During the days that Quin was floundering in the bog of poverty, illness
and despair, Eleanor Bartlett was triumphantly climbing the peak of
achievement. "Phantom Love," after weeks of strenuous rehearsal and
nerve-racking uncertainty, had had its premiere performance at Atlantic
City and scored an instantaneous hit.
All spring Eleanor had lived in excited anticipation of the event. In the
hard work demanded of her she had found welcome relief from some of her
own complicated problems. She wanted to forget that she had broken her
word, that she was causing the family serious trouble, and more than all
she wanted to forget Quinby Graham and the look on his face when he left
her.
During her stay in New York she had suffered many disillusions. She had
seen her dreams translated into actual and disconcerting realities. But,
in spite of the fact that much of the gold and glamour had turned to
tinsel, she was still fascinated by the life and its glorious
possibilities.
It was not until she got into the full swing of the rehearsals that she
made a disconcerting discovery. Try as she would, she could not adapt
herself to the other members of the company. She hated their petty
jealousies and intermittent intimacies, the little intrigues and the
undercurrent of gossip that made up their days. From the first she
realized that she was looked upon as an alien. The fact that she was
shown special favors was hotly resented, and her refusal to rehearse
daily the love passages with Finnegan, the promising young comedian who
two years before had driven an ice-wagon in New Orleans, was a constant
grievance to the stage manager. In the last matter Harold Phipps had
upheld her, as he had in all others; but his very championship
constituted her chief cause of worry.
Since the day of his joining the company she had given him no opportunity
for seeing her alone. By a method of protection peculiarly her own, she
had managed to achieve an isolation as complete as an alpine blossom in
the heart of an iceberg. But in the heat and enthusiasm of a successful
try-out, when everybody was effervescing with excitement, it was
increasingly difficult to maintain this air of cold detachment.
Papa Claude alone was sufficient to warm any atmosphere. He radiated
happiness. Every afternoon, arrayed in white flannels and a soft white
hat, with a white rose in his buttonhole, he rode in his chair on the
boardwalk, bowing to right and to left with the air of a sovereign
graciously acknowledging his subjects. Night found him in the
proscenium-box at the theater, beaming upon the audience, except when he
turned vociferously to applaud Eleanor's exits and entrances.
The entire week of the first performance was nothing short of
pandemonium. Mr. Pfingst had brought a large party down from New York on
his yacht, and between rehearsals and performances there was an endless
round of suppers and dinners and sailing-parties.
With the arrival of Sunday morning Eleanor was in a state of physical and
emotional exhaustion. She was sitting before her dressing-table in a
sleeveless pink négligée, with her hair dangling in two thick childish
braids over her shoulder, when Papa Claude dashed in from the next room
to announce that Mr. Pfingst had invited the entire cast to have lunch on
his yacht.
"Not for me!" said Eleanor, sipping her coffee between yawns. "I am going
straight back to bed and sleep all day."
"Morning megrims!" cried Papa Claude, fresher than the proverbial daisy.
"What you need is a frolic with old Neptune! We bathe at eleven, go
aboard the _Minta_ at twelve, lunch at one. Pfingst's chef is an artist;
he can create a lobster Newburg that is an epic!" Papa Claude's tongue
made the circle of his lips as he spoke.
"I don't like lobster," Eleanor pouted; "and, what's more, I don't like
Mr. Pfingst."
"Nonsense, my love! Pfingst is a prince of good fellows. Very
generous--very generous indeed. Besides, there will be others on
board--Harold and Estelle and myself."
Eleanor laid her face against his sleeve.
"I wish you and I could run off somewhere for the day alone. I am so sick
of seeing those same people day in and day out. They never talk about
anything but themselves."
Papa Claude stroked her hair and smiled tolerantly. It was natural that
his little Eleanor should be capricious and variable and addicted to
moods. She was evidently acquiring temperament.
Some one tapped at the door, and he sprang to answer it.
"I've just been to your room, and the maid said you were in here," said
Harold Phipps's voice.
"Come right in!" cried Papa Claude, flinging wide the door. "We are just
discussing plans, and need you to cast the deciding vote."
"But I'm not dressed, Papa Claude!" expostulated Eleanor. "I still have
on my kimono."
