CHAPTER I

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The Canadian

Photoplay Title of

THE LAND OF PROMISE

A Novelization of W. Somerset Maugham's Play

by

D. TORBETT

Illustrated with Scenes from the Photoplay

A Paramount Picture

Starring Thomas Meighan

[Illustration: LOVE FOR HER HUSBAND IS FINALLY BORN IN NORA.]

Grosset & Dunlap

Publishers, New York

Made in the United States of America.

Copyright, 1914, by

Edward J. Clode

THE LAND OF PROMISE

CHAPTER I

Nora opened her eyes to an unaccustomed consciousness of well-being. She

was dimly aware that it had its origin in something deeper than mere

physical comfort; but for the moment, in that state between sleeping and

wakening, which still held her, it was enough to find that body and mind

seemed rested.

Youth was reasserting itself. And it was only a short time ago that she

had felt that never, never, could she by any possible chance feel young

again. When one is young, one resents the reaction after any strain not

purely physical as if it were a premature symptom of old age.

A ray of brilliant sunshine, which found its way through a gap in the

drawn curtains, showed that it was long past the usual hour for rising.

She smiled whimsically and closed her eyes once more. She remembered now

that she was not in her own little room in the other wing of the house.

The curtains proved that. How often in the ten years she had been with

Miss Wickham had she begged that the staring white window blind, which

decorated her one window, be replaced by curtains or even a blind of a

dark tone that she might not be awakened by the first ray of light. She

had even ventured to propose that the cost of such alterations be

stopped out of her salary. Miss Wickham had refused to countenance any

such innovation.

Three years before, when the offending blind had refused to hold

together any longer, Nora had had a renewal of hope. But no! The new

blind had been more glaringly white than its predecessor, which by

contrast had taken on a grateful ivory tone in its old age. They had had

one of their rare scenes at its advent. Nora had as a rule an admirable

control of her naturally quick temper. But this had been too much.

"I might begin to understand your refusal if you ever entered my room.

But since it would no more occur to you to do so than to visit the

stables, I cannot see what possible difference it can make," Nora had

stormed.

Miss Wickham's smile, which at the beginning of her companion's outburst

had been faintly ironic, had broadened into the frankly humorous.

"Stated with your characteristic regard for exactitude, my dear Miss

Marsh, it would never enter my head to do either. I prefer the white

blind, however. As you know, I have no taste for explanations. We will

let the matter rest there, if you please." Then she had added: "Some

day, I strongly suspect, some man will amuse himself breaking that fiery

temper of yours. I wish I were not so old, I think that I should enjoy

knowing that he had succeeded." And the incident had ended, as always,

with a few angry tears on Nora's part, as a preliminary to the

inevitable game of bezique which finished off each happy day!

And this had been her life for ten years! A wave of pity, not for

herself but for that young girl of eighteen who had once been herself,

that proudly confident young creature who, when suddenly deprived of the

protection of her only parent,--Nora's father had died when she was too

young to remember him,--had so bravely faced the world, serene in the

consciousness that the happiness which was her right was sure to be hers

after a little waiting, dimmed her eyes for a moment. The dreams she had

dreamed after she had received Miss Wickham's letter offering her the

post of companion! She recalled how she had smiled to herself when the

agent with whom she had filed her application congratulated her warmly

on her good fortune in placing herself so promptly, and, by way of

benediction, had wished that she might hold the position for many years.

Many years indeed! That had been no part of her plan. Those nebulous

plans had always been consistently rose-colored. It was impossible to

remember them all now.

Sometimes the unknown Miss Wickham turned out to be a soft-hearted and

sentimental old lady who was completely won by her young companion's

charm and unmistakable air of good breeding. After a short time, she

either adopted her, or, on dying, left her her entire fortune.

Again, she proved to be a perfect ogre. In this variation it was always

the Prince Charming, that looms large in every young girl's dreams, who

finally, after a brief period of unhappiness, came to the rescue and

everything ended happily if somewhat conventionally.

The reality had been sadly different. Miss Wickham had disclosed herself

as being a hard, self-centered, worldly woman who considered that in

furnishing her young companion with board, lodging and a salary of

thirty pounds a year, she had, to use a commercial phrase, obtained the

option on her every waking hour, and indeed, during the last year of her

life, she had extended this option to cover many of the hours which

should have been dedicated to rest and sleep.

