Although little Joan had played at acting nearly all her short life, it
was not until she was six and a half that she became conscious of such
a thing as the theatre. For this initiation her grandmother was totally
irresponsible; it came through a certain new, and very smart friend
of Imogen’s, Mrs. Morse by name. Mrs. Morse was rather celebrated for
the _chic_ and original nature of her entertainments, and her annual
children’s party this year took the form of a special matinée of “Peter
Pan.” The whole house was reserved, the best seats being sent by Mrs.
Morse to her friends, while tickets for the upper galleries were
distributed among several charitable institutions, the children from
which could be guaranteed as absolutely clean and non-infectious. “Do
come, my sweet Imogen,” Mrs. Morse wrote on her characteristic Wedgwood
note-paper, “and bring your dear, talented little girl.”
Mr. Vandeleur was away on his annual copper pilgrimage in Nevada. Had
he been at home, he would never have sanctioned the project. Imogen
knew this very well, although she did not consciously admit it. John
had never put any restriction upon her going to the theatre; it was
she, herself, who did not care for it, prejudiced as she was by the
consciousness of her mother’s sordid dramatic past. As for Joan, she
had naturally been too young up till now for the question of playgoing
possibilities to have arisen. Why, she would be only too glad to leave
the child at home, Imogen thought pettishly, if she could decently
go without her. Joan was sure to look extremely plain and behave
odiously. But at a children’s entertainment, one must have the excuse
of a child. And go herself, she must and would. It would certainly
be an event of the social season, with long accounts in every paper,
and Imogen derived a distinct glow of pleasure from the increasingly
numerous press references to “the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur.” Even when
she was merely “the well-known” or “the exquisitely gowned” it was not
unsatisfying. Not long ago, after one of her big afternoon receptions,
there had been over half a column of description in a leading New York
daily, and a reproduction of the celebrated portrait of herself holding
little Joan as a baby, the whole with a three quarter inch headline,
“The Madonna of Fifth Avenue.” John Vandeleur had fumed and threatened
a libel action until checked by the irrepressible laughter of his
mother-in-law. “In our position I suppose we have to submit to this
kind of thing,” Imogen had said with a sweetly patient sigh, and had
scribbled off cheques to two more press-clipping agencies.
Well, she would be an equal success at this Peter Pan affair, Mrs.
Vandeleur now resolved. What should she wear? It ought to be something
very simple and girlish, to be in keeping with the entertainment.
White muslin, perhaps? Yes, that was a good idea. She would have a
dress made exactly like Joan’s, ribbons and all, and a big Leghorn hat
with tiny rosebuds. Imogen knew that she did not look her twenty-five
years, and with the faintest touch of rouge and her hair done low and
tied, she could easily be taken for seventeen. Comment on her amazing
youthfulness would certainly be provoked. She excitedly rang up Vesta,
the great man modiste who “created” her gowns.
When, during her next weekly visit, little Joan announced to her
grandmother that she was going to the theatre on the following day,
Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. “What is a theatre, Granny?”
the child enquired.
“People dress up and pretend a story just like you do, only, of
course, they do it better,” Mrs. Lennox began. Then she stopped,
startled by the light in the child’s face. “I see,” Joan replied
gravely. She said nothing more until she was leaving. “I am very glad
indeed, Granny, that I am going to a theatre.”
Probably it was due to her content that Joan allowed the hated
dressing-up process to take place the next day without any fuss. When,
at last, she was finished, to the last curl and bow, the maid breathed
a sigh of relief. Never could she have believed it would have gone so
smoothly. “Look, Miss Joan, what a pretty little girl you are,” she
said, holding up a mirror.
Joan looked gravely at the dark, little face with tight,
much-belaboured curls and befrilled white frock. The pale blue ribbons
emphasised the swarthiness of her face. “I do not look pretty at all. I
look silly,” she observed. “But it doesn’t matter. Is my mother nearly
ready, do you think?”
Imogen was not ready. Indeed putting on her simple frock took so long
that they barely reached the theatre in time. In Imogen’s case the
result was certainly a success. The blue of the ribbons brought out
the blue of her eyes; her roseleaf complexion shone with an almost
infantile clearness. It was impossible to think of her as the mother
of the plain child by her side. There was quite a sensation as they
came in, a sensation that was rudely cut short by the lowering of the
lights. Just as they took their places the curtain went up.
