these words she had been almost overcome by their alliterative beauty—“And now, at last, I have found a friend, to whom I can consecrate the remainder of a life, which, in view of my shattered health, can hardly be very prolonged. At last I can experience the holy joy of a union of souls.”

When Mrs. Lennox laid the letter down, her hand was shaking, and there were tears in her eyes. Then suddenly her sense of humour came to her aid. A remembrance of that initial interview with John Vandeleur in her dressing-room at the Chicago theatre came to her mind; she thought of her anger and despair. And now she was accused of having ‘urged the union,’ of having sacrificed ‘love to lucre’! She laughed aloud.

Well, she would not show the letter to Joan. The child did not appear to have any tenderness or illusion about her mother, but if the least atom remained, she would not be the one to destroy it. So the scented sheets, torn into very small fragments, were confided to the waste basket. It was symbolical of the future. Imogen, by her letter, had put her mother and her daughter out of her life for ever. Now they must needs put Imogen out of theirs. After all, Mrs. Lennox reflected, she and Joan had each other. A passion of grandmotherly tenderness filled her. Thank God for Joan.

Considering the dominant social position held by three generations of Vandeleurs, the name figured but seldom in the press, for John Vandeleur, both by training and disposition, abhorred notoriety. So, although Joan now made a point of studying society papers, she drew a constant blank. Then suddenly, three months later, some enterprising ‘yellow’ journalist ferreted out the news of the approaching divorce, and even spoke of the probable transformation of the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur into Mrs. Lee-Baxter. In addition to this ‘scoop,’ the reporter had succeeded in obtaining snapshots of each member of the triple alliance. The press of the country fell gloatingly on a scandal compromising the hitherto impeccable Vandeleurs, and the news, together with the photos, was blazoned from ocean to ocean. Joan’s shocked dismay was merged into commiseration for her father. How absolutely furious he must be! At the same time she could not help a certain amusement at the reflection that whatever she might do in her reprobated career, she was hardly likely to achieve a greater, or a more disgraceful sensation. She studied the man’s photograph with interest. “What a beast!” was her terse comment as she scanned the Senator’s heavy lineaments, and wondered what ‘Mother’ could possibly see in him. Her mother appeared quite unchanged, but Joan was startled by the snapshots of her father. They had evidently been taken when he was unaware; in one he was talking; in another he stood lost in thought. Could this be Father? the girl asked herself. He had aged incredibly in one year. He looked so worn, so ill—yes, so unhappy. The fact that her father might have feelings like other people, that he grew older like other people, came to her as a revelation. In her recollection he had always appeared exactly the same, except that sometimes he was angry. She really regarded him as an abstract, impersonal force, a sort of natural law with no beginning and no end. “How old is Father?” she asked her grandmother that evening suddenly.

“Let me see, he was fifty-one when they were married, and you are eighteen and half. Why he must have been seventy on his last birthday.”

Joan made no further comment, but she seemed thoughtful. Presently she went up to bed. Seventy, she was meditating, that was very old! Why, in the Bible they gave three score years and ten as man’s allotted span. Even if one did live to be older than that nowadays, a person would feel at seventy that he had not a great deal of life before him. And to spend it all alone, without anyone to care for, or be cared by—it sounded rather pitiful. She slowly got out her writing case.

The letter Joan penned was more affectionate than any she had ever written to her father before. It did, indeed, begin by stating clearly that she could never give up the stage and that she was sure her grandmother did not wish to do so either. Granny was quite strong again, she explained, and had made a big success. They now had plenty of money. But after this uncompromising beginning the tone changed. “If ever you cared for me to come home and it did not interfere with my work, I should be very glad,” she wrote. “We do not act in the summer months. I would promise not to talk about theatrical matters and I would try not to vex you in any other way. Do not trouble to answer now, but if you want me at any time, please write and I will come. I should like to see you. Your very affectionate daughter, Joan.”

It seemed as though the olive branches tendered by Joan and her grandmother to the intervening generation were destined to wither fruitlessly. Mr. Vandeleur did reply, but in the negative. He, like Imogen, used the word ‘kind’—he was obliged to Joan for her ‘kind communication.’ He feared, however, that the arrangement she suggested was impracticable. If, at any time, she gave up the stage, he would be only too glad to welcome her. He, too, would like it if they could meet and he remained her affectionate father.

Joan was not pained by the letter as Mrs. Lennox had been by Imogen’s. Indeed, it is doubtful whether she was not on the whole relieved. She was taken up by her own life and work, and her father again slipped to the background of her mind. Had she seen him, the new solicitude would doubtless have returned. For, as the snapshot suggested, John Vandeleur had altered amazingly. One cause was doubtless overstrain; he had worked unceasingly during the four months since Imogen had left him, leaving the barest minimum of the day for food and sleep. And what added to the strain was the fact of his work being unavailing. Instead of retrieving his losses, he was continually increasing them. He could not but realize himself that he had somehow lost his former grip of things and people, and the knowledge unnerved him further. He hesitated when he should have acted—and lost. He acted when he should have hesitated—and lost again. And yet there was something more to account for this débâcle than the growing incapacity of old age. To the savage indifference of Wall Street, John Vandeleur was accustomed, but now an active, malevolent, unseen fate seemed to dog his steps. It stultified his projects, queered his markets, seduced his most trusted clerks. And so his heaped multi-millions melted further.

In March the new Copper Bill came before Congress. It was a necessary piece of legislation that would benefit the whole country, as well as, incidentally, the Vandeleur interest. Had it been against the public weal, Mr. Vandeleur would hardly have fostered it. He had not the slightest doubt of the bill passing. This was, at last, his opportunity to ‘make good’ and he plunged with an unusual recklessness. As he expected, the bill obtained a huge majority in the House of Representatives. It was just at the end of the session, but everyone imagined that it would pass through the Senate unopposed. To the general surprise the new Senator of Kentucky started on an impassioned harangue against it. He went on and on, his tactics gradually becoming clear. Finally by means of a rather marvellous fifteen hours’ speech—a triumph of physical endurance, if of nothing else—the bill was talked out. The copper market collapsed, falling to unheard of figures. Now, at last, John Vandeleur understood the ‘dark force’ that had hung over him during these last months. Lee-Baxter was ‘getting even.’

After that, the wonderful Renaissance house in Fifth Avenue was put up for sale. Among the few, a whisper was already going round that ‘old John Van’ was losing, and losing heavily, and this sale gave the rumour substance. The general public, however, which included Mrs. Lennox and Joan, had the legend of the Vandeleur millions far too deeply ingrained for any such doubt. No, they considered that the desire to get rid of a house so intimately connected with a disastrous marriage, needed no explanation. The press gave long, if discrepant, articles as to the site that the copper king was supposed to be acquiring for a new residence and the marvellous architecture that was to adorn it. It was reported that an agent had been sent to Europe for the sole purpose of collecting the very best workmen. Another account related that the Vandeleur mansion was to be built entirely of marble from Mount Helicon. Meanwhile Mr. Vandeleur had taken up a temporary abode at Sherry’s, which certainly did not smack of poverty. Probably the total result of the change was to increase, rather than to diminish the popular myth.

Meanwhile ‘The Combine’ continued to pursue its chequered existence. On the whole it did better on the homeward route, but its success could only be described as very moderate. Neither Joan nor her grandmother was sorry when April brought the long tour to an end. Despite Mrs. Lennox’s unfailing nightly triumph, and her apparently recovered strength, she had been growing rather weary of the constant change of place, while Joan was equally weary of the never changing part. “I have been on the stage over a year and only played in two rôles,” she would grumble. “How can I learn anything? It’s no wonder the French actresses beat us to a frazzle. This star system is the ruin of the stage.”

As soon as the tour was over, they made their way, as long decided, straight to their beloved Wood Haven, only stopping at New York for an interview with Mr. Hobson. The great little manager, yearly growing more rotund, was genial and complimentary. “Your play pulled up a sight better than I expected,” he told them. “But next time we must induce Mr. Fletcher to give us something that’s more drama and less sermon. Folks won’t go to church on a week day.” Before they parted he told them that they were to consider themselves “with him for life.”

On the strength of a secure engagement for the next season, Mrs. Lennox rented a little frame house in the forest, a couple of miles from Wood Haven. The first step was to furnish it, and into this Joan threw herself with a frenzy of energy and delight. Economy had to be practised, for although the winter’s salary had been high, the expenses had also been high; while redeeming the fur coats and other pawned articles had consumed their savings for at least two months. But bargain-hunting only added to Joan’s zest. This was the first place that she had ever really felt her own—a dwelling that she evolved, instead of having it imposed upon her from the outside. The grandmother was quite distressed to find how the girl had hated her wonderful nurseries and schoolrooms fitted with every advantage that art or science could devise. “They were so strange to me,” Joan said, and gazed rapturously around the little living room with its colour-washed walls and cheap print hangings. “This is home.”

Perhaps part of the fun of furnishing had lain in the companionship of Adam Fletcher. For no sooner had they arrived at Wood Haven than the playwright also appeared. He stated that it was a nice, quiet place to do a bit of work which he had on hand, and proceeded to make an arrangement to board for a couple of months in the summer hotel. Unless the work to which Mr. Fletcher referred was putting up curtains, nailing matting, or digging flowerbeds, it is difficult to know when he found time to do it; for he and Joan pursued these domestic occupations from morning to night with equal enthusiasm and incompetence. How young they were, Mrs. Lennox thought, as she heard the gay, laughing chatter. Indeed, when she remembered the solemn, dark-eyed little girl of the past, she felt that it was the first time in Joan’s life that her granddaughter had been young. And the ridiculous mistakes they made! Mrs. Lennox laughed till she cried when she found Mr. Fletcher endeavouring to grind coffee in the mincer! Joan on this occasion assumed airs of scathing superiority, but a few days later, she herself was heard asking the hired man when the potatoes would be ripe enough ‘to pick!’ “They all seem to be still in flower,” she was complaining sadly. It was now Mr. Fletcher’s turn to mock. A little bouquet of potato-blossom appeared to adorn the girl’s place at lunch.

Naturally the renewed irruption of Adam Fletcher into their lives gave Mrs. Lennox considerable food for thought. There could be no excuse now of studying a play together. Indeed the reason of Mr. Fletcher’s visit was not far to seek. Despite the laughing good-fellowship that existed between them, he was patently in love with Joan. Indeed, the depth of his devotion was almost comic. When the girl was in the room, his eyes hardly left her. If she were away, he wandered like a lost soul, asking plaintively at what hour she would return. “How could you be so cruel?” he enquired with half-real tragedy when she had made some small excursion without him.

Although Mrs. Lennox was thoughtful, she was not displeased. If Joan had to have a suitor, she could hardly have wished for a more desirable one. Apart from gratitude to Adam Fletcher for giving her the part of her life, Mrs. Lennox was really fond of him. He was, perhaps, rather homely in appearance, but she considered him kind, talented, unselfish—‘good as bread’ was her mental phrasing. Also she was sorry for him. Mr. Fletcher’s mother had died the previous autumn, and although they evidently had had little in common, yet at times Mrs. Lennox thought he felt very lonely. He had no other near relations, and his hosts of friends, unattached busy people like himself, could not supply the home element in his life. He lived in some sort of settlement club in New York, and was obviously very tired of it. “It’s pretty nice having a little place like this,” he said rather enviously, as he came into their parlour the first evening after they were really settled. The room certainly did look rather attractive after the dark forest outside, for the shaded lamp and dancing woodfire were throwing their light on great jars of willow catkins and budding maple branches, which Joan had arranged, and on a pleasant, homely supper table fragrant with a bowl of brakes and white violets. Chiefly, however, Mr. Fletcher’s eyes rested on Joan herself, seated on a low stool at her grandmother’s feet. “As a man gets older he seems to want things of his very own,” he went on thoughtfully, “despite all communist theories.”

It was, indeed, these same theories that gave Mrs. Lennox the only pause. They were such a pity, she felt. Had not the insistence upon socialism in ‘The Combine’ ruined a good play? Still young people got over things of that sort, especially when they were married. For the grandmother always regarded these enthusiasms as diseases of youth, comparable with the chicken-pox and measles of the earlier decade. Unfortunately Mr. Fletcher seemed to have taken the complaint rather late and in a particularly aggravated form.

But even Mr. Fletcher’s ‘isms’ did not worry Mrs. Lennox as much as her granddaughter’s puzzling attitude. How much did Joan care for this new friend? she wondered with increasing anxiety. That the child enjoyed his society was evident—why, they spent the greater part of the day alone together. As soon as the furnishing of the little house was complete, they had resumed their previous, and even more compromising occupation of long rambles along the shore and in the woods. Also Joan must have confided in him a part, at least, of the great secret, for she now openly spoke of ‘Granny’ in his presence, while he had substituted ‘Mrs. Lennox’ for ‘Miss West.’ But if matters had gone so far, the harassed grandmother speculated, why did they not go farther? No one could consider the present situation as satisfactory. Sooner or later gossip would be sure to arise. Surely Joan had had by now sufficient opportunity to make up her mind—besides, in any case, she had tied her hands. How in common decency, could she refuse a man after encouraging him so outrageously for months?

At one time it had crossed Mrs. Lennox’s mind that perhaps Mr. Fletcher’s socialism was keeping the young people apart. If Joan disagreed with him, it was certain to be with the fierce intolerance of youth that gives to any intellectual divergence such tragic importance. But she soon realized that there was no difficulty of this sort. Joan became nearly as foolish on the subject as the young man himself. Her granddaughter seriously seemed to share the belief that to give the State more power would produce a new heaven and a new earth—as though it did not make quite enough muddle with the power it already possessed. How enraged John Vandeleur would be to hear such doctrines from his daughter, the grandmother told herself with a chuckle. For the views of her erstwhile alarming son-in-law could now be disregarded, she felt. His last letter rejecting Joan’s overtures evidently meant that he had cut her off for ever.

