The following year was perhaps the hardest in Mrs. Lennox’s hard-worked
life. And yet how much less wearisome it seemed than the previous
period of enforced idleness. For she continued the rôle of little
Joan’s nurse, and the baby’s delicate health made the post one of
constant danger and difficulty. With the greatest care, the grandmother
could not avoid some relapses, but on the whole the child strengthened
steadily. Mrs. Lennox was justified in feeling that she was having, in
theatrical parlance, “a big success.” Moreover her labour was sweetened
by love, for she grew ridiculously attached to the ugly, dark-eyed baby.
The greatest trouble Mrs. Lennox encountered was not due to Joan, but
to Joan’s mother. Imogen had come back after three months in Florida,
with her health restored, but with no increase in her affection. The
unnatural coldness persisted towards her child, and it seemed, indeed,
to have extended itself towards her mother. Imogen appeared equally
annoyed with Joan for monopolizing Mrs. Lennox and with Mrs. Lennox for
being monopolized by Joan. “I’m sure, Mother, it can’t be necessary to
fuss over that child the whole time,” she grumbled. “Everyone says you
are spoiling her horribly.”
There was some justification for Imogen’s words. It almost seemed as
though little Joan felt and resented the lack of maternal tenderness,
for she certainly showed her least attractive side towards her young
mother. The little thing positively shrieked with anger on the rare
occasions that Imogen took her. It was rather surprising under these
circumstances that Imogen should be so anxious to have her baby at
home again. Mrs. Lennox would not admit it even to herself but she felt
dumbly that her daughter’s desire had a certain tinge of spite.
Up till now the inevitable had been postponed. Each time Joan’s return
home was discussed, some little attack of illness had deferred it.
Another winter came, which Imogen again spent in Florida. When she
returned Joan’s health was firmly established. She was a year and eight
months old, and quite as big and sturdy as most children of her age.
In mental development she was forward, for she had quite a repertoire
of nursery rhymes that she used to repeat, copying her grandmother’s
intonation in a curiously exact manner. When Imogen again announced
that the child must come home, Mrs. Lennox could no longer protest. As
Imogen said, people would think it odd for little Joan never to live
with her parents.
So the doting grandmother prepared herself for the wrench. With this
end in view, she had trained Bridget with great care, and the girl was
now a competent and responsible nurse. Little Joan would be happy with
this adoring attendant, Mrs. Lennox told herself, and she would go and
see Baby every day. Yes, it would be almost the same as before.
The very first day of the new arrangement, when Mrs. Lennox went round
to her daughter’s house, she found Bridget in tears. “It’s warning
she’s given me, Ma’am dear,” the girl sobbed. The baby was asleep and
Mrs. Vandeleur out, so the little nurse felt she could unburden herself
freely.
“Warning? Do you mean that Mrs. Vandeleur has given you notice to
quit?” Mrs. Lennox gasped in dismay.
“Sure, an’ it’s myself was dumbfounded. ‘What call have you to go
putting me forth?’ I say out to her. ‘If it’s an older nurse you’re
seeking, just take patience for a while and it’s I that will be giving
you satisfaction.’ But Mrs. Vandeleur she does not hearken, and my
words come beating back from the shut door. And well I knew, Ma’am
dear, that your heart would be broken on you, and myself in dread of
leaving the child in this sad, great house with no soul to give her a
little word.” The poor girl hid her face in her apron and rocked to and
fro.
Mrs. Lennox felt as though she would like to do the same. Indeed her
eyes were full of tears. What a hateful thing it was to be merely a
grandmother--a grandmother with no rights. But, at any rate, if they
made her little Joan ill again, she would take her away, whatever
anyone said. Joan was her baby, _hers_, she thought rebelliously, not
Imogen’s, nor John Vandeleur’s. What had they ever done for her? She
had saved the child’s life; Dr. Fletcher himself admitted it. She had
won her baby by this year of work and devotion.