There was a gasp from Joan. Then the child sat silent and motionless.
Her face had turned quite white, but as the moments passed, the pallor
was replaced by a hot flush of excitement. The big, dark eyes were
shining like stars. As Imogen glanced down at her in the dim light,
she felt, with surprise, that the child was looking quite attractive.
Mrs. Morse, who had flittingly seated herself on an empty seat at the
other side of Joan, apparently shared the opinion, for she looked at
her little guest with interest. “How entranced she is, the sweet little
thing. Is it her first theatre?” she whispered to Imogen over the
child’s head.
Mrs. Vandeleur nodded. Really it was rather pleasant to have a nice
little daughter to take about, she thought with a sudden, faint
stirring of maternal pride. Then she caressed Joan’s cheek. “Are you
enjoying yourself, darling?”
“Don’t touch me. Be quiet.” Joan rudely thrust aside her mother’s hand.
She might have been brushing aside a worrying fly. The only excuse
was the child’s evident absorption in the play. Probably she was even
unconscious of her action.
Imogen flushed angrily. Had they been at home, she would have boxed
the child’s ears. What had she done to be afflicted with such a little
savage? “I’ll never bring you out again, never,” she muttered.
She did not try the experiment of again addressing her daughter, and
during the rest of the performance Joan sat silent and entranced.
Between the acts tea was served, and a number of people came up and
spoke to Imogen, but the child appeared lost in a dream. At the end,
with some misgiving, Imogen took her daughter to say good-bye. “Thank
Mrs. Morse for inviting you,” she said with an accent of suppressed
fury.
Joan appeared indifferent to her mother’s anger, but she stared at the
hostess with great, round eyes. “Are you the lady that asked me to come
here to-day?”
“Yes, darling.” What a quaint child she was! “Did you like it?”
“It was the most astonishing thing I have ever seen. I thank you very
much. I shall not ever forget it.” Suddenly the colour flamed into the
child’s face and she burst into loud, rapid speech. “I should like to
come again. I should like to come every day. I should like to be one of
those acting children. I could be Wendy because she does not know how
to do it right. I could do it more right. Peter Pan was nearly quite
right and so was the Pirate. The dog wasn’t right, but that was because
he was really a man. I don’t think a person could act a dog. Couldn’t
they have a real dog and teach him?”
“We must come home now,” Imogen interrupted. She was almost frightened.
The child’s eyes were blazing, and she stood there delivering her
harangue as though she were possessed. A whole circle had gathered
round to listen, some smiling and some evidently startled. What would
John say, Imogen felt guiltily, if he heard that his child had not only
been at a theatrical performance but had almost made herself part of
it. “Come, Joan, the carriage is waiting.” She hurried the child away.
John Vandeleur did hear of it. Indeed the incident figured largely in
the papers. Although little Joan was plain, she was a striking child,
and, in any case, the daughter of the great millionaire was not likely
to be overlooked. One of the press-men had heard the funny little
speech, and had taken it down on his cuff. “John Vandeleur’s Baby as
Dramatic Critic” flared across the page. It was quite a scoop. Three
days later a wire arrived for Imogen from Nevada. “Cannot understand
Joan being at theatre. I forbid her entering any building whatever
except her own house until my return.” Before he arrived, a couple of
weeks later, Mr. Vandeleur’s anger had fortunately time to cool. Still
he postponed giving his wife the diamond pendant he had brought for
her, until he had a definite promise that Joan should never again be
taken to any public performance.
The prohibition came too late. The child’s dormant talent was fired.
The unconscious drama that she had always carried on, became conscious.
She remembered whole speeches out of Peter Pan, and she made up the
rest. One day Imogen happened to come towards the nursery not at her
usual hour. Who could be talking in there? The voices were strange.
When she came in, she saw to her surprise only her daughter and Miss
Leveridge. “Joan was acting Peter Pan,” the governess explained
nervously. “Ever since she went, she does it all day long! I thought
you would not mind, it keeps her so good and happy. She really does it
quite remarkably,” the little lady added in a lower voice.
Imogen was faintly interested. She had resented her husband’s attitude
about the child having seen the play. John was quite unbearably
old-fashioned, she often felt. So a slight feeling of spite added
warmth to her permission that Joan might act as much as ever she
liked. “But I advise you not to do it when your father’s there,” she
counselled lightly. Then she turned to the really important question
that had brought her. This was the writing out of some dinner menus.