But what then could explain the continuance of the present indefinite relation? Mrs. Lennox remembered having heard that socialists held peculiar opinions on the subject of matrimony, and so one day she judiciously sounded Mr. Fletcher, basing the discussion on the most general grounds. To her relief she found his views quite conventional. “The present system is mighty unsatisfactory, but it seems to me any other would be worse,” he said. He was a little amused, for he had guessed the motive of the conversation, which Mrs. Lennox had tried so elaborately to conceal. “Anyway I have always felt I wanted marriage ‘in mine,’” he told her with unmistakable sincerity.

Then it must be Joan’s fault the grandmother concluded. Probably it was on account of her work. Joan wanted to be more firmly established in her profession before getting engaged. Some remark of the girl’s about matrimony as a luxury for stars came back to Mrs. Lennox’s mind. Yes, that no doubt was it. Perhaps some day Joan would burst in with the announcement of an immediate marriage, just as she had burst in with the announcement of going on the stage. Fortunately this time, the grandmother thankfully reflected, she would not be required to share the adventure. At sixty, one was too old for any more upheavals! She was, indeed, intensely grateful to Mr. Hobson for having taken them under his sheltering, managerial wing and so assured their future whether Joan married or not. It was strange that they had not yet heard about the new autumn production in which they were to appear, she reflected.

A few days later the expected letter from the office arrived.

“Oh we are going to tour again in your ‘Combine,’ Mr. Fletcher,” Mrs. Lennox announced. “They think there is still money in it. Well, I shall be real glad to get back to that dear old garment-worker.”

“I shan’t.” Joan had started to her feet, the colour crimsoning her cheeks. “I mean I won’t play Sue any more. Mr. Hobson must get somebody else.”

“My dear child!” Her grandmother was staring at her aghast. “How can you talk so foolishly? Of course we must take what Mr. Hobson offers us. Why, we owe it to him, if only because he has been so honourable in not telling——” Mrs. Lennox checked herself. If Adam Fletcher did not know their real identity, she herself was ‘telling.’ “I should think you’d like to do Mr. Fletcher’s play and feel your work is benefiting him,” she said instead.

The young dramatist, who was looking exceedingly perturbed, tried to speak, but Joan interrupted him. “Mr. Fletcher knows how much I admire his play, Granny,” she said more mildly, and smiled at the hapless author. “He knows that I just loved playing Sue. But one can have too much even of her, you know. I feel that I must get more experience, more—more development. Think of what a lot of plays there are in the world, and what a few one can do at the best!” She was now frankly addressing herself to her friend. “Oh, don’t you see, I feel that I must play and play and play—everything!”

“She is quite right, Mrs. Lennox,” Adam Fletcher broke in eagerly, shattering that poor lady’s last hope. “She mustn’t play ‘The Combine’ any more. It would be waste.”

“You’re hopeless, both of you!” The grandmother was nearly in tears. “Can’t you see, Mr. Fletcher, that unless Joan accepts Mr. Hobson’s offer, he’ll be mad, and won’t give her a part at all? She’ll have the whole Syndicate up against her. And then she talks of getting more experience! I tell you it’s Sue or nothing. And very likely if she refuses, Mr. Hobson will give up the idea of the tour altogether, and then we shall both be out of work.”

This was a new idea, and it sobered Joan. The Norfolk experience was sufficiently recent for her to realize the horror of such a prospect. Unfortunately Mrs. Lennox, in her effort to strengthen her case, proceeded to weaken it. “And it affects you too, Mr. Fletcher,” she urged. “Why, I have always heard that an author’s royalties are paid on the gross, so even if we did bad business, you would stand to gain pretty considerable.”

“I don’t want to gain!” The young man looked almost as indignant as Joan. “I would sooner pay the royalty than have Joan stultify her talent.” In his excitement he did not notice that he had slipped into the Christian name, which had hitherto been reserved for the strictest dual privacy. “Why, I feel ashamed already of the amount that comes rolling in from my plays. It is against my principles to be rich, you know, Mrs. Lennox,” he went on more lightly; “so you needn’t worry about my interest.”

Joan had turned and was standing by the window, playing with the tassel of the shade. Her companions could not see her face. “Thank you,” she said softly.

But Mrs. Lennox persevered. “You may have plenty of money, Mr. Fletcher,” she urged, “but we haven’t any at all. Joan can’t afford to offend Mr. Hobson. How are we going to live?”

Mr. Fletcher was evidently considering the matter deeply. “There is an actress I know up in Boston, a Mrs. Vincent-Dawe. Her husband is quite a wealthy man, and they were talking of running a little Shakespeare repertory theatre next season. Of course it would all be in a very small way, small theatre, small company, small takings, small salaries. I wonder——”

“Oh, write to her about me.” Joan had swung round and was clasping her hands in ecstasy. “That’s just the very thing I want—lots and lots of work. It would be too heavenly.”

“Well, I suppose you will, at least, have the sense to wait and see if you get this engagement before refusing Mr. Hobson,” Mrs. Lennox remarked bitterly.

In answer to Adam Fletcher’s letter, Mrs. Vincent-Dawe asked Joan to come and see her. So the girl paid a flying visit to Boston—her grandmother having firmly refused to sanction Mr. Fletcher’s escort. Joan came back radiant, and poured out her news to the other two as they were sitting on the piazza. Yes, she was definitely engaged, and the season opened in October. A fresh Shakespeare play was to be put on every fortnight. Mrs. Vincent-Dawe would, of course, take the chief woman’s part, but she was to have the next in importance and sometimes duplicate, as the company was so small.

“And what is your salary to be?” Mrs. Lennox enquired.

“Oh, thirty dollars—but that is quite enough for us, even if Mr. Hobson doesn’t take you—and I am sure he will. You were the hit last season, not I. And just think of the experience I shall get, Granny! From Ariel to Juliet’s nurse, from the Queen in Hamlet to the witch in Macbeth! Won’t it be glorious?”

Mrs. Lennox was nearer being irritated with her granddaughter than she had ever been before. The lack of consideration for ‘Frances West’ was galling. And then to throw away the lead in a Hobson production and a hundred dollars a week for a fraction of the salary and minor rôles under what was practically an amateur management. The child must be crazy! Why, the money sacrifice alone ought to have kept her from doing it. But Joan seemed as indifferent to money as she was to love! Really, she was quite inhuman. For the indifference that the girl had shown to Mr. Fletcher’s interest in refusing to act Sue, had now finally convinced her grandmother that she did not care for him. Well, it was a good thing that the poor young man had now to go off to some socialist conference and meetings, so that he would be away from Wood Haven for a time. It was scandalous the way Joan had treated him.

Perhaps Joan was sensible of the disapproving atmosphere, for she now jumped up. “Oh, what a lovely afternoon!” she cried. “Too good to stop indoors. Let us go into the woods. How one appreciates them after Boston! I suppose you won’t come too, Granny?” She lightly kissed Mrs. Lennox and then wandered out bareheaded, closely followed by Adam Fletcher.

It was, as Joan had said, exquisite in the forest, for the heat of the cloudless June day was now pleasantly tempered. They wandered along, deep in talk about their respective work and plans. At last, Joan said that they must go home or Granny would be anxious. As they were coming down the last steep little bit of the wood trail in Indian file, with Joan characteristically leading, a swaying vine caught in her thick hair. She stopped, trying to disentangle herself, but failed. “I feel like Absalom,” she laughed.

Adam Fletcher came to her assistance. As he disentangled the pertinacious branch, his fingers were trembling. At last he got it free. He took away his hands. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her hair.

Joan gave a gasp. Then she hurried on at a breakneck pace down the steep path in front. Was she angry, Adam Fletcher wondered miserably. He did not try to overtake her. For one thing he doubted his power. Besides, it would only make her go still faster, and then she might stumble and hurt herself. Round the next bend their own little garden came into view, although it was still a considerable way below. Mrs. Lennox was sitting in it, and waved her hand. Joan now waited until her companion came up, and they both waved in return. “I am so sorry,” Adam Fletcher stammered in abject apology. “I didn’t think you would mind so much.”

Joan smiled. “My work comes first, but I didn’t mind at all,” she said, secure in her grandmother’s long-distance chaperonage.

CHAPTER XIX.

As Mrs. Lennox had foretold, the great manager was deeply incensed at Joan’s defection, and ordered ‘The Combine’ tour to be indefinitely postponed. But the grandmother did not find herself out of a job as she had feared. Mr. Hobson had now realized her value as a business asset, and, as he himself put it, he “wasn’t going to chuck away Miss West because her girl was a crazy fool.” Indeed there was a part in one of his New York autumn productions in which he exactly saw her, and he had already contemplated her withdrawal from ‘The Combine’ if that shaky piece could possibly be made to run without her. He now wrote definitely, offering Miss West the new rôle at her last year’s salary.

So tranquillity again reigned at Wood Haven, a tranquillity that was much enhanced for Mrs. Lennox by the absence of Adam Fletcher. He had expected to be away a month, but after the Labour Conference there had sprung up an epidemic of labour unrest, and, as he seemed to think his presence necessary to every strike, it kept him away almost all the rest of the summer. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox began to wonder whether the young man’s devotion towards her granddaughter was as intense as she had imagined. His absence was quite voluntary, she gathered, and her lack of sympathy with labour made her feel the cause of it trifling. Her sense of guilt as to Joan’s treatment of Mr. Fletcher grew proportionately less. In any case, she felt, with a pleasant relief, that her granddaughter could no longer be encouraging her suitor if he was not there to be encouraged.

Thus the grandmother and granddaughter passed the time in the little woodland home alone together—or rather with Shakespeare as a dominant third. The girl had, with much difficulty, got from Mrs. Vincent-Dawe a list of the ten plays that they were to produce. After that, she went off to the forest each morning with her lunch and her cherished volume in a basket and did not re-appear until teatime, looking rather worn, but strangely happy. It had been impossible to find out the parts in which she would be cast, and so, instead of studying any particular rôles, she steeped herself in the whole. Mrs. Lennox declared laughingly that Joan had memorized the entire works of the Immortal Bard from cover to cover! “Prick her anywhere and she spouts Shakespeare,” the grandmother told Adam Fletcher on one of his rare visits.

For on two occasions the harassed young labour leader did manage to slip in a long week-end at Wood Haven. He looked very tired each time, and was quite hoarse from open-air speaking. Joan was more concerned on this last point than her grandmother had ever seen her. “There’s no earthly reason why you should get hoarse,” she told her friend severely. “It’s just because you don’t produce your voice properly. Pitch it lower—get it rounder, more resonant. It makes my throat ache to hear you. And do, do take breath oftener—you gasp like a fish. You must make the best of your voice, you know,” she went on with brutal candour, “when you have so little.”

“Yes, and I have to make the little go a very long way at mass meetings,” Adam Fletcher croaked. “But we can’t all be great artistes like you!”

“Now that is hateful of you!” The girl flushed. “Why, I think it is much greater to stand up and say things out of your own head—however badly you say them! I can’t imagine how you do it at all! It would scare me stiff.”

“Scare you!” Mr. Fletcher mocked. “I’d like to see you scared! A poor, little, trembling violet by the wayside—yes, that’s just my conception of you!”

For during these brief visits the old, laughing raillery was resumed, but only in the intervals of hard work. Joan insisted on giving the young man lessons in elocution—to the immense improvement of his voice—alternated by the discussion of various knotty points in Shakespeare’s plays. Here Mr. Fletcher was the teacher, for he was able to elucidate several of the difficulties, about which, probably rightly, Joan had felt it useless to consult her grandmother. The two of them always seemed so absorbed in abstract discussion during these few days they had together that it even occurred to Mrs. Lennox to wonder whether she had been altogether wrong about Mr. Fletcher’s attitude. Could the friendship be platonic on both sides?

Could Mrs. Lennox—unseen—have accompanied Adam Fletcher and Joan on their long rambles, she would soon have been undeceived. For the friendship was far from platonic on either side. Still the grandmother was right in thinking that impersonal topics did form a large part of the young people’s conversation. Adam Fletcher could hardly be in the thick of a labour struggle and not be full of it during these short holidays. Indeed, one day as they walked along the deserted shore, he inveighed so vehemently against capitalists that even Joan was moved to protest. “After all capitalism isn’t a crime,” she suggested.

“Yes, it is. It is a crime against the commonwealth—and that is the only unpardonable one. To think of men owning millions and not even ashamed of it! They are like the officers of a shipwrecked crew, gorging themselves on a ten course dinner while the rest starve.—There isn’t much chance of a millionaire cropping out in my family history, but if one did, I’d be almost too ashamed to live!”

The exaggerated words were half in jest, but Joan did not find them funny. A horrible feeling of apprehension had gripped her. What would Adam think about her father? Of course, she had often heard him rail against capitalism in the abstract, but he had never narrowed his tirades to individuals before. Somehow she had not connected the question with herself. “But some millionaires are all right—quite good men in private life,” she urged.

“Well, they may be. Though mostly they don’t seem even capable of that, judging by what one hears of the Newport crowd. Look at that Vandeleur woman”—Joan almost jumped—“I mean ‘old John Van’s’ wife, who has been cropping up in all the papers of late. I don’t hold a brief against divorce, but it does strike one that after she’d been married to the old man for twenty years and enjoyed his millions, she might have had the decency to stick to him to the end. And I’ve always heard the great Vandeleur is a white man—for a millionaire! Of course, personally, I don’t feel anyone can make that sort of pile and keep his hands absolutely clean!”