As far as the little one’s health was concerned, Mrs. Lennox’s fears
were fortunately groundless. Nurse Cooper, who replaced the sorrowing
Bridget, had retained her brains despite her mechanical training, and
although she was starched, she was also sensible. It was really rather
a triumph that Joan kept well, for the baby fretted desperately after
her grandmother and Bridget. “I’ve never seen a child of that age care
so much,” Nurse Cooper said in surprise. She related that at night she
would hear the little girl sobbing to herself for an hour at a time,
“M’ant my Gwanny, m’ant my Gwanny.” The baby’s joy whenever Mrs. Lennox
appeared, her woe at Granny’s departure, were very touching. But Nurse
Cooper found them irritating, and Mrs. Lennox could not help feeling
that the nurse’s attitude was justified. Apart from all question of
jealousy, such scenes must be bad for the child. “I must keep away,”
Mrs. Lennox resolved miserably.
The apartment in the Dorset had seemed lonely and dreary that year
before Joan came. Now it seemed even lonelier and drearier. Constantly
Mrs. Lennox fancied that she heard the patter of little feet beginning
in the hall, and then realized that there were no little feet to
patter. In the evening she found herself tiptoeing into her own
bedroom--when noise no longer mattered. Once or twice at night, hearing
some slight sound, she sleepily switched on the light and glanced down
at the cot beside her--the cot that was no longer there.
Life became so unbearable that Mrs. Lennox had serious thoughts of
seeing Mr. Hobson and begging him to let her go back on the stage. Of
course she could not expect him again to offer to star her; indeed, he
had been so angry at her not playing in the ‘Haunted Homestead,’ that
she wondered if he would give her any part, however small. And how was
she to manage on the salary that had formerly sufficed, she who had now
grown accustomed to an income ten times as large? But far more than the
money question, there weighed with her the fact that the stage meant
an irrevocable separation from Joan. Nurse Cooper seemed sufficiently
satisfactory, but then Nurse Cooper was not a fixture. Suppose Joan,
at any time, had another nurse who let her get ill, who positively
illtreated her! Imogen would never know; she might not even care. No,
she could not desert her little darling, the grandmother decided.
When Imogen asked her to go with her to Europe, it came as an escape.
Mrs. Lennox had again the glad feeling of being needed, for Imogen
hated travelling alone, and John Vandeleur could not leave his work.
Perhaps when she and her daughter were alone together, this new, hard
coldness would drop from Imogen; there might even be a return of the
clinging affection that she had shown before the baby’s birth. As for
little Joan, as Mrs. Lennox could not see her, she might as well be in
Europe, she felt. For, as she grudgingly admitted, Nurse Cooper did
seem successful over her darling’s health. Often in the evenings, if
she were at her daughter’s house, Mrs. Lennox would creep up to the
night nursery, and watch the sleeping child. Even her critical eye had
never detected anything amiss. Imogen talked spaciously of England,
France, Switzerland, perhaps the Italian lakes. They were to go to
Paris and the Paris theatres, for apparently abroad the ban would be
raised. All her life long Mrs. Lennox had wanted to see the great
French actresses, the Théâtre Français. It shone as a fairyland of
enchantment before her gaze.
They were away five months. It was, of course, very interesting, but
the total feeling that remained was one of disappointment. After
the first novelty had worn off, Mrs. Lennox got very tired of the
daily round of sightseeing, and of perpetual motion without the
joy of performing. Even the Paris theatres had not been sufficient
compensation. The acting itself had come up to all that Mrs. Lennox
had expected; it was a liberal education, she felt with a glow of
enthusiasm. But an education for what? It was little use her learning
how to improve her acting, if she were never to act. Neither had the
old intimacy with her daughter returned. Imogen evidently liked to have
her mother, and was affectionate, but in a distant, cold way. How Mrs.
Lennox longed for little Joan’s soft, rapturous hugs--almost as much as
she longed for a season of hard, theatrical work.
On their return to New York, Mrs. Lennox found that the difficulty with
regard to her granddaughter had largely solved itself. Little Joan
certainly recognized “Gwanny,” and gave one of her rare, illuminating
smiles. But naturally the old devotion no longer existed. The baby
shyly turned to Nurse Cooper, of whom she seemed to be fond, and who
had certainly taken good care of her charge. Indeed the long summer
at the Vandeleur’s “log” mansion in the Adirondacks had developed the
child surprisingly.