"A charming costume," said Papa Claude--"one in which a whole nation
appears in public. I leave it to my distinguished collaborator: could any
toilet, however elaborate, be more becoming?"
Harold gave a light laugh as his glance rested with undisguised approval
on the slender figure in its clinging silk garment, the rosy hues of
which were reflected in the girl's flaming cheeks.
"Just stopped for a second, C. M.," Harold said, avoiding her indignant
eyes. "I wanted to tell you about the New York press notices. They are
simply superb! _Tribune_ has a column. The _Times_ and _Herald_ give us
a headliner. And even the old _Sun_ says there are passages in 'Phantom
Love' that might have been written by Molière!"
"Where are the papers?" cried Papa Claude, prancing with excitement.
"I gave mine to Estelle. You can get them downstairs at the news-stand."
"I'll run down now--be back in a second." And Papa Claude rushed
impetuously from the room.
Eleanor and Harold stood facing each other where he had left them, he
with an air of apologetic amusement, and she with an angry dignity that
rested incongruously on her childish prettiness.
"Will you please go down and tell Mr. Pfingst that I am not coming to his
party?" she asked, with the obvious intention of getting rid of him.
"Why aren't you?"
"Because I don't like him."
"Neither do I. But what has that to do with it? Estelle Linton will take
him off our hands."
"I don't care for Miss Linton, either. If I had known----"
"Oh, come! Haven't we got past that?" scoffed Harold, sitting astride a
chair and looking at her quizzically. "Nobody pays any attention to
Estelle's numerous little affairs. I'd as soon think of criticizing a
Watteau lady on an ivory fan!"
"You can probably catch Mr. Pfingst in the dining-room if you go down at
once," suggested Eleanor pointedly.
"But I've no intention of going down at once. Eleanor, why do you play
with me like this? Can't you see that this can't go on? I've been
patient, God knows. For two months I've done nothing but advance your
interests, put you forward in every conceivable way. And what have I got?
The merest civility! Do you suppose it's pleasant for me to know that
everybody in the company is whispering about my infatuation for you and
your indifference to me? The maddening part of it is that I know
perfectly well you are _not_ indifferent. You are in love with me. You
always have been. You'd have married me last fall if some busybody hadn't
filled your ears with scandal. Confess, wouldn't you?"
"Yes; but----"
"I knew it! And you are going to marry me now. You can do anything you
want, have anything you want. I'll put you at the head of your own
company; I'll take you over to London. I'll do anything under heaven but
give you up."
He rose suddenly and went toward her, catching her bare arm and trying to
draw her toward him; but she struggled from his embrace.
"Let me go!" she cried furiously. "If you don't leave the room instantly,
I will! There's Papa Claude now. Let me pass!"
It was not Papa Claude, however, to whom she opened the door. It was
Estelle Linton, smartly attired for the day's expedition, and exhibiting
all the compensating charms with which she sought to atone for her lack
of brains and morals. With a glance of sophisticated comprehension she
took in the disordered room, the perturbed young people, the unfinished
breakfast-tray; then she burst into a gay little laugh.
"Ten thousand pardons!" she cried, backing away from the door in assumed
confusion. "I shouldn't have called so early. I just ran in to bring you
_Town Topics_. The most killing article about you, dear. By-by; I'll see
you later!" And, kissing her hand to Eleanor, she flitted down the hall.
"Shall I go or will you?" Eleanor demanded of Harold.
She was standing in the open door, all the color fled from her face and
her eyes blazing with anger.
"I'll go, of course," said Harold. "Only, you must not mind Estelle.
Everybody knows she's a fool----"
The door was slammed in his face and locked before he finished the
sentence.
For a moment Eleanor stood immovable; then her eye fell on the paper that
Estelle Linton had thrust into her hand, and she saw her stage name on
the title-page.
Pretty little romance back of the production of "Phantom Love" [she
read]. It is rumored that a wealthy young Chicago playwright, having
met with family opposition in winning a young Southern belle, took
advantage of her histrionic ambition, and persuaded her to play a
rôle in his new play, which he wrote especially for her. Those who
saw the opening performance of "Phantom Love" at Atlantic City
Wednesday night will have little trouble in recognizing the heroine
of the story. Miss Nell Martel is one of the daintiest bits of
femininity that have flitted behind the footlights in many moons.