They had been skirting a little rocky promontory. Now they found themselves in one of the tiny inlets of this irregular coast. “Shall we stop a little?” Joan said rather breathlessly, and sat down on one of the great boulders. “No, you go over there,” she ordered, pointing to another rock, as her companion prepared to take his seat beside her. Adam smiled a little, and wondered what was coming. He did not absolutely obey, for he stretched himself luxuriously on the warm sand at his companion’s feet, tipping his straw hat over his eyes. There was a pause.

Joan’s heart was beating fast. Adam Fletcher’s words, and particularly his startling reference to her mother, made her feel that she must tell him who she was at once. She had not done so before because she felt, to a certain extent, under a pledge of secrecy to her father. Besides it had seemed so unimportant. The old life was done with for ever. “There is something I want to tell you—a sort of confession,” she began with a most unusual nervousness.

Adam pushed back his hat very slightly, so that he could see the girl’s face. “Revelations as to your lurid past?” he suggested.

Joan laughed, but with constraint. “Yes,” she said. Her tone was sober.

Something in her voice rather startled the young man. Of course, he did not credit a lurid past, but he did think she was going to tell him that at some time she had been engaged to another man. After all, she had been on the stage for two seasons; she must have come into contact with better looking men than himself. Well, he didn’t like the idea, but it couldn’t be helped. After all, he ought to be thankful that she wasn’t still engaged to the other fellow. The idea that she might be, flashed across his mind, but he dismissed it at once. Joan was too honest to have allowed things to be on their present footing if there were still complications with someone else. But who would have imagined she could look so nervous? He didn’t like to see it. “Who is he?” he asked to put an end to her embarrassment.

The girl started. “How did you know?” she exclaimed.

“Oh, just intuition. Well, tell me about the ‘hated rival.’” For the life of him he couldn’t make his voice quite as unconcerned as he intended.

“‘Hated rival’?” The bewilderment on Joan’s face was obvious. “Oh, then you don’t know—I believe you thought I was going to tell you I was engaged or something silly like that.”

“Some such idea did cross my mind,” Adam Fletcher admitted. He was rather abashed by Joan’s scorn, but absurdly relieved.

“It was an idiotic idea!” Joan paused. Then, partly to delay the dreaded revelation, she observed casually: “Once a man did try to kiss me, but I knocked him down. There was a crash.”

“My dear!” Adam had known Joan over a year, but he felt there was little danger of her conversation becoming monotonous. He began to laugh softly. “I didn’t realize how I had been taking my life in my hands!”

“Oh, of course, you are different. You and I—that’s ‘keeps,’” she said childishly. Then she broke off, for Adam Fletcher had, not unnaturally, again taken his life in his hands. “No, sit down right over there,” she insisted. “That wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. It is something serious.”

“Fire away.” Adam this time obediently took up his position on the adjacent rock. Whatever else it might be that she had to say, he felt he could bear it with equanimity. “Which of the ten commandments is it that you have broken?”

It gave Joan an unexpected opening. “I suppose it is the fifth,” she said seriously. “‘Honour thy father and thy mother.’ You have never asked me about my parents, and I have never told you.”

Poor darling, Adam thought complacently; so this was what she was worrying over. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve guessed all about that. At least I imagined your mother must have died when you were a baby, as Mrs. Lennox told me once she had looked after you then. But I don’t care a hang if your mother is dead or not, or what she is, or your father either. So now you can go ahead and tell me he is a street sweeper or in Sing-Sing. I shan’t turn a hair.”

“Father does not sweep streets, and he isn’t in gaol.” In spite of herself Joan could not help smiling. “He is something you would disapprove of much more. And Mother isn’t dead. You were speaking about her just now. My mother is Mrs. Vandeleur.”

“Good Lord! Do you mean John P. Vandeleur is your father?” As Joan nodded, Adam Fletcher turned white. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. “Your parentage is certainly rather startling,” he said at last.

Joan had thought that he would dislike her news, but she had never imagined that he would be so utterly overwhelmed—and dismayed. Yes, there had been no mistaking the look on his face when he heard it. “But Adam,” she almost pleaded, “if you didn’t mind my father being a criminal, why should you mind his being a capitalist? I am myself all the same. Millions aren’t a disease that might break out in me!”

The young man tried to smile. “Well, I don’t know—they often are inherited,” he said.

“Oh, but these millions won’t be. Because Father cut me off when I went on the stage. And I have heard from him since that his decision is irrevocable, unless I give up my work, and, of course, I shall never do that.” She went into fuller particulars. “So you see I am entirely distinct from the millions, and I can’t think why you should mind them so much.”

There was a pause. Adam Fletcher felt he could not tell Joan that her parentage raised a barrier to their marriage, when he had never yet formally asked her to marry him. He wished now that he had done so; they could then have discussed the situation more freely. But a proposal had struck him as an unnecessary and commonplace proceeding: he had not known how to set about it. And Joan was always so taken up with her work; he had been quite sure she would not contemplate marriage at present. Besides she was barely nineteen—ten years his junior. It was too young, he had felt chivalrously, for a girl to take such an irrevocable step. But although he had not spoken of marriage, he certainly had never had the remotest idea of going on always in their present relation. And now this bombshell had fallen between them; it turned him cold with fear. For he, as well as Joan, had work to do in the world. How could he, a labour man, marry John Vandeleur’s daughter? What sort of confidence would the masses retain in him? He would lose all the influence he knew he possessed. His position would be ruined, his power of serving the Cause.—But, of course, if Joan’s father had finally disowned her, that would make a difference. Well, one day he would thresh out the subject with her, when the position between them was on a more definite footing. “I suppose if it really can be kept secret, it doesn’t make any difference,” he now contented himself with saying doubtfully.

“Of course it can be kept secret.” Joan’s tone was quite cheerful. “Why, there is no secret to keep. I am not Miss Vandeleur at all; she died eighteen months ago. I am Joan North!”

This was Adam Fletcher’s last visit to Wood Haven, for soon after Joan and her grandmother migrated to New York. Mrs. Lennox’s rehearsals were beginning. Fortunately, Joan’s season opened considerably later, and so, to her joy, she was first able to establish her grandmother in New York. They took a little furnished apartment on Riverside Drive, right up at 122nd Street. It was a long way from the theatre, but also it was comfortably removed from the millionaire district to the north-east of Central Park. Mrs. Lennox could go out without the fear of running into her old acquaintances. The fact that some new friends they had made at Wood Haven were living near was an additional reason for the choice. But Joan’s anxiety as to her grandmother feeling lonely had been much lessened by finding that Mr. Montgomery was playing in the same production. That kind little man had, at last, achieved the dream of his life in appearing on Broadway. If the play was a success he intended to send for his ‘Missis’ and ‘the kids.’ “I guess I’ll fix them up in your part of the world,” he told Mrs. Lennox. “It’s mighty pretty up by Riverside, and not so scandalously dear. My! they’ll be tickled to death at having a season in New York.”

There was a week’s ‘try-out’ at Philadelphia, and then came the New York opening. This time the play was a success; there seemed little doubt of its running in the metropolis for the whole season. Two days later Joan departed for Boston. “I hate to leave you, Granny darling,” she said. “But you will be ever so careful of yourself, won’t you, and not get ill? It is most handy Adam Fletcher living in New York. Of course, he will often be coming in to see you, and I shall tell him to let me know just exactly how you are looking. So prevarication will avail you nothing!”

Mrs. Lennox was almost amused. Did Joan really think that Mr. Fletcher would spend long hours journeying up town on crowded cars or in the stuffy subway to call on an old woman? Well, if he did come, she would be able to enjoy his visits with a clear conscience in her granddaughter’s absence.

And now, here was ‘Frances West’ established in New York for the first time in her life, and ‘Joan North’ miles away at Boston. Truly the theatrical life was a strange one, Mrs. Lennox felt. To her immense surprise, Mr. Fletcher did call on her, as her granddaughter had foretold, and continued to do so once a week with praiseworthy regularity. Nor could it be that he came to hear about Joan, for Mrs. Lennox made a point of not referring to her. Occasionally, of course, the girl’s name was mentioned—the grandmother was too devoted for entire abstention. On these occasions it did strike her that the young man showed a singularly detailed knowledge of Joan’s proceedings. Well, they wrote to each other, Mrs. Lennox supposed. Indeed, Joan had said as much. But the grandmother genuinely thought that the unsatisfactory friendship was dying down. She would have been much surprised, had she known that the letters were of daily occurrence, and still more at the phraseology in which they were couched.

Meanwhile, Joan, in Boston, was not merely writing love letters; she was working harder at her profession than she had ever worked before. Indeed, after producing two or three plays, she began to find herself hankering after the much despised star system. It really was rather exasperating at the end of each fortnight, just when the play was beginning to get ‘pointed up,’ just when she felt her own part acquiring a certain roundness and polish, to have to lay it aside. It worried her, too, to be rehearsing another play, while the one they were performing was so very far from perfect. Still it could not be helped, and she was certainly getting an extraordinary range of experience. Duplicating parts was in itself a liberal education, with the quick changes of make up, both mental and physical, that it involved. Indeed, it was rather too ‘acrobatic,’ Joan complained, for her taste. All the same, she gave some magnificent renderings of the minor characters, whether duplicated or single. The more intellectual of the Boston critics began to watch for her performances and to devote to them a disconcertingly large portion of their notices. Perhaps her most finished bit of work was the mother in ‘Hamlet.’ This the girl had studied carefully at Wood Haven, feeling sure that it would fall to her. The subtlety and strength of her playing quite wiped out Cyril Mallock, the leading man, and also the unfortunate Mrs. Vincent-Dawe’s Ophelia. After the performance Joan became conscious of her artistic mistake. She had no right to eclipse the chief characters, however poorly they were played. If she did so, it showed that her work, too, was poor; for the Queen was intended to form more or less of a background. In order to play her rôle as well as she was able, she must not play it as well as she was able. The part could not be given for all it was worth.

So a very much more subdued Queen appeared on the stage the following evening. Still the girl had the approbation of her artistic conscience and also incidentally of Mrs. Vincent-Dawe. “I did think perhaps you overplayed it just a little last night, dear,” that lady told her. She was a pleasant, kind-hearted woman, although not so great an actress as she imagined herself; a delusion fostered by her husband’s dollars. However, Joan liked her; indeed, she liked all this enthusiastic, if rather amateurish, little company.

The next play to be produced was ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ with Joan as the Nurse. It almost seemed as though Providence meant to reward the girl for her previous self-denial. For on the Sunday morning—the day before the opening—Mrs. Vincent-Dawe was pronounced to have influenza. Possibly a certain nervousness, resulting from their last opening, made the malady less resistible. It would not do if Juliet’s Nurse somehow emerged as the heroine in the same unexpected way. She sent for Joan at once. “The doctor says I mustn’t appear, dear,” she told her feebly. “Have you ever studied Juliet?”

Joan looked startled. She had, in the past, worked at some of the big speeches, and at the end of the fortnight’s rehearsals, she always knew a good deal of the whole play. Still, Juliet was a big undertaking! However, she had nearly two days and a night. “I’m a very quick study. I guess I can do it,” she said.

The next afternoon an agitated reply-paid telegram arrived from Adam Fletcher. It was the first time he had not received his daily letter. “Are you ill?” he asked.

“Playing Juliet to-night,” was the laconic reply. When Joan arrived at the theatre, another wire was handed her. “You won’t be able to avoid big success however hard you try.” The message referred to the struggles over Hamlet’s mother, about which she had told him. It amused and heartened the girl, a stimulus badly needed. For the sense of hurried preparation had given Joan over to stage fright for the first time in her life. Her teeth had been chattering with terror as she walked down to the theatre.

If Juliet showed a certain ‘raggedness,’ the audience did not seem to notice it. Certainly, despite the obvious shortcomings, it was far better than anything Mrs. Vincent-Dawe could have given them. The scene in Juliet’s chamber was really fine. Possibly yet another telegram from Adam Fletcher had helped in this result. “Am coming to see you Saturday, dearest,” Joan had read, brazenly typed on the strip.

The excuse Adam Fletcher had made to himself, and subsequently to Mrs. Lennox, for going to Boston, was that he was speaking in Albany on Friday night. Or rather he did not mention to Mrs. Lennox where he was speaking. He merely told her vaguely, and a trifle unveraciously, that he had a meeting ‘up Boston way.’ “So I thought I would pay Miss North a visit,” he said.

Mrs. Lennox looked disturbed. Then she resolved to unburden herself. “But it is rather awkward, Mr. Fletcher,” she began agitatedly. “I mean as I am not there and Joan is so young. And that horrid, cheap boarding house where she insists on living—she will be self-supporting, although I tell her it is absurd when I am getting a good salary—but in places like that people gossip so and your name being well known——” The poor grandmother’s voice was quite tremulous.

Adam Fletcher was touched by the solicitude, although, with the arrogance of a younger generation, he considered all these conventions as ridiculous nonsense. “Oh, I will be very discreet, Mrs. Lennox,” he assured her. “Mrs. Vincent-Dawe is quite a friend of mine, so Miss North and I can meet at her house. And, in any case, there will be very little time for gossip, for I have to be back here by Monday.”

He was unable to reach Boston until Saturday evening, just in time to go down to the theatre. Knowing the house was so small, he had already asked Joan to have a seat reserved. Now he took it and waited with growing impatience. Presently the curtain went up. What a lot there was before Juliet came on! At last the old Nurse called out the familiar “what, Juliet!” She appeared.