“They’ve made a mistake about the printing. People are so maddening.
And your writing is the neatest,” she explained to Miss Leveridge.
Joan was puzzling over her mother’s warning. She never acted when
anyone was in the room, except Miss Leveridge, who was an unfortunate
necessity. And Granny, of course, but Granny was different; she acted
too. But, in any case, it was not likely she would want to act when
Father was there, because she so very seldom saw him. Of course he gave
her beautiful presents; they came every birthday and Christmas with a
card tied to them from which Miss Leveridge read, “With best wishes
from your affectionate father.” The worst of it was they were nearly
always things that she didn’t want. This last Christmas there had been
a huge elephant that bellowed and moved its trunk and tail in the most
lifelike manner, when suitable strings were pulled--as though people
played with elephants when they were six and a half. She had been quite
relieved that Father was away at Christmas, and after his return, she
had not seen him for a particularly long time, so he had forgotten to
ask her if she liked the present. But how funny it was for Mother to
let her act, and say she must not do it when Father was there. Lots of
things were hard to understand.
Although, of course, little Joan was unaware of it, the passing years
had steadily deepened the estrangement between Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur.
Not that there was any definite quarrel or disagreement--Imogen would
have considered that vulgar--but the bright hardness of her manner
towards her husband intensified, and they saw increasingly less of each
other. For one thing the house always seemed to be full of visitors;
dinner grew longer and longer; indeed, it had become a party every
night. If John Vandeleur wanted to work in the evening, and he always
did, he found it better to stay on in his private rooms over the Wall
Street offices and have a chop sent in to him there. Occasionally
Imogen remonstrated. John’s never appearing looked strange, she said.
If he had work, why couldn’t he do it in the library? Then for a few
evenings Mr. Vandeleur would come home early. But the atmosphere was
tiring. He found the smart young men, who drank his wine and smoked his
cigars, extremely irritating. They evidently looked down on business
and considered their host immeasurably antique. Frankly the primitive
male was stirred. John Vandeleur didn’t like this masculine train
that was always hanging around his wife. Not that, for an instant, he
imagined there was anything wrong, although Imogen’s increasing lack of
good taste caused him at times to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Still
he felt certain that no one of these flutterers meant anything to his
wife; sometimes he almost wished they did. He felt vaguely that Imogen
cared too much for herself ever to be in love with anyone else. She was
not good enough even to be bad.
One evening Mr. Vandeleur let himself in after dinner as usual,
but much earlier than was his general custom. Although it was not
yet June, the day had been very warm and he had thought it would
be pleasant to sit at home in his garden. He was going through the
palm-house, but stopped as talking and laughter surged towards him.
Electric Chinese lanterns were swinging outside, and by their dim
light he could see figures moving about on the lawn. He retreated, and
returning into the library, sank down wearily in a chair. Although it
was not cool, here, at least, he would be unmolested. A tap came at the
door.
“Come!” Mr. Vandeleur’s voice was irritable. The door opened. No one
spoke, so he looked up. For the first second he thought no one had
come in. It was a stupid trick of one of those inane gilded youths.
Then lowering his gaze, he saw a small figure in a pink dressing-gown
with dishevelled hair and dark eyes that were blinking a little in the
strong light. “Joan?” he exclaimed.
“You must excuse my dressing gown. I thought they might hear me if
I stopped to put on my proper clothes. I couldn’t wait to find any
slippers either.”
Mr. Vandeleur still stared. “It’s very late for you to be up,” he
observed at last, severely.
“Yes, isn’t it? Why do you always come home so late? Generally it’s
later even than this. Because for lots and lots of nights I’ve been
trying to keep awake until you came and always I haven’t been able
to. It has become the next morning. Only to-night I did hear your
automobile so I jumped up at once. It has got a partic’ler grunt, you
know. Do you like your automobile?” The child had heard a good deal of
talk about the new purchase, for motoring was still in its infancy.
“Yes, I like it extremely, but aren’t you a very naughty little girl to
come down at all?” Mr. Vandeleur persisted.
“No, I’m not naughty, because it’s un’voidable. I want to talk to you
about something private, and there’s no other time. I hardly never see
you and then we are not alone.”
John Vandeleur smiled, although stiffly as with unaccustomed muscles.