When Joan was three and a half years old, Nurse Cooper left. She did
not care for children as they got older, she said. What she really
liked was “an infant from the month.” This attachment to an age rather
than to a child seemed a curious point of view to Mrs. Lennox. Like the
rest of the household, however, she regretted the nurse’s departure,
although Joan herself bore it with more equanimity than they had
expected. They regretted it still more as time passed and brought no
satisfactory successor. During the next eighteen months five nurses
and two children’s maids passed rapidly across the Vandeleur’s nursery
stage. There was constant trouble about Joan’s appearance, for Mrs.
Vandeleur was exacting, although no amount of dressing would make
the dark, heavy-looking child anything but plain. And if the nurses
toiled to satisfy the mother, then Joan was obstreperous. “I don’t feel
like that sort of frock,” she stormed one day, and tore the dainty,
embroidered Paris dress from neck to hem.
For little Joan was not an easy child to manage. Her bursts of passion,
her clumsiness, her sullen revolt at society manners made her the
despair of nurses. One or two tried indulgence, and the child only
became more and more unbearable; one or two tried severity and Joan
promptly fell ill. At this point Mr. Vandeleur always stepped in with
the simple expedient of dismissal. Meanwhile Mrs. Lennox stood aside.
She felt that her presence would only make the difficult situation more
difficult.
About this time Imogen began to entertain on a larger scale, and
more continuously, than she had ever done before. Indeed, her whole
character seemed to have changed since the first year of her marriage,
or perhaps it had only developed. As her husband played increasingly
less part in her life, it was not surprising that society played
increasingly more. “Nature abhors a vacuum”--how else was she to fill
her time? She had no work and she had never cared for her child.
Ambition may be a vice or a virtue, but Imogen certainly possessed
it in considerable measure. Once embarked on a social career, she
determined to excel in it. In order to do this, she found a train of
admirers was considered indispensable, and so she deliberately set to
work to acquire this necessary appendage. Nor was it altogether easy,
for Imogen, despite her loveliness, was not particularly attractive to
young men. Although she had always liked admiration, she had honestly
never taken the faintest interest in the admirer, and her attitude was,
no doubt, felt and resented by her male acquaintances. Coldness and
lack of sympathy are defects that the egotism of youth finds hard to
forgive. Naturally John Vandeleur had not been included in the category
of those repelled by Imogen’s cool indifference; rather it had been
her little air of reserved dignity that had first overcome him. Now
all this was changed, for Imogen adopted an attitude of languishing
sweetness, which, if at first assumed, soon became a second nature.
Coupled with her beauty and her wealth, it attained the object she
desired, and one or more gilded youths were now in constant attendance.
The indiscretion that marked her intercourse with them was amazing,
but, probably, her lack of natural charm drove her to greater lengths
than a less reserved woman with the same ambition would ever have
allowed herself. Incidentally the transformation destroyed the last
vestige of respect that John Vandeleur had retained for his young wife.
It was when Joan was five and a half that Mrs. Vandeleur decided on
having a great New Year’s Eve fête. Her husband was unenthusiastic; he
did not like entertaining the “rabble,” he said. But it was only when
his wife broached the idea of turning the whole house into a miniature
_petit Trianon_ that he absolutely put down his foot. Imogen must be
satisfied with an ordinary reception; he would not have any of these
freak shows. When the morning of the great day arrived Mrs. Lennox
went round to see her daughter and proffer her assistance, which she
knew would be rather condescendingly refused. A swarm of men were
already in possession, putting up awnings, carrying palms, moving
pianos, and so with some difficulty Mrs. Lennox made her way upstairs
to the boudoir. There she found the usually calm Imogen pacing up and
down in a state bordering on distraction.
What could have happened? Mrs. Lennox speculated. Had the chef eloped
with the housekeeper? Had the world-famous violinist engaged for the
evening suddenly refused to play? Had John vetoed the whole soirée? “My
dear, what is the matter?” she gasped.