Good heavens, how beautiful she was! Adam Fletcher sat staring in absolute bewilderment. The fact was, he had never seen Joan at one of her ‘moments.’ The everyday Joan was sometimes pretty, sometimes almost plain, but always just a simple girl, simply dressed. In ‘The Combine’ she had been a poor garment-worker, rather handsome, rather rough. Vivi was a made-up society woman, good-looking but past her first youth. But now, now in her clinging, rich white gown—it was her coming-out dress, had he known it—with her dark hair falling on her shoulders, her great, starry, dark eyes, why, she was superb, wonderful! It took away his breath. It almost frightened him. The house broke into its usual burst of applause.

As Joan came forward, she glanced once or twice across the footlights. Darling, she must be looking for him! The colour came to Adam Fletcher’s face; he could hardly keep still in his seat. But their eyes did not meet, and then she obviously forgot everything but her part. Well, that was all right, he told himself. At any rate he could see her and hear her beautiful voice. But as the play went on, he found to his genuine surprise, that it was not giving him as much satisfaction as he had anticipated. The only words in the balcony scene with which he felt in complete accord were, “Wherefore art thou Romeo?” But it was when they came to Juliet’s chamber that a sudden rush of primitive jealousy almost overmastered him. It was absurd, he told himself angrily. If Joan were playing Lady Macbeth, he would not want to shout for the police, nor try and clap her into the crazy-house at Bloomingdale as Ophelia. “If I am going to get worked up every time she has a love scene on the stage, I had better cut my throat and have done with it,” he reflected.

After that he kept himself better in hand. Joan was playing so very well, that, for a time, he almost forgot it was Joan. He even almost began to sympathise in the lovers’ classic tragedy. A storm of applause at the end of the play, surprisingly loud in such a miniature house, showed that he was not alone in his admiration.

Yes, there was no doubt about it, Joan was a great actress, Adam Fletcher told himself. He felt humble and extraordinarily proud of her. Yet he could not but realize that personally his evening’s pleasure had been somewhat doubtful. It was anxiety to escape from Juliet, as much as desire to see Joan, that made him hurry round to the back as soon as the curtain was finally down. She was standing on the stage in her white robe. Her face lit up radiantly as she saw him—yes, him, not that blamed Romeo!

Other people stood round, so the greeting could only be conventional. “Now I must introduce you to some of the company,” she told him. “They are quite excited to meet the author of ‘The Under Dog.’ Oh, Mr. Mallock”—the hated Romeo came forward. “Let me present you to Mr. Fletcher.” Joan then turned to a plump, fair-haired girl, who was standing near. “Mr. Fletcher, Miss Rachel—my Nurse, you know, and Mrs. Mallock in private life.”

Adam Fletcher pressed the hand of the blushing little Mrs. Mallock with unaccustomed fervour. Why, she must be almost a bride, he thought. Well, if she could stand that Romeo and Juliet business every night, he certainly ought not to grumble. Aloud he only murmured that he was delighted to meet her.

The Mallocks lived in the same boarding house as Joan. Presently they were all four walking up together. Partly out of gratitude for her existence, and partly out of deference to Mrs. Lennox’s instructions, Adam Fletcher devoted himself largely to Mrs. Mallock. Indeed, he was so attentive that she privately told her husband, Mr. Fletcher might be homely, but he was one of the loveliest men she had ever met. By the end of the evening the initial position was reversed, for Cyril Mallock had begun to feel distinctly jealous of the well-known dramatist, who was thus absorbing his wife.

In spite of his attentions to Mrs. Mallock, Adam Fletcher had managed to secure a few minutes’ talk with Joan. Remembering his promise to Mrs. Lennox, he suggested a discreet meeting the next morning at Mrs. Vincent-Dawe’s.

Joan was obviously surprised. “Oh, but we can’t go there, because she’s got ‘the grip,’” she explained. “Didn’t I tell you that is why I am playing Juliet? And my boarding house is too horrid. Why can’t we go into the country for a walk like at Wood Haven?”

It is but fair to say that Adam Fletcher hesitated. He hesitated so long that Joan looked still more surprised and even hurt. This decided him. “I don’t care. I must see you,” he said passionately.

“Well, isn’t that what I am suggesting?” Joan asked, with puzzled impatience.

The next morning they took a street car vaguely to its termination. Fortunately it landed them at the beginning of quite pretty country. It was a perfect winter’s day—frosty and with dazzling sunshine. Joan’s cheeks glowed like the rose that peeped out of her fur; she almost danced as she walked beside him. “Well, did you like Juliet?” she demanded eagerly. “Of course it needs a heap more work, especially the balcony part. But I’ve got the bedchamber scene pretty right.”

“Horribly right,” Adam groaned. “I wanted to kill Romeo.”

Once more Joan looked surprised; then she laughed, but a little tremulously. “How absurd! Why, of course, I was feeling it was you.”

Adam glanced round. There was no one in sight along the little country road. “There’s a lot more satisfaction in not doing it vicariously,” he presently observed.

They walked on again, talking hard. The young man’s eyes caught sight of the roses that Joan was wearing. “Are those part of that bumper bouquet I was made to struggle along with last night?” he asked.

“Yes, aren’t they beautiful? And do you know a bunch like that has come for me every evening this week? I have been giving them to every solitary soul I know in Boston, and yet my room is a perfect bower. There is never any card—the donor is anonymous.”

“I guess he won’t be anonymous long,” her companion assured her a trifle glumly.

They had lunch at a little inn they found; it was not a good lunch, but they thought it delicious. Afterwards Adam Fletcher observed that they would not see each other for some time. He had to go West—a labour leader’s life was not a restful one. It would be two or three months before he could be back.

“Oh, but that is too long,” Joan almost faltered. “I thought you would be coming to Boston again sooner than that.”

“Joan, when are we going to get married?” Adam Fletcher suddenly felt that the present position was intolerable. “I suppose you do mean to marry me some day?”

“Why, of course; you must have known that. But not for ages and ages.”

It was much the answer he had expected; indeed, it was because he had expected it, that he had never before asked the question. But her obvious dismay at his going away, had broken through his restraint. “When should I possibly have time to get married?” Joan went on.

“Oh, I don’t know; getting married doesn’t take such a lot of time,” her companion urged cheerfully. “Ten minutes off the dinner hour one day would do it.”

In spite of herself, Joan laughed. “No, I can’t get married,” she repeated. “I always told you that my work had to come first. ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not drama more.’ After all, Adam, there are plenty of people to get married and there aren’t plenty of me. Anyway, I am not going even to think about it until I am a star.” Her voice was decided—almost irritated. “Yes, I have got to be a ‘head-liner’ first and have ‘Joan North’ written up on Broadway in electric lights.”

“Why, I thought you didn’t care about the star business?” This Adam had not expected; he was surprised, even pained. “You always told me it was art for art’s sake and so forth.”

“So it is really.” Joan dropped her lighter tone. “But you see, dearest, I feel somehow that I must have the outward sign too, the hall mark of success. I expect it is the dreadful Vandeleur secret that weighs on me. It makes me always afraid of slipping down into something wealthy and amateur. But if my dramatic position is settled beyond any possibility of doubt, then I shall be safer. So, before anything else, I must be a star—a fixed star.”

“If that is the case, I guess I was the biggest kind of fool to encourage you to leave the Hobson management.” Adam Fletcher felt suddenly that he had more to be jealous of than he had realized. It was not any individual Romeo that stood between him and Joan, but Shakespeare himself, the whole dramatic art. Well, he must make up his mind to it. As a playwright himself, he should be the last to complain. Whenever she did come to him, it would mean more than the uninterrupted love of the ordinary girl. Presently he kissed her again—at any rate she allowed that. “The desire of the moth for the star,” he quoted half humorously, half sadly.

CHAPTER XX.

The week that followed Adam Fletcher’s departure was the hardest of all Joan’s hard-worked season. She had no time to miss her lover; she hardly had time to remember his existence. There were six evening performances and two matinées of Juliet, and at each of them points occurred to her for subsequent work and improvement. There were rehearsals every morning of ‘As You Like It,’ in which, next week, she was playing Celia. And—in case Mrs. Vincent-Dawe might still be on the sick list—there was a nightly study of Rosalind that carried her far into the small hours. Sometimes the girl felt quite dazed with her treble life of Shakespeare’s creating. She really could not manage in addition a fourth rôle—herself.

On Thursday evening, after the performance, Mr. Dawe, the husband of the absent star, came round to the back, with a young man in tow. Mr. Dawe’s visits were fairly frequent; indeed, as he supplied the solid foundation of the whole enterprise, there was every reason for his interest. They had not seen him since his wife’s illness, and Joan went up to him eagerly. Now, at last, she could get some definite information as to Mrs. Vincent-Dawe’s appearance next week.

Yes, Mrs. Dawe was much better, he said; quite well, in fact; she was coming to rehearsal to-morrow. Joan gave a sigh of relief. Although she would simply adore playing Rosalind, she did not want to give another hurried and underdone performance. Now she could concentrate with a free mind on her Celia. Mr. Dawe was meanwhile making some complimentary remarks about Juliet in which truthfulness and loyalty to his wife were evidently at variance. “I am so sorry that I have not been able to get down to the theatre to see it before,” he said, “but Mr. Alden here has made up for me. I believe he has been to every performance!” He indicated the fair, blushing youth, who had come in with him, and who was still standing expectantly near. “May I present Mr. Alden to you, Miss North?” Mr. Dawe smiled a little as he thought of the persecution he had endured from the boy during the last week to obtain the desired introduction.

Young Alden turned still pinker as he shook Miss North’s hand. He was about twenty, Joan imagined—no doubt still at College. She felt immeasurably his senior, although in point of years she was probably the younger. The boy stammered something about the great honour and then relapsed into an overwhelmed silence. After a little more chat with Mr. Dawe, Joan ran off to change.

She thought no more about the incident, but the next evening Mr. Alden came behind again—and the next and the next. Although diffident in speech, he evidently had a certain assurance in action. The exclusion of strangers was not as rigorous in this little theatre as on the regular stage, and as young Alden seemed to think that Mr. Dawe’s initial introduction had constituted him an honorary member of the company, no one troubled to contradict him. Indeed, they all liked the nice-looking, good-tempered young fellow, and with these understaffed and short-lived productions, he did soon manage to make himself quite useful. He shifted scenery, rolled ground sheets, and ran errands with a humble alacrity that would have astonished his parents. For young Alden belonged to one of the most exclusive families in Boston—a fact that did not detract from his general acceptability! Once, through some oversight, there was no one to ply the cocoanut shells as galloping horses, and Mr. Alden, who was standing opportunely in the wings, saved the situation. Joan nicknamed him ‘the call boy’s understudy,’ and the infatuated young man glowed with pride at the title.

For the object of Mr. Alden’s presence was patent to everyone. There was hardly a night when he was not standing at the stage door after the performance patiently waiting to accompany Miss North and Mr. and Mrs. Mallock home. Although Joan had some misgivings, she could not help being rather glad of the addition to the party. She had reluctantly promised Granny not to come home late from the theatre alone if it could possibly be avoided, but the Mallocks, although kind, were intellectually limited, and their undiluted society night after night was beginning to pall. Besides a newly married couple probably found her presence a nuisance, she often reflected, and the thought hurt her pride. At least she knew that Mr. Alden did not view her as an inconvenient imposition, while, after the Mallocks, the young fellow’s callow talk struck her as agreeably interesting and cultured.

Only after ‘As You Like It’ had opened, did it suddenly occur to Joan that, of course, Mr. Alden must be responsible for the nightly flowers. She smiled as she remembered Adam’s prophecy that the donor would not long remain anonymous. Enquiries proved her right, and her devotee’s offering was peremptorily stopped. In any case it was a relief not to get these bouquets; during that last week of ‘Juliet’ they had been almost the last straw. For Joan could not bear leaving the poor constricted blossoms to wither all night, and so had spent cold, very early morning hours untwisting miles of fine wire and drawing out damp, supporting spikes as she murmured her Rosalind lines. Henceforward a smell of rust was indelibly associated in the girl’s mind with a sense of overpowering weariness. She began to realize why a maid was necessary for a star.

Naturally poor Mr. Alden was spared these ungrateful particulars. Indeed, he was so cast down by the refusal of further floral tribute that Joan was quite sorry for him. She really liked the boy, and, in addition, had discovered an amusing link, of which he himself was supremely unconscious. One of her schoolfellows had had an aunt at Boston, a certain Mrs. Alden, with whom she frequently spent her vacation. On one occasion there had been an idea of Joan accompanying her, and although the project had afterwards fallen through, Joan still remembered the aunt’s extremely gushing letter of invitation to ‘dearest Miss Vandeleur.’ Careful questioning now elicited the fact, that, as Joan expected, this aunt and Mr. Alden’s mother were the same, but Mrs. Alden’s receptivity towards a millionaire’s daughter evidently did not extend to an unknown strolling player. Her son’s constraint once or twice when her name came up made this evident. One day Joan was mischievously inspired. “I believe your mother thinks I am a harpy,” she laughed. “She considers me a designing creature, an adventuress, now doesn’t she?”

Poor Alden turned scarlet and looked as though he were going to cry. “No,” he stammered confusedly. “At least, it is only that she doesn’t know you.” Joan did, indeed, look as little like an adventuress as it was possible to imagine, as she stood there in her neat blue serge costume with her strong, young face and candid eyes. “Mother doesn’t know how wonderful you are.” His voice broke.

“Oh, of course, I am a compendium of all the talents and virtues.” Joan laughed again, but not unkindly. “But really I agree with your mother that you are wasting a great deal of time down here. I don’t wonder she is cross!”