She has youth and beauty and a certain elusive charm. But the fact
remains that she can not act. For the continued success of the really
brilliant play, let us hope that the young lady's lover may soon
become her husband, and that, having won his prize, he will
substitute a professional for the charming young amateur who is in
no way up to the rest of the really excellent cast.
Eleanor crushed the paper in her hand, flung herself across the bed, and
buried her hot face in the pillow. All her life she had walked unafraid
and inviolate, protected by her social position, the over-zealous
solicitude of the family, and her own purity. She had flown out of the
family nest, confident of her power to take care of herself, to breast
any storm. And here, at the beginning of her flight, she found herself in
utter confusion of body and spirit, powerless to protect herself against
such conduct as Harold's, such printed gossip as lay before her, or such
unspeakable insinuations as Estelle Linton's.
When Papa Claude returned, her first impulse was to pour out her troubles
to him; but second thought restrained her. He was too much a part of that
casual, irresponsible world to take anything it did or said seriously.
She called through the door to him that she had gone to bed and was going
to stay there.
But she did not stay there. She got up and knelt by the open window,
looking across the seething mass of humanity on the boardwalk below to
the calm stretches of blue sea beyond. For the first time, she faced her
problem fairly and squarely. Up to now she had been trying to compromise,
to be broad and tolerant and cosmopolitan. But she had to admit that the
new life satisfied her no more than the old had. One was too
circumscribed, the other too free. If it was true that she had no talent
and was simply tolerated in the company because of Harold Phipps, she
must know it at once. To be drawing a salary that she did not earn, and
accepting favors for which a definite reward would be expected, was
utterly intolerable to her.
A wild desire seized her to go back to New York and seek another
engagement. In spite of what that odious article said, she believed that
she could succeed on the stage. Papa Claude believed in her; the Kendall
School people were enthusiastic about her work; they would help her to
make another start.
But did she honestly want to make another start? A conscience that had
overslept itself began to stir and waken. After all, what did the
plaudits of hundreds of unknown people count for, when the approval and
affection of those nearest and dearest was withdrawn? What would any
success count for against the disgust she felt for herself.
A wave of terrific homesickness swept over her. But what was it she
wanted, she asked herself, in place of this gay kaleidoscope of light and
color and ceaseless confusion? Not the stagnation of the Bartlett
household, certainly not the slipshod poverty of the Martels. She
searched her heart for the answer.
And as she knelt there with her head on the window-sill, looking
miserably out to sea, a strange thing happened to her. In a moment of
swift, sure vision she saw Quinby Graham's homely, whimsical face, she
felt his strong arms around her, and into her soul came a deep, still
feeling of unutterable content.
"I am coming, Quin!" she whispered, with a little catch in her voice.
Then it was that Destiny played her second trump for Quin. It was in the
form of a telegram that a bell-boy brought up from the office, and it
announced that Madam Bartlett was not expected to live through the day.
Within twenty-four hours Eleanor was in Kentucky.
"Is she living?" she demanded of Hannah, who answered her ring at her
grandmother's door.
"I don't know, honey," whispered Hannah, ashy with fright. "They's
operatin' now. We thought she was going to die all day yesterday, but she
never give in to be operated on till Mr. Quin come."
"Where are Aunt Isobel and Aunt Enid?"
"They's all in the library. Mr. Ranny's there, too. Ain't nobody upstairs
with her but jest the doctors an' the nurse an' Mr. Quin."
Eleanor crept upstairs and sat down on the top step, outside that door
before which she had halted in dread so many times before. Remorse and
sympathy and acute apprehension struggled for mastery. All the old
antagonism for her grandmother was swept away in the dread prospect of
losing her. It was impossible to think of the family existing without
her. She held it up, kept it together, maintained the proud old Bartlett
tradition.
There was a sound behind the closed doors. Eleanor strained her ears to
listen. It was someone coughing, at first gently, then violently. The
next moment the door opened and a wild-eyed, unshaven figure staggered
into the hall.
"Damn that ether!" some one muttered.
And then, before Eleanor could get to her feet, Quinby Graham came
unsteadily toward her, stumbled twice, then pitched forward on his face,
striking his head on the banister as he fell.