“It’s that miserable child.” Imogen’s tone was furious. “She has never
been anything but a nuisance. Now, she’s taken this opportunity to
develop measles. And John refuses to allow her to be sent to a nursing
home or a hospital. I must use the nursery wing to-night, and even if
I didn’t, people are so absurdly afraid of infection. If anyone gets
measles a year hence they will say it’s my fault. Besides if Joan
stays here, I might catch it myself. John has no consideration for me
whatever.”
“My dear child, you’ve had measles; you are very unlikely to catch it
again,” her mother interposed. “But how is Joan? Is she real sick?
What’s her temperature? Can I see her? Is she too ill to be moved?”
“Of course not.” Imogen was replying to the last of her mother’s
string of excited questions. “The doctors call it a very mild case.
It’s just John’s pig-headed obstinacy that he won’t let her go. I’ve
told him again and again that the child would be better cared for in
an institution, but he only repeats that no Vandeleur has ever been in
one. What’s the advantage of Joan being here? Of course I can’t risk
the infection, and John’s never at home, and she hates her new maid.
Oh, do go down, Mother, and see if you can persuade John to let her go
to a nursing home. He is in the library.”
“Do you think he would let Joan come to me?”
Imogen’s face cleared magically. “Oh, yes, yes, that’s the very thing.
How stupid of me not to think of it. John can’t find anything to object
to in that. Let us come and talk to him at once.” She led the way
downstairs.
This time before taking the child, Mrs. Lennox laid down her
conditions. She was not going to have either her affection or Joan’s
so cruelly uprooted a second time. Now the child was five years old,
a solution was not so difficult. “If Joan comes to me now, some
arrangement must be made for my seeing her after she returns home.
It nearly broke my heart giving her up before.” Mrs. Lennox’s voice
trembled.
John Vandeleur looked up quickly. He realized that this was something
that with all his money he could not buy for the child. “But, surely,
Mrs. Lennox,” he urged, “this house is always open to you? You could
see Joan here?”
“No, it is too difficult. Nurses and governesses resent it. They think
me an old nuisance. The only scheme would be for Joan to be brought to
my apartment. Could you spare her for one day every week?”
John Vandeleur rarely saw a case from anyone’s point of view but his
own. Once he did so, even his enemies allowed him a sense of justice.
He agreed without demur to his mother-in-law’s demand. As for his
wife, there was little to which she would not have consented to escape
from the predicament. “Of course--well, that’s settled,” was all
Imogen said, as, with a sigh of relief, she ordered the automobile to
be brought round at once. “Though I suppose it will all have to be
disinfected,” she grumbled. “Joan is really too troublesome.”
Probably the child had never been so happy as in the month that
followed. As her mother had said, Joan had the disease very lightly,
although she was rigorously kept in Mrs. Lennox’s apartment in order
to placate the outraged officials at the Dorset. The child’s old
devotion to her grandmother must have merely lain dormant, for in a
day or two it showed itself again; intensified, indeed, by her present
five-year-old knowledge of absence and change. Even Bridget was there
to complete the happy circle, for on her return from Europe, it had
suddenly occurred to Mrs. Lennox to take the girl into her own service
and thus blessedly replace the mechanical Palmer.
But in addition to the old happiness that the little granddaughter had
brought to Mrs. Lennox, there was now a new happiness. For, ridiculous
as it sounded, she found the child was now not only a pet but a
companion, an intellectual stimulus. It had begun one day when she had
heard Joan murmuring to herself, and by catching a word here and there,
realized that a pretended scene was taking place between a mother and
a naughty child. Presently it became so dramatic that Mrs. Lennox grew
quite interested. “Shall I take a part?” she asked. “I mean I’ll be one
of them; I’ll be the little girl and you are my mother.”
Joan had turned rather red. Much rebuke from nurses for “muttering”
and “silly nonsense” had made her shy. “Can you play games like that,
Granny?” she asked doubtfully. “Anyway, you can try,” she conceded.
