Joan, already exhilarated by a foretaste of independence, and enjoying
to the full what Turgenev calls "that carelessness, that deuce-take-it
air which comes out so naturally in foreign travel," changed at Broad
Street for a local train that stops at all the smart little
flower-bedecked stations which make the environs of Philadelphia so
charming to the eye. Neat turnouts were waiting at most of them,
dog-carts with dapper grooms at the horses' heads, big machines driven
by bare-headed young people in sports clothes; here and there a quietly
elegant brougham or limousine with men in livery on the box.
As her train passed, she caught glimpses of mellow, red-brick houses
that gave the effect of age without decadence; tree-lined avenues,
hot-houses, gardens, velvet lawns. It was country that lacked the broad,
picturesque loveliness of Kentucky landscape, but it had a definite
charm of its own--a well-ordered, leisurely, finished permanence which
reminded one that not only American history but American society had its
stronghold here, changing less than elsewhere in our adolescent land.
There was no suggestion, as in the South, of having seen better days; no
raw, temporary promise of the future as in the Middle West. Joan
remembered having heard that many people who danced in the Philadelphia
Assembly of to-day bore the same names as those who danced in it when
Philadelphia was the country's capital, and Mr. Washington its first
President. She wondered hopefully whether Desmond was one of those
names....
People got in and out of the train, carrying golf-bags and
tennis-rackets. Joan smoothed the skirt of the "little model" Effie May
had provided for traveling purposes; a fawncolored crepe with lacy cuffs
and collar, which had at first given her qualms of uneasiness. There was
a long cloth coat to match, and a hat of the costliest simplicity; and
she was not used to traveling dressed as for a party. Now, however, she
was grateful for her step-mother's insistence, with a gratitude which
increased in proportion to the distance between them.
"Always dress up on a train," was Effie May's sage counsel, "so that
people will notice you're a lady, and treat you according."
People had undoubtedly noticed, and she had been treated "according";
and now toward her journey's end it was particularly agreeable to feel
that among these fellow-travelers on pleasure bent she need have no
qualms as to her personal appearance, at least. Underneath she might
know herself to be plain, poor little Joan Darcy, an adventuress in
search of a husband; but on the surface she was as affluent a young lady
as ever rang for the porter to lower a shade that was within two feet of
her hand.
It may be premature to state that our heroine had already adjusted her
future to her present pleasing environment; but the fact remains that
when the train stopped at the station for which her subconscious mind
had fortunately been listening, Joan was just in the act of moving Ellen
Neal and her mother's furniture into a large Quaker house with a gambrel
roof....
Betty was waiting for her in a dog-cart; brown as a berry, with sleeves
rolled up, and a bare, tousled head, quite a different young person
already from the shy little girl who had been her slave at the Convent.
"Hurry up, old Joie!" she called, wrestling with the cob, who rose on
his hind legs to snort at the snorting engine, while a diminutive groom
tried with frantic leapings to reach his head. "The Rabbit hates to
stand! Run and get Miss Darcy's things, Jenks" (this to the groom) "and
be quick about it, will you? You see," she explained as Joan climbed
perilously aboard and was duly kissed, "when I left, Mother was two up
and four to play, and it's the finals, and she's already got a leg on
the cup. Great, isn't it? We'll have to gallop all the way to get there
before it's over!"
"What _are_ you talking about?" asked mystified Joan. "A leg on the
cup--!" Hitherto golf had not entered into her vocabulary; though she
had gazed at it from afar, wondering at the strange ways men choose to
waste their golden hours.
"Why, the tournament, of course! Didn't I write you? We're deep in it.
Where are your clubs, by the way?" She glanced at Joan's bag and
parasol-case. "Oh, dear! Have you left them on the train?"
"Clubs?--You mean golf-sticks?" asked Joan, with misgivings. "Why, I
haven't any. I don't play golf."
"_Don't play golf?_" cried Betty in genuine dismay. "What ever will you
do with yourself here? And how on earth do you amuse yourself in
Kentucky? Just ride?"
"Why, yes," said Joan feebly, "we--we ride."