Naturally in the end the inevitable happened. The last spark to kindle the young man’s ardour was, paradoxically enough, the property man’s taking a drop too much. After the first performance of ‘Twelfth Night,’ Mrs. Vincent-Dawe had called Joan on to the stage to discuss some point, and they stayed there for a considerable time. The property man, an ill-conditioned fellow, not liking to disturb the leading lady, who was also his employer, stood sulkily at the wings, waiting to collect his ‘props.’ At last Mrs. Vincent-Dawe went off on the other side, while Joan had to pass out near where the man was standing. He did not move, and in the harrow passage way the end of the lute she carried brushed against his face. “Aw, to hell, you!” he shouted with sudden bibulous rage.

“Apologize to Miss North or I’ll knock you down.” It was, of course, young Alden who also had been hovering impatiently.

The property man hesitated. He was still sober enough to recognize that this was ‘the stage door dude’ who had been hanging about so much of late. The chap was a big bug, some one had told him. If there was any row, it was a poor working man like himself who’d get into trouble. Mrs. Vincent-Dawe would clean him out sure. Her show was run more like a blamed mission meeting than a theatre. He muttered an apology and stumbled off.

When Joan came down from her dressing-room, Mr. Alden was standing there as usual, but the Mallocks had gone. They could not wait any longer, the young fellow said. Joan felt vexed that just to-night she and Mr. Alden would be alone. As she feared, the incident had unloosened his tongue. Directly they got into the street the young fellow started off. “You ought not to be exposed to that sort of thing, Miss North,” he said passionately. “It is desecration.” He was trembling as he spoke.

“Oh, the man must have been drunk. Such a thing has never happened to me before, and I don’t suppose it will ever happen again.” Joan tried to speak lightly.

“It ought never to have happened at all.” Suddenly the poor boy began to pour out his devotion, his desire to shelter and protect her. “You know I have got piles of money,” he naïvely urged. “Let me take you out of all this—give you the position you ought to have. We needn’t live in Boston; we could go to New York if you would rather. We might have a house on Fifth Avenue.”

Joan was struggling between laughter and anger. “Oh, I shouldn’t know how to behave on Fifth Avenue among all your aristocratic set,” she said demurely.

“Yes, you would. You would shine anywhere.” Young Alden was really a nice boy, but the constant reiteration by his mother of his being such a good match had not left him entirely unscathed. “No one need know anything about all this. You would take your position as my wife.”

Joan’s anger suddenly got the upper hand. “You do not seem to know it, but you are insulting me. Do you think I would exchange my Art for anything you could offer? Why, I wouldn’t give it up for—all the Vandeleur millions,” she concluded audaciously.

“I—I—I am sorry,” the unfortunate suitor stammered. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It isn’t that I mind your acting—but—but my people.—Oh, Miss North,” he burst out with a boyish simplicity that was rather appealing, “I can’t say it, but it is just that I care for you so awfully. Won’t you care for me?”

For the first time Joan felt compassionate. The boy had forgotten his miserable money and position. He was just asking her to marry him for himself. She saw with relief that they had reached the door of her boarding house. “I can’t care for you,” she said softly, “because—oh, well, that part is already cast.”

It was April when Joan again joined her grandmother at Wood Haven. They were both overjoyed to see each other, and yet, after the first day, Mrs. Lennox did not feel satisfied. Her granddaughter did not seem herself; she was listless, almost depressed—a most unusual condition for Joan. The grandmother led the conversation round to Mr. Fletcher, in a way that she fondly considered a miracle of tact. Joan replied without hesitation that she had only seen him once—that time before Christmas. He had been out West; she believed he was now at Pittsburg, where there was a big engineering strike. Mrs. Lennox’s old habit of late rising kept her from realizing that a letter came for Joan every morning in Mr. Fletcher’s handwriting, and the girl’s careless tone deceived her. Nor did there seem to be any other aspirant. No, it must just be that Joan was worn out after the hard season, Mrs. Lennox told herself. Indeed, the girl herself confessed to being very tired.

One morning, after they had been at Wood Haven about three weeks, Mrs. Lennox was just finishing her leisurely breakfast in bed, when Joan came into her room. The girl’s face was aglow with a sort of suppressed radiance; her whole walk had changed. “Mr. Fletcher will be here this morning. The strike is over and we have won. I am going to meet him.” Before her grandmother could collect her startled senses, Joan had gone.

She was the first person whom Adam Fletcher saw as he got out of the train. This was more than he had dared to hope. They walked sedately through the little town and across the meadow to the short cut through the woods. Then the sedateness vanished. “It has been perfectly wretched here,” Joan murmured presently, “with no work and missing you every minute.” She clung to him quite passionately.

It was a considerable while before they started walking again, and even then Adam Fletcher’s arm was round her. At first they went along in silence; then they began to talk. The man was too full of his recent triumph to keep from it long. “Wasn’t it bully our pulling off the strike, darling?” he said boyishly. “It was about this time yesterday that it was fixed up. Three of us and three of the principal owners had met to discuss. Suddenly they told us they’d give in. We could hardly believe it. A big crowd was outside—hungry women and children—they’re what tie one’s hands. You should have seen the scene when we announced the news. Talk of drama! I do wish you could have been there.”

“Oh, why didn’t you send for me?” Joan cried.

“As if your grandmother would have allowed it!” Adam hesitated. Then he resolved to risk it. She had been so sweet, so demonstrative. “You know, Joan, that it would be a heap more convenient if you did make up your mind to get it over and marry me.”

But Joan’s face had clouded. “No, you are not to. I told you that you weren’t to speak about marrying at all. It will spoil everything. And it wouldn’t make much difference,” she went on more relentingly. “We shall be here together all the summer, and in the winter you couldn’t tour round the country with me, in any case. Promise you won’t speak about getting married—anyway until I am a star. Promise!”

“Well—I promise.” Adam Fletcher’s voice had a fleeting tinge of coldness. Amid all his devotion he could not help wondering sometimes whether it ever occurred to Joan to think of this matter from his point of view. It was pretty difficult to go on like this indefinitely. However, if you fell in love with a star, he reminded himself, or even with a prospective one, you couldn’t expect to hang it up to light your parlour. “I’ve thought of a fine idea for a play out of the strike,” he told her, deliberately turning the subject.

He could not now complain of lack of sympathy. Joan listened with rapt attention. It was the Romeo and Juliet theme in modern terms, he said—the strike leader and the boss’s daughter falling in love with each other.

“Why, that is something like us,” Joan exclaimed in amused surprise.

“No, it isn’t a bit, really. I hadn’t even thought of us. Because in my play the chief difficulty is that the man has only got his pay—fifteen or twenty dollars a week—and the girl has no profession or money of her own. He does not like to take her out of the luxury to which she has been accustomed. And then the girl is so fond of her father—the president of the Company. She can’t bear to leave him; she thinks it would break him all up.”

“I wonder what would have happened if Father and I had cared for each other like that,” Joan meditated. “How queer it would have been.”

“But when you were a little girl, didn’t your father ever make a fuss over you?” Adam asked incredulously.

“I hardly ever saw him, and when I did, affection didn’t seem to come into it. I would as soon have thought of being fond of—of Niagara. It was only after I had left home and came across a snapshot of Father in a paper once, that it ever occurred to me anyone might be fond of him. He looked unhappy and quite human. That was the time I have told you about, that I wrote to him and offered to live with him when I wasn’t touring. I am thankful now he wouldn’t have me. But tell me more about your play.”

“Well, my man and girl care for each other, and, of course, they want to get married frightfully.” Adam again stopped. Whatever he said seemed to stumble on the personal; or rather the embarrassment of his last remark lay in its being so impersonal. No one could accuse Joan of ‘wanting to get married frightfully,’ he felt with a renewed but transient asperity. “But I haven’t thought out my play properly yet,” he concluded rather lamely.

“Well, think it out and write it; write it soon. It will be fine!” Joan assured him. “Of course, I am to play the girl?” They were still discussing the great work when they arrived home very late for lunch.

It was not until the evening that Mrs. Lennox got a chance for any private conversation with her granddaughter. Mr. Fletcher had just left, Joan waving good-night to him through the open window. “My dear,” Mrs. Lennox said, as the girl turned. “Are you, or are you not, engaged to that young man?”

“Let me think.” Joan sat down, and putting her hand to her brow, assumed an attitude of profound meditation. “No, I don’t think I am engaged to him, Granny. I really don’t see how I can be, for he has never asked me to be engaged.”

Mrs. Lennox gave a half-vexed laugh. “Well, that can only be because you haven’t let him. I am certain that poor Mr. Fletcher wants nothing better than to be engaged.”—“I guess he does,” Joan murmured, but her grandmother did not hear her.—“Really, Joan, I don’t think you are behaving well to Mr. Fletcher. It isn’t fair on him to keep him dangling on year after year if you don’t mean to marry him.”

Joan laughed. “What a terrible picture, Granny! It sounds as if you ought to write to some Prevention of Cruelty Society. But why isn’t it fair to go on being friends? I make a very nice friend.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Mrs. Lennox spoke quite sharply. “You know perfectly well that you can’t go on like this for ever. Suppose after a few years one of you wants to marry some one else, the other would be stranded. It is an impossible position.”

“But Granny, of course when Adam and I do want to get married, we shall marry each other. Ca va sans dire. Why, he was saying only this morning that being married would be more convenient.”

“Convenient!” The phraseology of the young man’s lovemaking left Mrs. Lennox dazed. And he an author! “Well, if you have got to the point of discussing the convenience of marriage,” she suggested with a smile, “I suppose most people would consider you engaged.”

“Well, I don’t. You see, Granny,” Joan’s voice grew softer, “you see, I feel that Adam and I belong to each other, and that makes all this talk of engagements and proposals and things like that seem simply ridiculous.”

“If you feel that way, I should think you would want to get married,” Mrs. Lennox said feebly. Really Joan was rather bewildering.

“But I don’t want it! I have got my work. How can I do everything at once? I just want to stop as we are. It is extraordinary that no one can understand that.”

“Well, it is very unsatisfactory,” Mrs. Lennox opined with a wise shake of her head.

In spite of Adam Fletcher’s enthusiasm over his idea for the new play, and in spite of Joan’s eager sympathy, the work did not make much progress. The fact was he felt too unsettled for writing, too distracted, perhaps too much in love. However, by an immense effort, he got a rough draft finished and took it to show Mr. Hobson when the great man came back from Europe early in July.

The manager, in stage parlance, ‘grabbed for it.’ “That’s the stuff, my boy,” he exclaimed at the end of the reading. “Beautiful! There’s a big sentimental punch to it.” He patted Fletcher on the shoulder. “I’ll send the contract right along. How soon can you get it done?”

“I don’t know.” Adam Fletcher was usually a very quick worker, but with a recollection of his difficulties during the last two months, he felt he could not bind himself. “Not for an autumn opening any way.”

“Well, you just get busy on it, and let me have it as quick as ever. We might open in it for the New Year. This is going to fetch ’em—heart interest, good and strong. You ain’t no pink tea author, not you.” The little man chuckled with appreciation. He was enormously bitten. “Now for the cast.”

“I must have Miss North for my girl,” Adam Fletcher said quickly.

“I’m sorry, Miss North ain’t under my management any more.” Mr. Hobson cooled perceptibly.

“Oh, she will want to play this.” As the great manager showed no sign of agreeing, Fletcher broke out, “Why, if I don’t mind Miss North having chucked ‘The Combine,’ you needn’t! After all, my profit was certain, but you very likely stood in to lose heavily. I consider you ought to be very grateful to Miss North!”

Mr. Hobson laughed. He would not have stood such ‘back talk’ from any of his other ‘young men,’ but Adam Fletcher was a privileged person. Apart from the marvellous success of ‘The Under Dog,’ which he felt this new play might repeat, he had always had a genuine liking for him. “Well, as to gratitood there may be two opinions, but Miss North’s got the real stuff in her—I’ll allow that,” he conceded grudgingly.

Fletcher followed up the advantage. “Yes, she did some fine work up at Boston last winter—her Juliet made quite a sensation.”

“Oh, I know all about that; saw her in it myself.” Noticing Fletcher’s surprise, the manager elucidated that a certain ‘young feller,’ Cyril Mallock, had been pestering for years to come under his management, and so being up at Boston, he had gone in one evening to see him play. “He ain’t a bad actor either, but Miss North knocks spots out of him.”

“Why not give them both a New York appearance in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ till my play’s ready?” Fletcher suggested with a sudden inspiration.

“Well, that’s an idea! First the old ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ then the noo. We’ll show ’em there’s as good pebbles on the shore as ever came off it.” Fletcher hadn’t meant to invite quite such a trying comparison, still he thought it wiser not to protest. “And Miss West for Juliet’s nurse; she’ll do it fine.” The great manager was always childishly eager when a scheme appealed to him.—“I suppose the critics wouldn’t let us give the piece a happy ending?” he added wistfully. “Romeo wakes up in the nick of time. Snatches away Juliet’s dagger. Kiss. Curtain—Eh?”

“I am afraid it would hardly do, Mr. Hobson.” Adam Fletcher smiled. “You will have to content yourself with my play ending well.”

“I guessed you’d say so. Anyway, it will make them like your play all the better—be more of a contrast.”

“It will be a contrast all right!” This time Fletcher laughed out loud. “Then that is settled?”

“Yes, but you’ve got to answer for Miss North; I ain’t going to be turned down a second time. I suppose if we write her at Miss West’s, that will find? By the way, where’s your contract to be mailed?”

“To Wood Haven, Maine.”

“Why, ain’t that where Miss West——?” A smile broke over Mr. Hobson’s face. He felt that he had put two and two together, or rather one and one. “Well, you let me have that play real soon. I tell you there’s rich human blood in it. That’s what the public wants, my boy—blood. They’re sick to death of the Ibsen-Shaw-Maeterlinck gang.”