Mrs. Lennox gave unexpected satisfaction. Several times the child broke
into a laugh of pleasure. “You do it very well, Granny,” she told her
graciously. Only once was the grandmother pulled up. “Aren’t you crying
like a baby, not like a person of five?” Joan admonished. That evening
when the little girl was in bed, her grandmother saw the great dark
eyes resting upon her. “You’re very int’rusting, you know, Granny,”
Joan murmured with a sigh of content.
If Joan was pleased with her grandmother’s dramatic power, Mrs. Lennox
was more than pleased, she was startled by that of Joan. Partly to
test the child, she began to say little pieces of poetry to her. Joan
picked them up at once, but instead of the usual childish sing-song
delivery, she first copied her grandmother’s enunciation and then
improved upon it. Surely this was quite unusual, Mrs. Lennox told
herself with growing excitement. She cudgelled her brains to remember
her own powers as a child. Occasionally there had been a little
performer in the theatrical companies, though never one as young as
Joan. She was sure that these children had been more trouble to teach,
that they had never shown this amazing initiative. But what would her
son-in-law say, Mrs. Lennox felt uneasily. The poetry was discontinued,
to Joan’s annoyance. “Never mind, I’ll soon learn to read it for
myself,” she said defiantly.
Even the sad return home, mitigated only by the Wednesday visit to
her grandmother, did not make little Joan forget her resolution. Mr.
Vandeleur had hardly realized his daughter was back, when he was
stopped in the hall one morning by a determined-looking small girl. “I
must have a governess, please, and to learn to read.”
“Eh, what, aren’t you very young?”
“No, I’m more than five. Five isn’t young, it’s old.”
John Vandeleur gave an unusual laugh. “Old is it? Well, what do you
want to learn to read for?” he added jocularly.
His daughter looked at him with contempt. “I want to learn to read so
as to be able to read. You read books. There are a lot of int’rusting
things in books.”
The application was successful, for a governess was found in the
shape of a Miss Leveridge, a mild and inefficient lady. At first
she was enthusiastic about her pupil’s progress, for Joan certainly
learnt to read with astonishing rapidity. But there she stuck. Miss
Leveridge hopefully produced a copybook; Joan found it difficult, and
after one or two attempts, entirely refused any further efforts. The
multiplication table met with no greater success; indeed, the mere
mention of twice two brought a sullen look to her little face. “It’s
all silly, and doesn’t mean anything. How can you say it?” she demanded.
Miss Leveridge cajoled and threatened, but all to no purpose. Months
passed--a summer was again spent in the Adirondacks, and Joan’s sixth
birthday came and went, but her learning remained stationary. When they
were once more settled in Fifth Avenue, Miss Leveridge decided that
she must take more drastic measures. “If you won’t even try to do your
lessons, Joan, I shall have to punish you,” she said. “Unless you learn
your twice times table by next Wednesday, I shall not let you go and
see your Grandmamma.”
The child looked up startled. “You can’t stop that. It’s settled.”
“Oh yes, I can. I shall not take you there. And I shall tell Christine
that she is not to take you either. You know you could not go alone.”
Joan did not argue further. Neither was there any improvement in
the lessons. On Tuesday the decree was made final. Still Joan made
no comment. “Perhaps after all she does not care very much,” Miss
Leveridge reflected. “It is not as though she had any little companions
there.”
It was in the half hour between the lessons and the daily walk on the
following morning that Joan disappeared. Miss Leveridge had sent her in
to Christine to be dressed and taken out. Christine, who was washing
one of the child’s embroidered frocks in another room, thought that she
was still safe with Miss Leveridge. At last, as no summons came, the
maid went to fetch her. There were exclamations and explanations. An
investigation in the night nursery showed that the child’s coat and hat
were gone. The things had evidently been pulled out in desperate haste;
one glove was still lying on the floor. Still she might not have
ventured out into the street. The nurseries were searched and then the
whole house. Finally Miss Leveridge penetrated into the boudoir. Mrs.
Vandeleur was lying on the brocaded empire couch, wearing an exquisite
“rest gown.” “Oh, excuse me, have you seen Joan?” Miss Leveridge
faltered. The poor lady was almost weeping in her agitation. “As you
permitted me to punish her in that way, I told her that she could not
go to her grandmamma’s to-day, but I am afraid she must have set off
there unaccompanied.”