All the fine plans that the young Nora had made while journeying down

from London to Tunbridge Wells, for going on with her music, improving

herself in French and perhaps taking up another modern language, in her

leisure hours, had been nipped in the bud before she had been an inmate

of Miss Wickham's house many days. She had no leisure hours. Miss

Wickham saw to that. She had apparently an abhorrence for her own

unrelieved society that amounted to a positive mania. She must never be

left alone. Let Nora but escape to her own little room in the vain hope

of obtaining a few moments to herself, and Kate, the parlor maid, was

certain to be sent after her.

"Miss Wickham's compliments and she was waiting to be read to." "Miss

Wickham's compliments, but did Miss Marsh know that the horses were at

the door?" "Miss Wickham's compliments, and should she have Kate set out

the backgammon board?"

And upon the rare occasions when there was company in the house, Miss

Wickham's ingenuity in providing occupation for dear Miss Marsh, while

she was herself occupied with her friends, was inexhaustible. In an evil

hour Nora had confessed to a modest talent for washing lace. Miss

Wickham, it developed, had a really fine collection of beautiful pieces

which naturally required the most delicate handling. Their need for

being washed was oddly coincident with the moment when the expected

guest arrived at the door.

Or, it appeared that the slugs had attacked the rose trees in unusual

numbers. The gardener was in despair as he was already behind with

setting out the annuals. "Would Miss Marsh mind while Miss Wickham had

her little after-luncheon nap----!" Miss Marsh did mind. She loved

flowers; to arrange them was a delight--at least it had been once--but

she hated slugs. But she was too young and too inexperienced to know how

to combat the subtle encroachments upon her own time made by this

selfish old woman. And so, gradually, she had found that she was not

only companion, but a sort of superior lady's maid and assistant

gardener as well. And all for thirty pounds a year and her keep.

And alas! Prince Charming had never appeared, unless--Nora laughed aloud

at the thought--he had disguised himself with a cleverness defying

detection. With Reginald Hornby, a callow youth, the son of Miss

Wickham's dearest friend, who occasionally made the briefest of duty

visits; Mr. Wynne, the family solicitor, an elderly bachelor; and the

doctor's assistant, a young person by the name of Gard, Nora's list of

eligible men was complete. There had been a time when Nora had flirted

with the idea of escaping from bondage by becoming the wife of young

Gard.

He was a rather common young man, but he had been sincerely in love with

her. He was not sufficiently subtle to recognize that it was the idea of

escaping from Miss Wickham and the deadly monotony of her days that

tempted her. He had laid his case before Miss Wickham. There had been

some terrible scenes. Nora had felt the lash of her employer's bitter

tongue. Partly because she was still smarting from the attack, and

partly because she was indignant with her suitor for having gone to Miss

Wickham at all and particularly without consulting her, she, too, had

turned on the unfortunate young man. There had been mutual

recriminations and reproaches, and young Gard, after his brief and

bitter experience with the gentry, had left the vicinity of Tunbridge

Wells and later on married a girl of his own class.

But Miss Wickham had been more shaken at the prospect of losing her

young companion, who was so thoroughly broken in, than she would have

liked to have confessed. She detested new faces about her, and as a

matter of fact, she came as nearly caring for Nora as it was possible

for her to care for any human being. She had told the girl then that it

was her intention to make some provision for her at her death, so that

she might have a decent competence and not be obliged to look for

another position. There was, of course, the implied understanding that

she would remain with Miss Wickham until that lady was summoned to a

better and brighter world, a step which Miss Wickham, herself, was in no

immediate hurry to take. In the meantime, she knew perfectly well just

how often a prospective legacy could be dangled before expectant eyes

with perfect delicacy.

It furnished her with an additional weapon, too, against her nephew,

James Wickham, and his wife, both of whom she cordially detested,

although she fully intended leaving them the bulk of her fortune. The

consideration and tenderness she showed toward Nora when Mr. and Mrs.

Wickham ran down from London to see their dear aunt showed a latent

talent for comedy, on the part of the chief actress, of no mean order.

