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----!”