He remembered his last “private” interview with his daughter, when she
had demanded to be taught to read. What did she want this time? “Let me
see, how old are you, now, Joan?” he said aloud. “Five, isn’t it?”
“Five!” The little girl’s tone was even more scornful than on that
previous occasion. “Five! Why, I haven’t been five for years and
years. I shall be seven in twenty-three days. I suppose it was because
you thought I was five that you gave me that elephant?” Joan stopped
suddenly.
“That elephant?--Oh, at Christmas. Was it a white elephant then?” Mr.
Vandeleur chuckled at his unaccustomed humour.
“No, it isn’t exactly white, it’s more of a brownish grey. But it
doesn’t matter. And, of course, it would have been a lovely present for
a little girl of five. But what I wanted to say is that now I am nearly
seven, I ought to go to school.”
“To school! I didn’t know that little girls, or even big girls of
seven, arranged their own education! Do you think you have learnt
everything that Miss Leveridge can teach you?”
“No, I don’t.” The child looked at her father with large, honest
eyes. “But Miss Leveridge is so dull, and she is always one person.
I wouldn’t mind if she were like Granny. But I only see Granny on
Wednesdays. And I want more people, lots and lots of people. So I must
go to school--just a day-school, I mean.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Mr. Vandeleur was more inclined to consider his
daughter’s proposal, because, only the other day, he had happened to
hear of a new and extraordinarily superior school with extraordinarily
superior fees, that had just been started for the children of the
“best-to-do.” His acquaintance had even suggested that he ought to
send his little girl to it, and had observed that it must be dull for
the child at home alone. “In any case, you could not go to school until
after the summer vacation,” Mr. Vandeleur now said decisively. “All
the schools will be closed until September. Now run along back to bed.
Good-night.”
“Good-night, Father.” Joan dutifully trotted off. She had the sense to
feel the interview was over, and that moreover, she had got what she
wanted.
Preparations for the summer departure from New York rather took Joan’s
thoughts off the proposed school. This year her mother was not going
abroad; they were all going together to the new house at Long Branch.
This was Imogen’s latest toy. Nearly all the families of her circle had
a home in this select shore city, and she had decided, last autumn,
that she must have one too. Mr. Vandeleur was not attracted by the
idea; the place was only pseudo-select, he said. Imogen probably did
not understand the phrase. In any case she countered the argument by
urging its wonderful air. Staying there would be good for Joan. Also
she would benefit by it herself, she said, although she did not suppose
that this would influence her husband. The taunt was unfair, for John
Vandeleur was often concerned at his wife’s fragile appearance, and
urgent that she should live more quietly; her restless brilliancy
seemed to him far from healthy. So at her words he capitulated at
once and bought about an acre of land in the favoured strip between
the board walk fringing the ocean and the wide, smooth road. The cost
was absurd, but Mr. Vandeleur’s simple rule in life, when his wife
expressed a desire, was to sit down and write a cheque.
That was at the end of the previous year. In an incredibly short space
of time another Brobdingnagian villa had been added to the many-mile
row--a jerry-built palace, as amazingly bare and unattractive as the
rest. Again Mr. Vandeleur wrote cheques; this time they totalled a
couple of hundred thousand dollars, for the expense was increased by
Imogen’s constant desire for haste. Otherwise he left the matter to
his wife and the architect. Had John Vandeleur taken the building in
hand himself, as in the case of his Fifth Avenue house, the result
might have been more distinguished, although the site offered but
little scope. The Vandeleur “lot,” like all the other lots, was an
exact rectangle, quite level and bare. It remained treeless, for even
a millionaire cannot work miracles. A lawn was laid down at a fabulous
cost and three gardeners spent their lives in cherishing it. A few,
brilliant, ready-to-see flowerbeds were added, but of mystery and
surprise, those essentials of a real garden, there was not a trace. The
bleak publicity was increased by the whole being unenclosed. It would
have puzzled a mouse to find cover!
By the end of June, Firenze, as Mrs. Vandeleur inappropriately called
the house, was ready for occupation. Most of the domestic staff was
sent down, while Imogen and Joan and the faithful Miss Leveridge were
to follow the next day. Mr. Vandeleur had decided to remain in New
York. It was rather far to go down to business every day, he said. He
would join them at week-ends.