“Really she is a most troublesome child. I do not know what Mr.
Vandeleur will say.” The mother was clearly more vexed than alarmed.
“Go down and telephone to Mrs. Lennox. I suppose, by the way, you had
told her that Joan was not to go there to-day. Say that I wish the
child sent back at once.”
A minute later Miss Leveridge returned more perturbed than ever. “The
janitor at the Dorset says that Mrs. Lennox has gone out for the day
and the maid is out too. He has seen nothing of Joan.”
“Oh, but she must be there or on her way. Take a cab, Miss Leveridge,
and go down yourself. It is really most tiresome. I must go out to
lunch, and how can I if the child isn’t found? It seems to be one
continual annoyance with her.”
Not only Miss Leveridge, but several of the servants started off in
different directions to find the little truant. The neighbouring
streets and the near part of Central Park were searched in vain. The
Dorset was not much more than five minutes’ drive. When Miss Leveridge
reached it, she found that, as the janitor had said, Mrs. Lennox’s
apartment was locked up and deserted. Both Mrs. Lennox and the maid
had gone out before ten, the man informed her. Why, Joan’s lessons had
not ended until half past! Might the child have made a mistake and
gone into another apartment, Miss Leveridge despairingly suggested.
The janitor admitted not having been at his post during the last half
hour or so, but scoffed at the possibility of Miss Vandeleur having
made a mistake. She was a real bright little thing, he said, and knew
her grandma’s door right here on the ground floor as well as he did
himself. When she was brought, didn’t she always run on ahead and push
the bell-button herself? Still, if Miss Leveridge thought Mr. Vandeleur
would be better satisfied--. An exhaustive and exhausting search was
made in every apartment of the Dorset.
When this failed, a message was sent to Mr. Vandeleur. Suddenly the
matter was lifted into an affair of state. Instead of a few alarmed
domestics wandering about aimlessly, the greater part of the New
York detective force was put on to the job. Every constable in the
neighbourhood was informed. The chief of police, after a strenuous
five-minute visit from Mr. Vandeleur, motored up with him to Fifth
Avenue. Imogen, dressed to go out to her lunch, was sitting in fuming
indecision in the drawing-room, when suddenly she was electrified by
the sight of her husband. It was the first time in their married life
that he had ever come home in the morning. “Who was the last person to
see Joan?” he asked in a tone of cold fury.
By four o’clock that afternoon posters were out giving a description
of the child and offering five thousand dollars for her immediate
recovery. In the evening papers the reward had gone up to ten thousand.
The Fifth Avenue house teemed with strangers. A constant succession
of queer looking individuals flowed into the library, ushered in on
protest by apologetic footmen. There Mr. Vandeleur sat, calm and
alert, a large map of New York before him. He collected and weighed
evidence in a manner that extracted admiration even from the attendant
detectives. For the time being Joan had replaced the mining industry.
All Mr. Vandeleur’s business genius, his knowledge of the world, his
power of organization, were turned on to his new job. As yet they had
been unavailing. One clue after another broke down ludicrously. The
child seemed to have disappeared in New York like a pebble thrown into
a pool. The rippling circles of commotion grew ever wider but the stone
was lost to sight.
Meanwhile, what had happened to little Joan? As everyone rightly
guessed, she had taken advantage of the brief lack of supervision
to escape and set off for her grandmother’s. She knew the way quite
well, and even her little legs could do the distance in about twenty
minutes. One or two people glanced at her as she passed, thinking such
a well-dressed child was young to be out alone, but Joan was tall for
her six years, and the quiet determination of her walk kept anyone
from interfering with her. When she reached the Dorset, her friend
the janitor was not visible. Rather relieved, she ran straight to her
grandmother’s door and pushed the knob.
No one came. Rather surprised, she rang again. She could hear the bell
tinkling inside, long and loudly, but still the door did not open. She
tried again, with the same result. Granny and Bridget could not be
there. A feeling of sick dismay came over her. Always on Wednesdays a
welcoming Granny flung open the door; the possibility of her being out
had not occurred to the child. Oh dear, what should she do? She felt
sure that she would soon be missed at home. Miss Leveridge or Christine
might at any moment appear. They would take her back. Perhaps, as
punishment, they would not let her come to Granny next Wednesday
either, or any Wednesday! Whatever happened she must see Granny first.