CHAPTER XXI.

The tomb scene of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was nearing the end. The big New York audience was strangely hushed—a hush that meant more than all their previous enthusiastic applause. The house was so still that you could not hear a pin drop—no pin would drop from such rigid rows of tense humanity. At last, as the white-robed Juliet snatched up the dagger, a tremor ran through the house. John Vandeleur, who had kept himself carefully concealed all the evening at the back of his box, made an involuntary start forward. His movement was not noticed, for everybody’s attention, like his own, was concentrated on the stage; recovering himself he retreated to his former unseen position. “This is thy sheath,” Juliet went on in her wonderful, poignant voice; “there rest and let me die.” As she fell forward on her lover’s body, several women in the audience broke into hysterical sobbing. A tear was rolling down Mr. Vandeleur’s cheek; he did not seem to know it.

This was practically the end of the play, and certainly the end of Juliet. The curtain fell amid a perfect cannonade of applause, but although it rose repeatedly, showing the actors in various combinations, ‘Joan North’ was not among them. The delay merely whetted the appetite of the audience. She must be reserving herself for a grand final call, they felt. The cheering and clapping increased rather than diminished in fervour. No one imagined for a moment that the actress would not appear when the evening’s triumph had been so largely her personal one. As a red-eyed lady remarked to her neighbour, “I declare I quite forgot the play was Shakespeare and improving, Juliet was that lovely.”

The scene in front of the house was louder, but not more intense, than the scene that was taking place in Miss North’s dressing-room. For Joan, in her white robe, was standing defiantly at bay, while her grandmother, still in her dress as the Nurse, was vainly trying to pull her forward, and Mr. Hobson, scarlet with rage, literally danced in the corridor outside. “Don’t, Granny,” the girl was saying, “I can’t come on. I can’t.”

“But surely you went on at Boston?” Mrs. Lennox urged. She was clearly on the verge of tears.

“That was different. I was only an understudy. But I always planned that I would not go on if I had the part myself. Don’t you see that it would not be art? I can’t do it. Juliet is killed.”

“It’s the production that will be killed,” Mr. Hobson shouted as he stood in the doorway. “And your career too. I tell you it’ll be all in. Do you want to throw away every chance? The house won’t stand it much longer. Come on, don’t be a fool.” He caught hold of the girl as though to drag her by main force.

Joan snatched away her hand. The manager’s fury only stiffened her resolution. “I won’t go on.” She stamped her foot.

“Oh, if only Mr. Fletcher were here, he might make you see some sense,” Mrs. Lennox wailed.

“Mr. Fletcher would agree with me. So would the audience if you or Mr. Hobson would explain it to them. Juliet is dead, and it is ridiculous for her to bob up, bowing and smiling.”

“Ridiculous, is it? It’s you that’s making yourself ridiculous. Who in thunder are you to carry on in this style? You can take your notice, and that’s all there is to it.” Mr. Hobson turned and slammed the door behind him in a final paroxysm of rage.

“Oh, Joan, how can you, my dear child?” Mrs. Lennox was beginning tremulously, when she heard Mr. Hobson call. “Miss West,” he was shouting. She hurried from the dressing-room after him. “Come on, Miss West, it’s up to us to smooth them down somehow,” and seizing her hand, he raced her towards the stage.

The applause of the audience had changed. The manager’s practised ear caught the note of anger. “Juliet, Juliet, Juliet,” they were shouting staccato. “Not even an author to send on, curse it,” Mr. Hobson muttered. As they reached the centre of the stage he called, “Ring up!”

There was a sudden pause in the uproar as the rising curtain disclosed this new couple, and then a burst of good-natured and interested laughter. The great little manager did not as a rule ‘come on’ at his productions, and so he had the charm of novelty. Moreover his rotund form, neatly clad in a trim, blue serge suit, presented an amusing contrast with the picturesque old nurse and her voluminous white draperies. The first moment of silence was penetrated by Mr. Hobson’s cheery, nasal voice. “I’m not here in the hope of being mistook for Juliet,” he informed the audience in his most colloquial tone, with his hand in his trouser pocket. “I guess I ain’t exactly got the figger ‘to cut out in little stars,’ don’t you know? I’m just Juliet’s manager, and Miss West, of course, is her Nurse. Well, we’ve come to say we’re a failure. I can’t manage Juliet one little bit, and she won’t mind Nurse. As you may have discovered from the play, Miss Juliet is a young lady who knows what she wants and has it. What she wants just now is not to take her calls. She says she’s a corpse and can’t. We’ve done every mortal thing to persuade her, but it’s no use. She says it isn’t art with a big A for a dead woman to bob up smiling. That being so, she says she’s certain sure you can’t want her to. And for the same reason the Author can’t take his call either. I’m mighty sorry, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for a bully reception.” He hastily signed down the curtain.

The audience was charmed. There were shouts of laughter. Mr. Vandeleur in his box was smiling too, although a shade grimly. “So it appears I am not the only person who cannot manage her!” he was thinking. Although he would not have admitted it, he felt an immense pride in his daughter. Delight in success and disgust at vulgarity had always been his two strong, and usually antagonistic, sentiments. But Joan’s triumph in a Shakespearean tragedy, especially with this climax, could hardly be dismissed as vulgar notoriety. An uneasy feeling began to steal over him that perhaps genius made its own rules.

Meanwhile, as the laughter was dying down, a man in the upper gallery suddenly sprang on his seat. “Three cheers for Juliet,” he cried, waving his hat. “Loud enough to reach the tomb,” another voice shouted. Three terrific cheers followed. They penetrated even to the street: passers-by stopped and asked what was happening. Then the audience melted away. The great Mr. Hobson was still standing on the stage. “Good land,” he murmured, “she’s going to pull it off after all.”

Joan did ‘pull it off’—although unintentionally—even from Mr. Hobson’s and the box office point of view. That instinct which the great manager’s friends called his ‘genius for publicity’ and his enemies his ‘tub-thumping commercialism’ had for once failed him. Joan’s non-appearance instead of killing the evening’s success, definitely stamped it. The morning papers came out with flaring headlines. “New Actress Appears but Won’t Re-appear,” “Juliet Dead at Last,” “Joan North too Great for Applause.” The box office was besieged. By the evening people were booking for a fortnight ahead. All New York flocked to see Joan North not take her calls.

The second performance went even better than the first. At the end there was the same ovation and the same three cheers. They had apparently become part of the ritual. Mr. Hobson was in a strangely chastened mood. To his relief Joan was merciful enough not to refer to the notice he had flung at her. Indeed, she was too radiant even to remember it. The one cloud on her horizon was Adam Fletcher’s absence. The Pittsburg engineers were again threatening a strike, this time against the orders of their own Union officials, and the young labour leader had been frantically telegraphed for the previous day. Joan began talking about it in the flower-laden automobile as she and her grandmother drove home together on the second night. “They said Adam was the only person in the country who might be able to bring the men to reason,” she announced. “I do wish though the men had chosen another time to be unreasonable and not taken Adam away just for my opening! Perhaps it was to keep me from being too outrageously happy.”

Mrs. Lennox looked up quickly, but in the dim automobile she could not see Joan’s face. Both the words and the tone had been more loverlike than any she had ever heard from her granddaughter before. Probably Joan was conscious of the scrutiny, for she gave a slightly embarrassed laugh and then changed the subject. “Look at this mountain of letters for me, Granny.” She held up a big bundle that had been handed her at the stage door. “I shall soon want a secretary!” When they got home she laughingly spread them out all over the table. “Why, this is Father’s writing,” she suddenly exclaimed.

As Mrs. Lennox watched her granddaughter reading the letter, her thoughts turned to its writer. John Vandeleur had been a good deal in her mind of late, for the papers had been full of Imogen’s recent marriage to her Senator. The fashion journals had gloated over the wonderful trousseau. The bride’s dress had been of orthodox white satin with a veil and deep flounce of priceless point de Venise—part of the famed Vandeleur lace—while she carried a bouquet of lilies of the valley. How could Imogen have done it? her mother felt again with a quiver of amused disgust. And how John must have hated it, John with his patrician pride, his scornful reserve! A feeling almost of compassion came over Mrs. Lennox for her superior son-in-law.

Joan now silently handed her the letter. The girl’s eyelashes were glistening suspiciously; she turned aside her head. “I am to read it?” Mrs. Lennox said, and put on her pince-nez.

“My dear Joan,—For the first time for forty years I visited a play-house last night and witnessed your début. Your determination not to appear at the end, in accordance with the present detestable and vulgar custom, showed both courage and artistic feeling. I have been giving the whole matter a great deal of consideration, and I have come to the conclusion that when a talent is as strongly marked as in your case, I was in the wrong to oppose it. Your work, instead of tarnishing the name of Vandeleur as I feared, may serve to add a lustre to it—a lustre which is at present decidedly needed. Therefore if you will openly resume your position as my daughter, as you kindly suggested some eighteen months ago, I shall be more than pleased—I shall be proud. Probably you will prefer to continue making your home with your grandmother, but I trust that we may meet very often. Business calls me away from New York to-day, but I expect to return on Sunday evening. I shall then hope to find your reply awaiting me. I remain your very affectionate father.”

“Well?” Mrs. Lennox asked as the letter came to an end. As Joan did not answer, she looked up. How white the child had got. “Well, what are you going to reply?”

“Oh, I told Father long ago that I would come whenever he wanted me—if it did not interfere with my work.” Her voice sounded husky. “I saw Father in an automobile a few days ago; he didn’t see me. He looks very changed and old.—I am tired. I shall go to bed,” the girl broke off.

Her granddaughter took the reconciliation very calmly, Mrs. Lennox felt. Still as John Vandeleur did not want her to live with him, it would not make so very much difference—except to the newspapers. What a sensation there would be! Mr. Hobson would be more delighted than ever! Well, she was tired, too, the grandmother realized. She gathered together the rest of the letters that Joan had left strewn over the table, and she also went to bed.

To bed, but not to sleep. Her brain was too stimulated for that. In not unpleasant meditation the hours slipped away. She was surprised to hear the clock strike two. Was Joan asleep yet? she wondered. But, of course, she would be; she always slept well and she had looked so tired. Dear child, what a magnificent success she had had! Mrs. Lennox felt reproachfully that she had never really told her granddaughter how glad she was about it. The night before she had been too upset over the business of not taking the calls. And to-night, in the automobile, Joan had been in such spirits that it had been almost impossible to get in a word; then when they reached home, there had been John Vandeleur’s letter. But perhaps Joan had been thinking that she was unsympathetic. She would like just to tell her child how her old Granny rejoiced in her triumph. Possibly, after all the excitement, Joan might still be awake. Slipping on a dressing-gown, Mrs. Lennox crept to the girl’s room.

Joan was awake. Mrs. Lennox could see the line of light under the door. A curious sound reached her ears. It sounded as though someone were weeping. But Joan never cried. What could be the matter? She must be ill—in pain. Mrs. Lennox quickly opened the door.

Joan was still dressed. She was lying face downward on the bed, sobbing in absolute abandonment. She must have heard her grandmother come in, but it did not check her. “My dear child, my darling, what is it?” Mrs. Lennox exclaimed.

The heartbroken crying continued. What should she do? Mrs. Lennox asked herself. If only Joan would speak. She could not bear to see her child in such grief. But how could she comfort her, when she could not imagine what was wrong? Joan had had a triumph that any other actress in the States might have envied. It could not be about her work. Nor could it be anything to do with Adam Fletcher. The grandmother reminded herself of the way Joan had spoken of him in the auto. It was impossible for her to have heard anything either from or about the young man since. A mere desire to see him would not account for such a transport of woe. “What is it, dear one? Do try and tell me,” she repeated.

Probably the distress in her grandmother’s voice penetrated to Joan. There came a sobbing gasp. “Father!”

Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. It seemed such an inadequate cause for so much misery. “But, my dear, surely you cannot mind seeing your father so much?” she remonstrated. “Why, you are not even going to live with him.”

“I shall like seeing him,” Joan sobbed. Her grandmother grew more perplexed. Then there came another gasp. “It’s Adam.”

Oh, of course, how stupid she had been, the grandmother told herself. Of course, Joan was thinking that her father would object to Mr. Fletcher, or rather to Mr. Fletcher’s socialism. She must be meaning to marry him soon after all. “But, my dear child,” Mrs. Lennox ventured mildly, “if your father’s disapproval did not keep you from going on the stage, I cannot imagine you will let it make much difference with regard to Mr. Fletcher. Indeed, I do not think your father would have any right to object,” the grandmother went on warmly, “after washing his hands of you for nearly three years.”

Joan raised her face. It was swollen and disfigured with tears, but a certain surprise was now manifest. “It isn’t Father objecting to Adam!” she said. “I had not thought of that. It is Adam objecting to Father!”

“What?” Mrs. Lennox was so surprised that she subsided into a chair. “Why should he object to your father? I didn’t know he even knew him.”

“He doesn’t; it’s the money.” Joan had again buried her face in the pillow.

“But Mr. Fletcher need not take your father’s money!” Mrs. Lennox’s sympathy was almost submerged in astonishment. “Do explain, darling,” she pleaded.

Joan sat up with unusual obedience. “Don’t you see, Granny,” she began tremulously, “Adam is out to fight capitalism. If he married John Vandeleur’s daughter it would make his whole position ridiculous. His work would be of no use. Why, he was frightfully shocked when I first told him who Father was. Only we both felt that as no one knew, and as we thought Father had cut me off for ever, it didn’t matter. But now—” She again broke down.