These occasions left Nora in a state of mind in which exasperation and

amusement were about equally blended. It was amusing to note the signs

of apprehension on the part of Miss Wickham's disagreeable relatives as

they noted their aunt's doting fondness for her hired companion. And

while she felt that they richly deserved this little punishment, it was

humiliating to be so cynically made use of.

And now it was all over. After a year of illness and gradual decline the

end had come two days before. Nothing could induce Miss Wickham to have

a professional nurse. The long strain and weeks of broken rest had told

even on Nora's strength. Kindly Dr. Evans had insisted that she be put

immediately to bed and Kate, the parlor maid, who had always been

devoted to her, had undressed her as if she had been a baby. For the

last two days she had done little but sleep the dreamless sleep of utter

exhaustion. And to-day was the day of the funeral. She was just about to

ring to find the time, when Kate's gentle knock came at the door.

"Come in. Good morning, Kate. Do tell me the time. Oh! How good it is to

be lazy once in a while."

"Good morning to you, Miss. I hope you're feeling a bit rested. It's

just gone eleven. Dr. Evans has called, Miss. He told me to see if you

had waked."

"How good of him. Ask him to wait a few moments and I'll come right

down." 'Coming right down' was not so easy a matter as she had thought.

Nora found herself strangely weak and languid. She was still sitting on

the edge of her bed, trying to gather energy for the task of dressing,

when Kate returned.

"I beg your pardon, Miss, but Dr. Evans says you're not to get up until

he sees you. I'm to bring you a bit of toast and your tea and to help

you freshen up a bit and then he will come up in twenty minutes. He says

to tell you that he has plenty of time."

Nora made a show of protest. Secretly she was rather glad to give in.

She had not reckoned with the weakness following two unaccustomed days

in bed. Dr. Evans was a kindly elderly man, whose one affectation was

the gruffness which the country doctor of the old school so often

assumes as if he wished to emphasize his disapproval of the modern suave

manner of his city _confrère_. He had a sardonic humor and a sharp

tongue which had at first quite terrified Nora, until she discovered

that they were meant to hide the most generous heart in the world. Many

were the kindly acts he performed in secret for the very people he was

most accustomed to abuse.

Having felt Nora's pulse and looked at her sharply with his keen gray

eyes, he settled the question of her attendance at Miss Wickham's

funeral with his accustomed finality.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," he growled. "You may get up after a

while and go and sit in the garden a bit; the air is fairly spring-like.

But this afternoon you must lie down again for an hour or two. I suppose

you'll have to get up to do the civil for James Wickham and his wife

before they go back to town. Oh, no! they'll not stay the night. They'll

rush back as fast as the train will take them, once they've heard the

will read. Couldn't bear the associations with the place, now that their

dear aunt has departed!" He gave one of his sardonic chuckles.

"It may be nonsense"--this in reply to Nora's remonstrance--"but I'm not

going to have you on my hands next. You'll go to that funeral and get

hysterical like all women, and begin to think that you wish her back. I

should think this last year would have been about all anyone would want.

But you're a poor sentimental creature, after all," he jeered.

"I'm nothing of the sort. But I did feel sorry for her, badly as she

often treated me. She was a desperately lonely old soul. Nobody cared a

bit about her, really, and she knew it."

"In spite of all her little amiable tricks to make people love her,"

said the doctor. "Now, remember, the garden for an hour this morning,

the drawing-room later in the day, after you've rested for an hour or

so. And don't dare disobey me." With that, he left.

It was pleasant in the garden. The air, though chilly, held the promise

of spring. Warmly wrapped in an old cape, which the thoughtful Kate had

discovered somewhere, with a book on Paris and some Italian sketches to

fall back upon when her own thoughts ceased to divert her, Nora sat in a

sheltered corner and looked out on the border which would soon be gay

with the tulips whose green stocks were just beginning to push

themselves up through the brown earth. Poor Miss Wickham! She had been

so proud of her garden always. But for her it had bloomed for the last

time. Would the James Wickhams take as much pride in it? Somehow, she

fancied not. And she? Where would she be a year from now? A year! Where

would she be in another month?