Little Joan was in a state of intense, if suppressed, excitement. She
had heard so much of the new home all these weeks, that she pictured
it as a sort of fairy palace. Her little body was quivering as they
drove up from the station. The carriage stopped. The child stared at
the huge, flat, newly-painted house and the shadeless garden. Even the
sea was not visible from this side. “That’s not our house; that’s an
hotel,” she urged. She was told it was Firenze, indeed. “Then I don’t
like it.” She flushed angrily. “It’s abs’lutely horrible.”
“You are the most spoilt and disagreeable child that I ever knew!”
Probably the hot journey had exaggerated Imogen’s point of view as well
as her daughter’s.
When the ocean revealed itself, little Joan grew more reconciled. And
of one thing she could certainly no longer complain, and that was lack
of people. At Long Branch it was solitude that was quite unobtainable.
The shore at all hours was sprinkled with young men and maidens in
elaborate, so-called bathing costumes, while up and down the board
walk, the visitors in smart clothes paraded endlessly. On the piazzas
and in the unfenced gardens, occupants dwelt in full public view,
while along the broad road running parallel to the sea, there passed
an endless stream of pleasure vehicles--the automobiles, at this date,
were just beginning to take their place among the staider carriages and
the buggies with their out-distanced fast-trotters. Again, on the other
side of this road, were more wooden summer homes with similar open
gardens, but of a smaller type, denoting mere potential millionaires.
So Joan had her “lots and lots of people,” and not only as mere
scenery. One or other of Imogen’s many acquaintances were constantly
coming up to speak to the dark, odd-looking child. Perhaps Joan made
the discovery that surfeit is worse than abstinence. After telling
strange and smart ladies her name and her age some dozen times in
reply to their stereotyped questioning, she suddenly turned shy, and
took refuge in sulky silence. “I won’t talk to them, I won’t; they’re
silly,” she confided to the shocked Miss Leveridge. “I want to go to
Meenahga.” This was the Vandeleur’s forest-encircled house in the
Adirondacks, where the child had spent her previous summers.
Indoors the social element was even more continuous and oppressive than
out of doors. At Fifth Avenue there were constant visitors, but they
were not staying in the house; besides the nursery wing was so detached
that Joan hardly ever came across them. But here, whenever she went up
or down stairs, she seemed to meet young men who made laughing remarks
to her (which she considered very foolish) and then laughed still more
at her scornful answers. Certainly there was one, Mr. Grierson by name,
whom she found less objectionable. His hair was so fair and soft that
it was rather like her baby doll’s; that was interesting in itself. His
cheeks were pinkish too, and he had a dimple in his chin. Joan used to
wonder if he were grown up at all or a very little boy who had got tall
by magic. Then she heard someone say that Mr. Grierson was at College.
So, of course, he must be old; that settled it. Still she liked him;
he didn’t laugh as often as the others. Sometimes he would sit quite
quiet and look at her mother in a curious way. Miss Leveridge looked
like that sometimes at church. As Joan came down one afternoon, hot and
indignant at the prospect of being dragged out for a stiff walk, she
saw Mr. Grierson standing in the lobby. He was whistling as he studied
a big map, and he looked very happy. “Hullo,” Joan called out in a
friendly manner.
“Hullo! Where are you going to, dressed up so fine?”
“Only up and down the board walk.” Joan came closer. She suddenly
determined to confide in him. “Isn’t it silly, but that’s what
Christine likes doing? She’s my maid. Miss Leveridge, my governess, is
away for her holiday. Christine tells me to hold her hand all the time
like a good little girl. I hate being good; it makes me feel so naughty
inside. Where are you going?”
The young man’s pink cheeks turned pinker. “Your mother is letting me
drive her out in her automobile.” He looked more than ever as though he
were at church.
“_You_ are going to drive! Not Fielding?” This was the chauffeur. “Can
you drive an automobile? But I suppose Mother wouldn’t let you if you
couldn’t. Oh, why can’t I come with you? I’d be so good, really and
truly good, and not a bit of worry. I’d sit on the seat at the back and
not say a word.”
It did credit to Mr. Grierson’s good nature that he did not instantly
dismiss the idea. His face certainly fell. “Well, you’ll have to ask
your mother,” he said.
“You ask. Mother will be more likely to let me come if you ask. Oh do,
please.”
At this moment Mrs. Vandeleur appeared. Her little blue motor hood with
tiny bunches of flowers was a “creation.” She had on a most becoming
flowered muslin gown; her Shantung motor coat was over her arm. “Why,
Joan, what are you doing?” she asked sharply.