Granny had promised that she should come every week, unless, of course,
she were ill. If Granny were there it would be all right. Granny had
promised.
The child rang again frantically and then stopped short, frightened
at the noise she was making. Miss Leveridge might hear it; she might
at this moment be coming down the street. If only she could hide
somewhere for a little time, until Granny came home. Suddenly the
child remembered that a few weeks ago Granny had taken her up to a
dusty little room at the very top of the Dorset. It was her store room,
Granny had said. They had got some scarves and great big jewels out of
one of the trunks and they had both dressed up and had had a lovely
game. Why should she not hide there, behind the boxes? She started
for the elevator and then paused. The elevator boy was very nice, but
he would probably ask inconvenient questions. No, she would go by
the stairs, she decided. Once, when she was staying with Granny, the
elevator had been out of order, and people had had to use the stairs.
Granny had told her that you could go right up to the top that way. The
fat little legs twinkled up the first few steps.
Her pace soon slackened. The flights seemed to go on and on
interminably. Every now and then the child sat down to rest, but she
was afraid to linger too long. Several times, as she wearily mounted,
the elevator shot up or down. Once she nearly plunged into a party of
people who were waiting to be engulfed by it on a landing. After that
Joan peered out cautiously each time before emerging from the shelter
of the actual stairway. This was quite deserted. Few people walk for
choice up eighteen stories of a New York skyscraper. So the little girl
toiled on unobserved.
By the time she got to the top her legs were aching horribly, and she
had a queer little pain when she breathed. The nearness of security
brought back her strength. She trotted along, turning down a corridor
at right angles. Yes, this was the way, and there was the little door.
The little door--but there were lots and lots of little doors all
shut and all alike! How could she ever tell which one was Granny’s?
She thought it must be the nearest one, so summoning her courage, she
turned the first handle. The door would not open. She tried another and
another with the same result.
Suddenly it occurred to her, that when they came that other time,
Granny had had a key. Yes, Granny had unlocked the door before they
went in and had locked it again when they left. And now she had no
key. Even from Granny’s storeroom she was shut out. At any moment Miss
Leveridge might come up and find her. She wanted to cry dreadfully, but
she bit her lips to keep it in. One didn’t cry like a baby when one was
six. But surely she heard footsteps in the distance. They seemed to be
coming nearer. Oh, oh, what should she do?
The child looked about wildly. An expression was in her eyes like that
of some little hunted animal. Then she noticed that one of the long
line of doors stood a crack open. Doubtless some careless tenant had
forgotten to lock it. She ran towards it softly and slipped in, closing
the door behind her. At last safety was reached.
It was none too soon. The footsteps turned the corner and passed
along down the corridor. Even with the shut door between, Joan’s
heart beat fast. From being afraid to meet someone who would take her
home, she had become afraid of meeting anyone. The fugitive’s nervous
demoralization had gripped her. Only her Granny seemed a refuge in a
world of foes. Some minutes passed before she grew composed enough to
look round her hiding place. She had hoped, with a child’s faith, that
it might, after all, be Granny’s room, but now she saw that it wasn’t.
There were fewer trunks and more furniture. A number of children’s
things gave it rather a home-like air--a folded up cot, a baby’s
carriage, a discarded doll’s house. There was a pile of big books
which Joan timidly approached. Why, they were children’s books, with
pictures. This was a find indeed!
An hour or more passed and then the treasures began to pall. It must
be past dinner-time, Joan felt; she was hungry. Besides she was cold.
There was no steam heat in the storerooms, and although she had on her
coat and hat, the autumn air was keen. Cautiously she opened the door
and crept out, but one glance down the staircase sent her scurrying
back. It was echoing with footsteps, and the elevator seemed to be
shooting up and down continuously. Had she guessed that this energy
betokened the search for her own small person, she would have been even
more alarmed.