Once, indeed, during a period of comparative affluence, the Major had
possessed for a while a horse of the family type; and under his
instruction Joan had occasionally mounted the complaisant beast and
propelled it fearfully about back streets, feeling that something was
due her Kentucky traditions. But suppose she were expected to mount, for
instance, some such fire-eater as the Rabbit!
"I don't believe I've brought my riding-clothes," she murmured hastily.
"Goose! Why not? But I dare say Mother can fit you out with trousers,"
said Betty, glancing casually at her friend's slim length of limb.
"Mine'd be too short. With trousers and a sweater you'll be all right."
Joan's eyes opened wide, but her mouth remained closed. After all, she
was out for experience. If it included meeting a violent death while
clad in trousers and a sweater, so be it.
"Uncle Neddy'll find you a decent horse somewhere," Betty was running
on. "He's awfully keen about your coming, Jo. I'm afraid you're going to
have him on your hands a lot, especially if you don't play golf."
Joan brightened. "Why? Doesn't he?"
"Lord, no! Too much of a duffer. Likes to do lazy things, like riding,
and fooling around in a canoe, admiring nature. With widows and such!"
She made a face.
"Widows?" Joan pricked an ear.
"Grass or sod. It's all one to our Neddy," murmured his flippant niece.
"Girls are not grown up enough for him, of course--Except you. He always
did take notice when you were around. I remember. But then you were
always more grown up than the rest of us, somehow." She gave her friend
a glance full of the old shy admiration. "Do you know, you've gotten to
be awfully pretty too. Perhaps it's all those grand clothes!"
"Perhaps it is," smiled Joan, flushing.
At school she had been the poor girl of her group, the one who had most
often to borrow and least often to lend the simple fineries current
among them for special occasions. Now under her friend's appraising eyes
she was a little uncomfortable, wondering whether the dress she had on
was perhaps a little too "grand" by comparison with Betty's plain linen.
Linens she owned herself, but braided, embroidered, lace-inserted out of
all recognition as such. It was a physical impossibility for Effie May
to select anything plain. Under her manipulation, the merest shirt-waist
became what the salesladies refer to majestically as a "bloose."
Sartorially Joan was entirely in her step-mother's hands.
"But Southern girls always do dress up a lot, don't they?" said Betty,
innocently continuing her line of thought. "You ought to have seen the
one the Ritters had visiting them last month! All ruffles, and parasols,
and chiffon veils. Couldn't swim or go for a ride or do anything on
account of her complexion. All she did was to dance and sit out in
corners with people. It was disgusting!"
"And didn't your uncle take notice even of _her_?" murmured Joan.
"Oh, of course. She was as good as a widow, you see--she'd had so many
affairs. The men simply flocked. Whenever she came on to the
tennis-court she'd break up the game, and we could hardly find enough
men to make up a foursome, they were all so busy hanging around. It was
too queer! I never could see the attraction in rolling your eyes, and
flashing your dimples, and dropping your r's like a colored servant,
could you?--Not," she added hastily, "that _all_ Southern girls are that
sort, Joie dear! You, for instance!"
"I should hope not," murmured Joan; who had decided on the instant to be
exactly that sort herself, so far as in her lay. It suited the
elaborateness of her wardrobe; it saved her from golf and tennis and
other amusements which bade fair to be terrifying in this sporting
community--particularly the embarrassments of horseback riding. Joan was
too much of an egotist to enter willingly into competitions where she
had no chance to excel.
No; the languid beauty was her role for the next few weeks; and she
flattered herself that after several months of Louisville she ought to
be able to drop her r's and roll her eyes and flash her dimples with the
best, particularly if the audience were not too experienced in
Southernism. In school theatricals she had always distinguished herself.
Moreover, she had the advantage of a lifelong model to work from; for
Richard Darcy was one of those sons of Dixie whose characteristics
become more markedly Dixotic the farther they travel from base.
Let the Ritters' guest look to her laurels!
By way of preparation Joan got out her lip-stick and her powder-puff and
did what she could to improve on nature, Betty watching her the while in
amused respect.
"I'm glad _I_ don't have to mess my face up with things like that," she
commented frankly. "But I suppose when one goes in for a real complexion
it's got to be taken care of."
Joan murmured something explanatory about the ravages of a Southern sun;
and so entered upon her brief and eventful career as a Kentucky beauty.