Mrs. Lennox had never had much opinion of socialism; now she had still less. To think of an absurd thing of this sort making the child so miserable. “Well, let Mr. Fletcher give up that work then,” she suggested cheerfully. “He has got the playwriting, and mighty fine he is at it too. Mr. Hobson thinks the new play is going to be another ‘Under Dog.’ Your father’s money won’t harm him in that!”

But Joan had started up. “Granny, how can you?” she cried indignantly. “Don’t you know that Adam is a labour leader? That is his real interest—what he cares about—just as I care about my acting. And his work is going to make the world better, fairer—it is a splendid work! I wouldn’t let him give it up even if he wanted to.—And I wouldn’t mind about not getting married,” she went on desperately, “if we could go on being friends. But you will say that isn’t fair on him. You will want me to give him up altogether—never to see him any more. I can’t bear it. I can’t, I can’t. And I can’t be cruel to Father either. Father needs me—he needs me as his daughter—just seeing him privately would be of no use. I am all he has to be proud of now. Oh Father—Adam—” The sobbing broke out again with a renewed intensity.

The poor grandmother began to feel the whole position was beyond her, though she had a shrewd suspicion that it was all dramatically exaggerated, with youth’s tragic intensity and headlong extremism, not to mention the special emotionality of an actress feeling a situation for all it was worth. However of one thing she was certain—if Joan went on crying like this, she would be ill. “Remember, you have no understudy yet,” she said decisively.

The effect was magical. The sobs ceased almost at once. Although the girl’s breast was still heaving, she was evidently making an extraordinary effort to master herself. Her three years on the stage had been long enough to stamp her with its tradition. “We shall surely find some way out of this tangle, when Mr. Fletcher gets back,” her grandmother went on soothingly. “And till then you have got to think of your Juliet and nothing else.”

“Yes, Granny.” Joan got up and began to sponge her eyes. “Granny, will you give me one of your headache tabloids?” She took it and went to bed. Ten minutes later, when Mrs. Lennox again crept in, Joan was asleep.

CHAPTER XXII.

The four days that followed were among the most worrying that Mrs. Lennox had ever known. The one comfort she found was that Joan’s suffering did not affect ‘Juliet.’ Indeed, Mrs. Lennox felt that her granddaughter was playing better than she had ever played before. There was a new note of passion in the love scenes, a new intensity in the final tragedy. But off the stage, Joan’s appearance wrung her grandmother’s heart. The girl went about with a white face and a listless demeanour, as though her life had been emptied of all colour and interest.

Meanwhile what could be done? A letter from Adam Fletcher came every day. This Mrs. Lennox had learnt for it now arrived in New York by a mid-day mail, so her belated uprising did not keep her from seeing it. She wondered what he was saying about the new development. As her granddaughter volunteered no information, she questioned her. “I have not told Adam yet about Father having written,” Joan replied in a tone of dull misery. “He is bothered enough just now without that.”

Her words struck Mrs. Lennox with surprise. Although she had always felt that Joan might be capable of a great sacrifice, this consideration for another in a smaller matter was something new. It certainly would have seemed more natural for Joan immediately to pour out all the trouble to her lover, regardless of whether it were an opportune moment for him to hear it. “Why is Mr. Fletcher so bothered?” Mrs. Lennox asked gently.

Joan brushed her hand over her forehead with a weary gesture. “Oh, didn’t I tell you, Granny? You see if the Pittsburg engineers strike, as they threaten, they will be going back on the contract they made with the masters last spring. You remember that was when Adam was there. He was one of the men’s delegates, so, of course, he feels responsible. Besides thinking that the men’s present conduct is dishonourable, Adam thinks it is awfully foolish. A thing like that knocks the bottom out of all agreements. So he is working like a slave to persuade them to take back their strike notice; it is posted for next Monday unless they get a ten per cent. rise all round. Adam hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep since he has been there.”

Mrs. Lennox did not quite understand the long explanation, but, at least, she realized that Mr. Fletcher considered his beloved working class to be in the wrong and was displeased with them. “Well, perhaps if the men behave like that, Mr. Fletcher won’t want to go on devoting his life to them,” she suggested hopefully.

“It will make him feel that they need him all the more. You can’t expect a very delicate sense of honour when people have been sweated and bullied all their lives; they have been robbed of that as of everything else. Not that the capitalists are a bit better—and they haven’t any excuse! Adam says the masters have broken agreements just as often as the men.”

With regard to her father, Joan had been more spontaneously communicative. Indeed, she had shown her grandmother the answer she wrote—rather to Mrs. Lennox’s surprise. In it the girl definitely told her father that she was willing to take up publicly her position as his daughter. Would he suggest a day either for her to go and see him or for him to come and see her? She would be free at any time except in the evening or on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons or on Monday. “What are you doing on Monday?” Mrs. Lennox asked.

“Eleven o’clock Monday has been fixed for me to run through my part with Romeo’s understudy. I daresay we shall be at it most of the afternoon.” Joan’s voice betrayed the same dull indifference. “Didn’t you hear the fuss Mr. Hobson made last night when he found out there were no understudies and Mr. Mallock was a little hoarse? I am sorry though that they settled on Monday, because that is Father’s first day in New York. However, as he has existed nearly three years without seeing me, I suppose he can exist another twenty-four hours.” She gave a wan smile.

The possibilities arising from the fact of this rehearsal did not at first strike Mrs. Lennox. But, as the poor lady was lying awake, pondering over the distressful situation, a sudden inspiration came to her. Joan could not see her father on Monday and would moreover be safely out of the way. Very well, she would see John Vandeleur herself. It gave her a chance to explain the whole situation to him before any definite steps could be taken. She would point out that if Adam Fletcher persisted in this ridiculous idea of the ineligibility of a millionaire’s daughter, it was the millionaire’s duty not to reveal himself. Miss Vandeleur must continue to reside in Europe, where the society papers had placed her, together with her grandparent, Mrs. Lennox. Joan North, the actress, must be permanently mothered by Frances West. Alter all, it was John Vandeleur’s own fault that the dual rôles had ever arisen. Besides, if the troublesome old man were now hungering after his daughter—after being able to dispense with her for all these years—he could see her at this apartment. What need was there to let out the secret to all the world, at any rate until the foolish young couple were safely married!

But would John Vandeleur be satisfied with such a shadowy parentage? She could but appeal to him. Certainly it was from John that such a compromise must come. That quixotic Joan had already felt pledged by her first letter to her father; she would feel irrevocably bound by her second. Moreover the change in her father’s appearance had evidently distressed and appealed to her. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox herself, despite her irritation, could not escape a movement of sympathy with John Vandeleur’s clinging to the one shred of success in his disastrous marriage. Yes, unless the old man himself took back his request, Joan would feel bound to give him the satisfaction of proclaiming her as his daughter.

Of course, Joan would be very angry at her interference, Mrs. Lennox reminded herself. Still that could not be helped. She had given no pledge of secrecy when the child confided in her. And John Vandeleur would be very angry too. Nothing but the thought that her dear girl’s whole happiness might be at stake, could have nerved the poor grandmother to take this step. Her hand was shaking when she wrote the note asking John to call and see her on Monday at eleven.

The ‘copper king’ found both this letter and Joan’s among his mail when he returned home late on Sunday night. They had been marked ‘confidential,’ and so his secretary had placed them there unopened and apart from the rest. He read his daughter’s first, and with profound pleasure. The absence of sentiment and of all reference to her success appealed to him. He wrote an immediate reply in his own hand, saying that he would be very pleased to call and see her on Tuesday afternoon.

After this, he was the more irritated, when, on opening the second letter, he found it was from Mrs. Lennox, imploring him for an interview before he saw Joan. What could the foolish woman want? He and his mother-in-law had never been congenial. He had despised Mrs. Lennox for a lack of culture, which was actual, and a lack of brains, which was imaginary. The fact was that the poor grandmother’s embarrassment in the disapproving presence of her son-in-law had been apt to take the form of rather silly volubility. And now, Mr. Vandeleur told himself impatiently, he would have to endure a flood of trivialities, just when he was so desperately busy on the first day of his return—indeed, that Joan had not suggested Monday had unconsciously raised her still higher in her father’s favour. Mrs. Lennox begged him to come at eleven o’clock, he noticed. Well, in any case he was not going to do that. The morning was impossible. He now rang for his secretary, and told him, together with his other instructions, to inform Mrs. Lennox that Mr. Vandeleur would be with her the next afternoon at two.

The poor grandmother was dismayed by the alteration in the hour, as well as disconcerted by the formality of the typewritten note that she received the following morning. It seemed as though her careful plan would break down at the very start. Why, Joan might be home again by two o’clock. To cope with two irate Vandeleurs at the same time loomed before Mrs. Lennox as too terrifying for human endurance. She sent up a prayer that Romeo’s understudy might prove unusually dense and the rehearsal be proportionately prolonged.

The matter was still further complicated by a telegram that arrived for Joan almost immediately after she had started for the theatre. Mrs. Lennox naturally opened it and found it was from Adam Fletcher. “Strike averted, hooray,” he wired boyishly. “Will be with you this afternoon, calling first at theatre.” She supposed that the last words meant that Joan had told him about the rehearsal. If only he caught her before she left the theatre, they might go out together somewhere, and it would delay her return. How she hoped that this might happen!

As the clock struck two Mr. Vandeleur was announced. However much he had changed—and Mrs. Lennox, like Joan, was shocked by the alteration—his rigid punctuality was unimpaired. He shook hands in stiff silence.

Mrs. Lennox felt herself positively wilting. What was it about John that made her courage exude? She reminded herself that she was no longer dependent on him; why should she have this craven fear? “Joan does not know that you are coming this afternoon. I wanted to speak to you about something,” she began, rather babblingly.

“So I imagined.” There was a pause. “Well, what is it?” Mr. Vandeleur asked sharply.

“Joan is engaged—at least, practically engaged. He is called Adam Fletcher. It has been going on over two years,” Mrs. Lennox stammered. What a hopeless beginning!

“Indeed. I suppose you consider that I have hardly the right to express surprise at not having been informed of the—er—engagement before. Adam Fletcher,” Mr. Vandeleur repeated musingly “Now where have I heard that name? He is not an actor?”

“No.” If Mrs. Lennox had not been so uncomfortable, she would have been amused by the expression of relief that crossed her son-in-law’s face. Although John Vandeleur had sacrificed his prejudices in Joan’s case, he was evidently not prepared to go further. “Mr. Fletcher is a playwright,” she explained. Possibly John might think that nearly as bad. There was another pause.

“Well, what is your objection to the young man?” Mr. Vandeleur asked unexpectedly. “Is he fast?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Fletcher is everything one could wish.” How could she tell him, that he, and not Adam Fletcher, was the objection, Mrs. Lennox felt despairingly.

Mr. Vandeleur now looked puzzled, as well as annoyed. “Mr. Fletcher does not find his playwriting lucrative perhaps?” he suggested at last.

“Not lucrative? Why, his ‘Under Dog’ must have made him a couple of hundred thousand. It is one of the greatest successes there has ever been on the American stage.”

Mr. Vandeleur looked interested. He made no comment, however. “Of course, I don’t know what Mr. Fletcher has done with the money he got for it,” Mrs. Lennox went on; now at last she saw her opening. “He may have given it all away. He is a socialist and a labour-leader and that sort of thing. Most of his time he spends speaking at meetings and strikes.”

“A most versatile young man, it appears,” Mr. Vandeleur commented drily. “Now you mention it, it was in connection with the Pittsburg strike of last spring that I heard of him.” He paused, trying to remember what had been said. One of the Pittsburg magnates had been speaking; “they’d never have pulled off the strike but for that damned Adam Fletcher”—yes, those were his friend’s words. “Well, I can hardly say that I am in accordance with Mr. Fletcher’s activities,” Mr. Vandeleur went on aloud. “But as you do not appear to object to them, and as my opinions have never carried the smallest weight either with you or with Joan, I fail to understand your anxiety in the matter. After all in less than a year my daughter will be of age and outside my control—even legally.”

“It is not your opinion, it is his,” Mrs. Lennox was beginning, when she stopped short. A flash of recollection came to her. What was it John Vandeleur had said to her in the dressing-room of the Chicago theatre—the first time she ever saw him? He could not marry her daughter, unless she gave up her profession or cut herself off from Imogen for ever. And now she had almost the same message to give to him. His own daughter could not be married because of her parent’s profession. How extraordinary it was! A wild desire to laugh seized her, but she suppressed it. Mr. Vandeleur’s words on that memorable occasion had remained graven on her memory during all the intervening years. “The real difficulty is your profession,” she said. “Mr. Fletcher has his position to keep up as a socialist. He feels a millionaire is hardly suitable to be the father of his wife.”

Mr. Vandeleur flushed an angry red. “If such an absurd idea overrides his attachment for my daughter, I consider she is well rid of him.”

“But Joan is breaking her heart over it. She lies awake crying at night—that isn’t like Joan, you know. Of course,” Mrs. Lennox went on with a touch of humorous malice, “if you would give up your work and your millions and form one of their circle, Adam Fletcher would no doubt be satisfied. Or if you would continue entirely cut off from Joan——”

“I do not know whether you are trying to be facetious, Mrs. Lennox,” Mr. Vandeleur broke in severely. He had, at last, realized the analogy, and it made him angrier than ever. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox herself wondered afterwards how she had so greatly dared. “The two cases are, of course, absolutely dissimilar.”

“Well, they don’t seem so to Adam Fletcher. He considers your millions as disgraceful as you considered my acting—oh, there is Joan.” Mrs. Lennox stopped with an accent of despair, as she heard the front door opened with a latchkey and steps in the hall.

