Summer went by very quickly in the deserted orchard, and in fine
September weather young Frank's first birthday was celebrated with much
goodwill by everybody. Zachary, with the successful carrying of a rich
harvest, ceased to brood so much on the failure of humanity. He became
his own diligent self, amassing grain and gold and zealously expurgating
for reproduction in bleak chapels that winter a volume of sermons by an
Anglican bishop. Young Frank began to show distinct similarities of
feature to Jenny, similarities that not even the most critical observer
could demolish. He showed, too, some of her individuality, had a temper
and will of his own, and seemed like his mother born to inherit life's
intenser emotions. Jenny was not yet inclined to sink herself in him, to
transfer to the boy her own activity of sensation. Mrs. Raeburn was
thirty-three when Jenny was born: young Frank arrived when his mother
was ten years younger than that. It was not expected that she should
feel the gates of youth were closed against her. Moreover, Jenny, with
all the fullness of her experience, was strangely young on the eve of
her twenty-fourth birthday, still seeming, indeed, no more than eighteen
or nineteen. There was a divine youthfulness about her which was proof
against the Furies, and, since the diverting absurdities of young Frank,
laughter had come back. Those deep eyes danced again for one who from
altitudes of baby ecstasies would gloriously respond. May was another
triumph for affection. There was joy in regarding that little sister,
once wan with Islington airs, now happy and healthy and almost as
rose-pink as Jenny herself. How pleased her mother would have been, and,
in retrospect, how skeptical must she have felt of Jenny's ability to
keep that promise always to look after May.
Life was not so bad on her birthday morning, as, with one eye kept
continuously on young Frank, Jenny dressed herself to defy the
blusterous jolly October weather. She thought how red the apples were in
the orchard and with what a plump they fell and how she and May had
laughed when one fell on young Frank, who had also laughed, deeming
against the evidence of his surprise that it must be matter for
merriment.
The postman came that morning, and Granfa, waving his arms, brought the
letters up to the orchard--two letters, both for Jenny. He watched for a
minute her excitement before he departed to a pleasant job of digging in
the champagne of October sunlight.
"Hullo," cried Jenny, "here's a letter from Maudie Chapman."
26 ALVERTON STREET,
PIMLICO.
Dear old Jenny,
Suddenly remembered it was your birthday, old girl. Many Happy
Returns of The Day, and hope you're in the best of pink and going
on fine the same as I am. We have got a new stage manager who you
would laugh to see all the girls think. We have been rehearsing for
months and I'm sick of it--You're well out of the Orient I give you
my word. Its a dogs' Island now and no mistake. Walter sends his
love. I have got a little girl called Ivy. She is a love. Have you?
With heaps of love
from your old chum, Maudie.
Irene's gone off with that fellow Danbie and Elsie had twins. Her
Artie was very annoyed about it. Madge Wilson has got a most
glorious set of furs. No more from Maudie--Write us a letter old
girl.
* * * * *
"Fancy," said Jenny. "Elsie Crauford's had twins."
This letter, read in the open air, with a sea wind traveling through the
apple trees, with three hundred miles of country between the sender and
the receiver, was charged with London sorcery. It must have been posted
on the way to the theater. Incredible thought! Jenny visualized the red
pillar-box into which it might have slipped, a pillar-box station by a
crowded corner, splashed by traffic and jostled by the town. On the flap
was a round spot of London rain, and pervading all the paper was a faint
theater scent. The very ink was like eye-black, and Maudie must have
written every word laboriously between two glittering ballets.
"I wonder if I could do a single beat now?" said Jenny. "I wish I hadn't
given my new ballet shoes to Gladys West."
Then as once she danced under the tall plane tree of Hagworth Street to
a sugared melody of "Cavalleria," so now she danced in an apple orchard,
keeping time to the wind and the waving boughs. Young Frank quivered and
kicked with joy to see the twirling of his mother's skirts. May cried,
"You great tomboy!" but with robin's eyes and slanting head watched her
sister.
Had she been a poet, Jenny would have sung of London, of the thunder and
grayness, of the lamps and rain, of long irresistible rides on the top
of swaying tramcars, of wild roars through the depth of the earth past
the green lamps flashing to red. She danced instead about the sea-girt
orchard-close all that once her heart had found in London. She danced
the hopes of many children of Apollo, who work so long for so little.
She danced their disillusions, their dreams of immortality, their lives,
their marriages, their little houses. She danced their fears of poverty
and starvation, their work and effort and strife, their hurrying home in
the darkness. She danced their middle age of growing families and all
their renewed hopes and disappointments and contentments. She danced a
little of the sorrow and all the joy of life. She danced old age and the
breathing night of London and the sparrow-haunted dawn. She danced the
silly little shillings which the children of Apollo earn. Fifteen
pirouettes for fifteen shillings, fifteen pirouettes for long rehearsals
and long performances, fifteen pirouettes for a week, fifteen pirouettes
for no fame, fifteen pirouettes for fifteen shillings, and one high beat
for the funeral of a marionette.
And all the time the gay October leaves danced with her in the grass.
"Well, I hope you've enjoyed yourself," said May. Jenny threw herself
breathless on the outspread rug and kissed young Frank.
"I don't suppose I shall ever dance again."
"What about the other letter?" asked May.
"There, if I didn't forget all about it," cried Jenny. "But who's it
from? What unnatural writing! Like music."
She broke the seal.
PUMP COURT, TEMPLE.
My dear Jenny,
I think I've been very good not to worry you long before this; but
I do want to write and wish you many happy returns. Will you accept
my thoughts? I got your address and history from Maudie Chapman
whom I met last week. I wonder if I came down to Cornwall for a few
days, if you would let me call on you. If you're annoyed by this
letter, just don't answer. I shall perfectly understand.
Yours ever,
Frank Castleton.
"Fancy," said Jenny. "I never knew his name was Frank. How funny!"
"Who is this Frank?" May inquired.
"A friend of mine I knew once--getting on for nearly four years ago now.
Where could anyone stay here?"
"There's an hotel in Trewinnard," said May.
Jenny looked at young Frank.
"I don't see why I shouldn't," she said.
"Shouldn't what?"
"Have a friend come and see me," Jenny answered.