The whole world, in a modest sense, would he hers to choose from. While

she had no definite notion as to the amount of her legacy, she had

understood that it would bring in sufficient income to keep her from the

necessity of seeking further employment. Probably something between two

and three hundred pounds a year. She had always longed to travel.

Italy, France, Germany, Spain, she would see them all. One could live

very reasonably in really good pensions abroad, she had been told.

And then, some day, after a few years of happy wandering, she might

adventure to that far-off Canada where her only brother was living the

life of a frontiersman on an incredibly huge farm. She had not seen him

for many years, but her heart warmed at the thought of seeing her only

relative again. He was much older. Yes, Eddie must now be about forty.

Oh, all of that. She, herself, was almost twenty-eight. But she wouldn't

go to him for several years. He had done one thing which seemed to her

quite dreadful. He had made an unfortunate marriage with a woman far

beneath him socially. Men were so weak! Because they fancied themselves

lonely, or even captivated by a pretty face, they were willing to make

impossible marriages. Women were different. Still, she had the grace to

blush when she recalled the episode of the doctor's assistant.

Yes, she would go out to Eddie after his wife had had the chance to form

herself a little more. Living with a husband so much superior was bound

to have its influence. And she must have some really good qualities at

bottom or she could never have attracted him. There was nothing vicious

about her brother. She must write him of Miss Wickham's death. They were

neither of them fond of writing. It must be nearly a year since she had

heard from him last. And then, it was so difficult to keep up a

correspondence when people had no mutual friends and so little in

common.

A glance at her watch told her that it must be nearly time for the

London Wickhams to arrive. It would be better not to see them, unless

they sent for her, until after they had returned from the cemetery. They

were just the sort of people to think that she was forgetting her

position if she had the manner of playing hostess by receiving them.

Thank goodness! she would probably never see them again after to-day.

With a word to Kate that she would presently have her luncheon in her

room and then rest for a few hours until the people returned after the

funeral, she made her way to her own bare little room. How cold and bare

it was! With the exception of the framed pictures of her father and

mother and a small photograph of Eddie, taken before he had gone out,

there was nothing but the absolutely necessary furniture. Miss Wickham's

ideas of what a 'companion's' room should be like had partaken of the

austere. And all the rest of the house was so crowded and overloaded

with things. The drawing-room had always been an eyesore to Nora,

crammed as it was with little tables and cabinets containing china. And

in every available space there were porcelain ornaments and photographs

in huge silver frames. It was all like a badly arranged museum or a

huddled little curio shop. Well, she would soon be done with that, too!

Armed with her portfolio and writing materials Nora returned to the

guest chamber, which was her temporary abode. The motherly Kate was

waiting with an appetizing lunch on a neat tray. What a good friend she

had been. She would be genuinely sorry to part with Kate. She must ask

her to give her some address that would always reach her. Who knew,

years hence when she returned to England, but what she might afford to

set up a modest flat with Kate to manage things for her. She would speak

to her on the morrow--after the will was read.

"Ah, Kate, you knew just what would tempt me. Thank you so much! By the

way, has Miss Pringle sent any message?"

"Yes, Miss. Miss Pringle stopped on her way to the village a moment ago.

She was with Mrs. Hubbard and had only a moment. I was to tell you that

she would call this afternoon and hoped you could see her. I told her,

Miss, that the doctor had said you were not to go to the burial. She

will come while they are away."

"Let me know the moment she comes. I want to see her very much."

Miss Pringle was the only woman friend Nora had made in the years of her

sojourn at Tunbridge Wells. They had little in common beyond the

fellow-feeling that binds those in bondage. Miss Pringle was also a

companion. Her task mistress, Mrs. Hubbard, was in Nora's opinion, about

as stolidly brainless as a woman could well be. Miss Pringle was always

lauding her kindness. But then Miss Pringle had been a companion to

various rich women for thirty years. Nora had her own ideas as to the

value of the opinions of any woman who had been in slavery for thirty

years.

Having eaten her luncheon and written her letter to her brother, she

felt glad to rest once more. How wise the doctor had been to forbid her

to go to the funeral, and how grateful she was that he had forbidden it,

was her last waking thought.