“Adam is here, Granny,” the girl called out; there was a new note of hope in her voice. “He has just arrived, we almost met on our doorstep! Didn’t a telegram——” She stopped suddenly, as, pushing aside the portière, she saw John Vandeleur sitting there. “Father!”

Mrs. Lennox weakly wondered what would happen next. She glanced from one to the other of her companions. Mr. Vandeleur was looking grimly amused, Joan surprised and dismayed, while Adam Fletcher, who had followed her into the room, seemed absolutely dazed with astonishment. Evidently the girl had not yet had time to tell him of the recent development.

It was Joan who recovered herself first. She went up and kissed her father. There was a tenderness in her manner that was new to Mr. Vandeleur. She had again been touched by the suggestion of age and unhappiness in her father’s appearance. “I am so sorry, Father, that I was out when you came,” she said gently. “Did Granny explain that I had to go to a rehearsal? I was expecting you to-morrow.”

“It was because you would be out that your grandmother asked me to come to-day. She wished to speak to me.” Mr. Vandeleur was looking critically at his daughter. Now that the flush of surprise was dying away, she did look pale and worn; yes, she looked as though she might have been lying awake crying at night. Then he glanced sharply at Adam Fletcher. ‘Old John Van’ was usually considered a good judge of his fellow men. In this case he liked what he saw. To the young man’s immense surprise, the millionaire held out his hand. “Well, I hear you consider my prospects too good to make me a desirable father-in-law.”

“Granny! How could you?” The indignant cry came from Joan, for Adam Fletcher was still too bewildered at the unexpected situation that had been sprung on him to have a ready answer. The girl turned to her father. “I haven’t had time to tell Mr. Fletcher yet about your writing to me and wanting me to be your daughter again. He has been at Pittsburg, and has only just got back.”

“H’m, you’ve been fomenting the new strike there, I presume, Mr. Fletcher?” John Vandeleur enquired a trifle grimly.

“No, I have been suppressing it this time—though it sounds out of character!” The question about his work had restored Fletcher’s self-possession.

“Has it been suppressed?” Mr. Vandeleur asked eagerly. “Didn’t the engineers come out this morning?”

“No. I got them to agree last night to take back the strike notice—it was too late for the news to get into the papers.”

“Well, I congratulate you. It is a good deal harder to stop dissatisfaction than to start it, and that is what you labour people are inclined to forget.” In his interest Mr. Vandeleur seemed to have forgotten his opening question; now he harked back to it suddenly. “However, this is irrelevant. I was correct in your estimate of me as a potential father-in-law?”

“Yes.” For the life of him Adam Fletcher could not think of anything else to say. But Joan would understand, he felt despairingly.

“You feel my wealth an insuperable bar to your marriage with my daughter?” Mr. Vandeleur was evidently determined not to spare this reluctant suitor.

This time it was Joan who replied. “Whatever Adam felt, I would not marry him as your daughter,” she broke in hotly. “It would ruin his work, his whole life. Everyone would feel that he had sold himself for the Vandeleur millions.”

“Had you not better first ascertain whether there are any Vandeleur millions?” her father suggested.

There was a dead silence, as the other three stared at John Vandeleur. The same thought occurred to all of them—the millionaire was slightly unhinged. The stability of the millions still seemed beyond doubt.

“The Vandeleur Syndicate will declare itself insolvent next week,” Mr. Vandeleur went on coldly. “As I do not intend the shareholders to suffer for their confidence, the remaining millions, that you speak of, will be called upon to supply the deficiency. As for myself, I propose to retire from business. I have long looked forward to devoting to study the declining years of my life.” He spoke with his usual frigid reserve, but dam felt underneath it the pathos of the beaten man, the end of the Vandeleur legend.

From Joan, however, the tragic statement struck nothing but a rapturous exclamation. In her joy at the levelling of the golden mountain that divided her from her lover, she forgot her newly-found affection and solicitude for her father. Perhaps, too, the Vandeleur millions had brought her so little, that she really could not understand any poignancy in their loss.

“Oh Father, can you possibly mean that you have lost all your money?” she cried. “How perfectly lovely!”

Mr. Vandeleur winced. “I shall not be an inmate of the poorhouse, as you and Mr. Fletcher would probably prefer,” he said drily. “But my fortune will not be so much larger than your own obviously considerable joint earnings as to contaminate you in the eyes of your socialist friends. Now I have another appointment.” He stood up to take his leave.

“And I must go too,” Adam Fletcher announced ruefully. “I have got to meet the committee of the United Engineers at three—it must be almost that now. I’ll be back as soon as ever I can, Joan.”

“Perhaps I can give you a lift down town in my automobile,” Mr. Vandeleur suggested. Adam Fletcher accepted the offer with an amused smile. It put a crowning touch to the unreality of the afternoon’s proceedings. Indeed, as Joan had already noticed to her amazement, there was a distinct mutual attraction between the two men. Perhaps, despite the utter dissimilarity of outlook, a certain honesty and sincerity of character formed a common ground between them.

It was over three hours later when the younger man came racing back. “Adam, what a long time you have been!” Joan said reproachfully, as she met him in the lobby. She was dressed to go out. “You must have had a tremendous talk with Father!”

“Oh no; it was the committee that kept me. Your father only took me down there. He was advising me how to invest my royalties when we parted. Fancy my budding into a Wall Street man!” Adam Fletcher laughed aloud. “Mr. Vandeleur seemed quite tickled at my simple plan of letting my money pile up at the bank. ‘Why not the proverbial stocking?’ he said. Do you know, Joan, I like your father—against all my principles! And, I believe, he has taken quite a fancy to me. He patted me on the shoulder when I got out and told me to look him up any time. He and I are going to be great friends! He doesn’t seem to have much, does he?” the young man went on thoughtfully. “Not even his money. Indeed, I don’t think he had much with it. Mrs. Vandeleur always had—well, other people, and you had Mrs. Lennox. He must have found it pretty lonely.”

“Lonely! Father lonely!” Joan echoed, amazed. She began to review their life in the wonderful Fifth Avenue Renaissance house. “I believe you are right,” she said at last, slowly. “Perhaps if there had been anyone to care for Father, he would have cared for them. Perhaps he had just got out of the habit. Poor Father. I wonder if he would let me be fond of him now,” she mused. “Anyway, I’ve found him a nice little playmate in you!” A clock in one of the rooms chiming half-past six checked her reflections. “But I must start for the theatre at once. Granny has gone on. She wanted to look up Bridget, an old servant of hers, on the way. Bridget will be able to come back to us, now there is no skeleton in the cupboard any more. She will be in the seventh heaven!—Are you going to drive down with me, Adam?”

“No, I am going to stay here for a five hour chat with the janitor,” Adam replied with cheerful irony. He pressed the button of the elevator bell.

A neat little electric coupé stood in the street. Adam helped Joan in and then turned to the chauffeur. “Oh, he knows where to go,” the girl called out to him. “He comes for us every night.”

“I’d best make sure.” The young man went up to the chauffeur. “Drive as slow as you know how,” he said hurriedly, and put a dollar bill into the man’s hand. He then followed Joan into the automobile.

It was discreetly dark inside. Suddenly, to Adam’s amazement, he felt that Joan was crying. He had never seen her cry since that night at Norfolk, long ago, when he had offered her the lead in ‘The Combine.’ “Why, darling, what is it?” he exclaimed. “Everything is all right now.”

“It is because I am too happy,” Joan wept. “It has all been so dreadful. I thought we should never be able to see each other again.”

“I guess, in any case, that would have been impossible.” Adam’s voice was tender. “I guess, it’s you and me ‘for keeps.’” He was quoting that phrase of her own. He dried her eyes with his handkerchief as though she were a child.

“Yes, I mustn’t mess up Juliet’s face,” she murmured with tremulous laughter. “But isn’t it dear of Father to have made everything so easy by losing his money?”

“Real considerate. He is a model father-in-law!” They laughed again.

There was a pause. Then Joan began unexpectedly. “All this happening has made me think a lot. And I have found out that I am horribly selfish. Yes, I have never considered anything except from my own point of view. I have been just horrible to you.”

“Horrible to me!” Adam Fletcher repeated. “Dearest, what absolute nonsense!”

“It isn’t nonsense; it is sense. Perhaps we had better get married in the spring.”

The colour rushed to the young fellow’s face. He did not answer; he could not; it was too overwhelming. Joan had made him promise not to speak of marriage, and he had kept his word. But it had not been easy. And now, unsolicited, she suggested marrying him sooner than he had ever thought possible, for despite her sensational success, the flaming letters on Broadway were still unachieved. A few months would put an end to this waiting and strain. “But I did want to be a star first, and not just a leading woman,” the girl said regretfully. There was another pause. “You haven’t ever been to Europe, either, have you?” she asked suddenly.

“No.” He understood the apparent inconsequence. “I have always heard Europe is a pretty nice sort of place for a honeymoon. Italy and all that. Verona?”

“Paris and the Théâtre Français.”

“They have got a fine system of farm produce distribution in Denmark.”

“Yes, we’ll go there,” she agreed, “And, of course, Stratford-on-Avon. It will be rather wonderful to see and to do all those lovely things for the first time together, won’t it, Adam?”

“Yes, Eve,” he answered softly.

Presently a consciousness of their leisurely pace penetrated even to Joan’s love-bemused intellect. “How slowly the man is driving to-night. It isn’t that I am bored,” she laughed, “but I must not be late.” An inspection of Adam’s watch revealed that there was still sufficient time. “Do you think that something has gone wrong with the motor?” she said, still a little anxiously, and put her head out of the window.

In spite of all the chauffeur’s efforts they had nearly reached the theatre. Its brilliantly lit up front was plainly visible. “Romeo and Juliet” blazed on the eye. But surely the lettering above the porch had been changed. The girl began to tremble. There in the dazzling electric lights were two new words— ‘Joan North.’ “Oh, Adam!” she gasped, pointing them out to him. “Mr. Hobson didn’t tell me. I didn’t know he had any idea this season of making me a star.”

“My star,” said Adam Fletcher.

By EDITH AYRTON ZANGWILL.

TERESA

5s. net.

THE SPECTATOR.—‘The book is amusing and brilliantly written.’

THE TIMES.—‘Teresa, simple and affectionate, extraordinarily ignorant of the world, clings to the reader’s heart.... Some of the scenes are original and striking.’

MORNING POST.—‘A story full of surprises and full of interest. Teresa, the heroine, is really a triumph. Mrs. Zangwill has scored a success.’

GLASGOW HERALD.—‘A masterly study in opposing temperaments.’

DAILY CHRONICLE.—‘Since my introduction to “Mona Maclean” I have met no fictitious woman of science so charming as the “Betty Elison” of this novel.’

THE GLOBE.—‘Besides showing undoubted successes in characterisation, Mrs. Zangwill’s novel has the merit of being thoroughly interesting.’

THE SKETCH.—‘“Teresa” is a very good novel, and shows no small knowledge of human nature, both on its wiser and its weaker sides.’

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—‘Mrs. Zangwill has not lost her clear, incisive style, nor her eye for dramatic situations.... A book worth reading.’

COUNTRY LIFE.—‘The book is an interesting study of the effect on a girl’s life of a certain kind of up-bringing, and Teresa herself is a very successful and cleverly-handled character.’

JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, LONDON, W. 1

By EDITH AYRTON ZANGWILL.

THE FIRST Mrs. MOLLIVAR

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MORNING POST.—‘The story is more than clever, and displays talent far above the ordinary.’

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—‘Dr. Mollivar is a triumph of character drawing.... Mrs. Zangwill may be congratulated on a very clever book.’

EVENING STANDARD.—‘The story is quite lifelike; every character takes its place and does its part in the narrative, and we congratulate Mrs. Zangwill on having written a really commendable novel.’

DAILY NEWS.—‘The portrayal of the grim occurrences which, capable of natural explanation, yet seem tragically supernatural, shows Mrs. Zangwill to be a writer of increasing force.’

GLASGOW HERALD.—‘The story has genuine dramatic power, and as a study of feminine sentiment and emotions is well worthy of the author.’

ATHENÆUM.—‘Mrs. Zangwill is to be congratulated alike upon her choice of a subject, and its treatment.’

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COURT JOURNAL.—‘A powerful and exceedingly interesting book. The style is incisive; the character drawing admirable.’

JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, LONDON, W. 1

Transcriber’s note

New original cover art for epub and mobi files included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

A Contents list linking to chapter headings has been added.

Punctuation has been standardised; spelling and hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original publication except as follows:

- Page 5

The’ve got a nose changed to

They’ve got a nose

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immediately after the Vandeleur’s return changed to

immediately after the Vandeleurs’

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nature of the proceeeding changed to

nature of the proceeding

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Constantly Mrs. Lennex fancied changed to

Constantly Mrs. Lennox

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French actresses, the Théâtre Francais changed to

French actresses, the Théâtre Français

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by her present-five-year-old changed to

by her present five-year-old

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great at dancing and rinking changed to

great at dancing and drinking

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rotund then ever changed to

rotund than ever

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the stage and her dranddaughter changed to

the stage and her granddaughter

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Mrs. Lennow began to feel as though changed to

Mrs. Lennox began to feel as though

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No, the ‘reculer’ theory changed to

No, the ‘réculer’ theory still seemed to meet

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Mr. Clark asquiesced hurriedly changed to

Mr. Clark acquiesced hurriedly

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It sounded an Él Dorado after changed to

It sounded an El Dorado after

- Page 319 time we must indooce Mr. Fletcher changed to

time we must induce Mr. Fletcher

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The big new York audience changed to

The big New York audience

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Table of Contents

THE RISE OF A STAR

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

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