The afternoon was very long. Joan made one or two vain attempts at
descent. The last time she was so nearly caught, that she determined
not to risk it again. She would wait until it got quite dark and late.
Then, when everyone would be shut in their homes, having that curious
grown-up meal of late dinner, she could get safely down to Granny.
A fresh tour of discovery round the little room revealed the cot
mattress rolled in a dust sheet. Joan wondered if the owner would mind
its being unrolled and spread out. The floor had grown so very hard,
and a high chair, that she had found, was rather cramping for a person
of six. With immense effort, her wish was put into action. This was
much more comfortable, Joan thought, as she seated herself upon the
mattress. Then her head sank. In a few minutes she was sound asleep.
It was quite dark when Joan’s eyes again opened. She was shivering with
cold. Why, all the bedclothes must have tumbled off! She groped out,
and to her surprise, touched the floor. What had happened to her bed?
“Christine, Christine,” she cried.
There was no answer. Christine must have gone away. A wild panic seized
the little girl, the overpowering panic of childhood. And there were no
bedclothes to pull over her face--nothing but this horrible enveloping
blackness! Suddenly she remembered where she was. This was a storeroom
in Granny’s house. She had only to walk downstairs and she would find
Granny.
Remembrance had made her fears recede, but the thought of standing up
in the dark and searching for the door, brought them surging back. She
set her teeth. Unless she got up at once, she would never be able to do
it. She stumbled forward and felt along the wall, panting with terror.
Suppose something were standing behind her, something that would
suddenly clutch round her neck. The child’s face was ashen when at last
she opened the door.
The corridor was much more bearable. A light was shining from the top
of the stairs. Joan ran towards it and found the whole descent quite
pleasantly illuminated. Once or twice the lift passed her, bearing home
late theatregoers, but she avoided it as she had done before. It wasn’t
so tiring going down as coming up, but still it made the calves of her
legs ache. She began to think that she would never reach the bottom,
when, at last, she found herself on the ground floor. Again she rang at
Granny’s door.
It opened at once--magically. She was caught up in Granny’s arms.
Granny was kissing her, crooning over her. “I am sorry I am late,
Granny, but it is Wednesday,” Joan began sedately, with a tinge of
reproach. She did not know that her poor grandmother had been apprised
of the disciplinary absence and so had sought comfort in an excursion
with Bridget. Then suddenly she broke down. The two little hands
clasped themselves at the back of Granny’s neck as though they would
never loosen again. Her face was buried on Granny’s shoulder. “Oh keep
me, Granny; Granny hold me. Don’t let them take me away.” The sobs grew
hysterical.
The child was calmed when she found herself quickly undressed and put
in Granny’s own bed. Obviously now no one could take her away. Mrs.
Lennox had wrapped her in the blankets, and then, after agitatedly
telephoning to John Vandeleur, set about filling hot water bottles to
thaw the chilled little body, while Bridget hurried about, mingling
her joyful tears with the milk she was warming. “Oh, golden God!” the
Irish girl was exclaiming. “I’ll be burning candles from this out to
the saints of glory.” The new, unknown phrases pierced little Joan’s
exhaustion; her grandmother saw the childish lips repeating them. Then
the little one turned her attention to the steaming bread and milk. How
good it tasted! Almost before she had finished it, Joan was asleep.
Meanwhile the news of the truant’s return was being spread, not only
over New York, but over the great United States. Along dozens of
telephone and telegraph wires the message was carried. The tension
at various police stations relaxed suddenly. Detectives yawned and
sauntered off in search of homeward bound cars. Advertisement managers
swore as the huge notices for the morning papers were cancelled. The
special bill-posting brigade was dismissed, jubilant with a full
night’s wages. In the Fifth Avenue house, tired servants drew curtains
and made all fast for the night. Mr. Vandeleur folded up the map of New
York; then he went up to his wife’s room. She was already in bed, her
lovely disordered hair framing her face, soft and flushed with sleep.
“What is it?” she asked drowsily.
“Joan is found,” was the laconic answer. Then Mr. Vandeleur, too, went
to his room to bed.