“Joan is awfully set on coming out in the automobile,” Mr. Grierson
explained. “She’s been begging so hard I didn’t know what to say.”
“I’d sit on the back seat and not talk. I won’t be in the way.” The
child’s voice was dull and constrained, as it always was when she
addressed her mother. Even the infatuated young man noticed the
difference and was surprised by it.
The mother hesitated; then, to Joan’s secret astonishment, consented.
The fact was that Charlie Grierson had been a little overwhelming in
his devotion of late. Imogen had almost regretted that she had agreed
to this ride. It would be such a nuisance if Charlie broke out in some
wild protestation. He might think afterwards he ought to go right
away--he had such absurd ideas sometimes. Why, she would hate their
friendship to stop. She was very fond of Charlie; he was a dear boy
and so useful. However, with Joan there as a little chaperon, Charlie
could hardly embark upon any impassioned declarations. And if the child
really kept her word and didn’t chatter, she wouldn’t be much of a
nuisance.
Probably, a feeling of security due to the presence of the little
girl, made Imogen allow herself even more indiscretion than usual.
The pathetic tone she gave to the conversation was certainly not the
way to keep her companion’s blood cool. “Must you really go to your
mother’s next week? I shall miss you so.”
Young Grierson flushed; then he swallowed hard. “It’s awfully good
of you to say that, Mrs. Vandeleur,” he murmured with assumed
carelessness, “but, of course, you can’t mean it. You always have such
a crowd awaiting your commands!”
Imogen felt piqued by his tone. “One can be lonely in a crowd,” she
murmured pensively.
The young man gripped the steering wheel. She mustn’t see that his
hands were shaking. “Won’t Mr. Vandeleur be coming down soon?”
“My husband’s work utterly absorbs him. Sometimes I think he forgets my
poor little existence altogether.” Imogen gave a little sigh. “What a
mistake it is to allow girls to marry very, very young--when they are
still children. What does one know then or understand?”
“Imogen, do you----”
“Hush--the child.” Imogen gently stopped the explosion. “You must
remember that my life is over,” she went on sadly. “Why I am far, far
older than you--two years even in mere time.” As a matter of fact it
was five years, and Imogen knew it.
Charlie Grierson set his teeth. The car had been going fast before; now
to relieve his feelings, it went still faster. What a damnable world
it was! If only he had met this divine creature before she had become
tied to an old curmudgeon. He forgot that when this event occurred he
was still, even on Imogen’s reckoning, a mere schoolboy with a doubtful
collar and badly laced shoes. A curious haze came over his eyes.
Perhaps this accounted for his not seeing a large hole in the road
until he was close upon it. The car swerved almost into the bank as he
jerked the wheel. He jammed it round again in the opposite direction.
There was a crash. The car seemed trying to climb a wall; it tottered
and tipped over.
Little Joan wondered if it were the end of the world--an event about
which she had often speculated. Then she realized that she was lying
on the grass behind an overturned automobile. She sat up. Oh, how her
side hurt. She was going to scream, but, with an effort, she refrained.
She would be an Early Christian at the stake. Then she found that by
craning her neck she could see round the car. The pain was forgotten
in a most surprising sight. There on the road lay her mother with
a red cut on her forehead, while Mr. Grierson knelt beside her. He
had one arm under her head and was wiping her face gently with his
handkerchief. But what startled Joan the most was that Mr. Grierson was
crying, really crying, with tears running down his cheeks. Surely grown
up men at College didn’t cry. “Imogen, Imogen,” he was saying, and his
voice was all choky just like when the child cried herself. “Imogen
darling, have I killed you? Speak to me.”
Joan had hardly time to speculate as to whether her mother was really
killed, when the prostrate figure opened her eyes. So that was all
right, Joan felt with relief. “What has happened?” her mother asked
faintly.
“Thank God! Thank God!” Joan was thrilled by Mr. Grierson’s expression
of piety. She had thought such phrases confined to church. “Are you
hurt anywhere else?” the young fellow gasped.
“No, I don’t think I’m hurt.” Imogen raised herself, with Mr. Grierson
still reverently supporting her. “I think I’m all right. Only my head
aches.” She put up her hand.
There was a sudden electric change. Imogen’s fingers had touched the
cut. It was not bleeding much, but it gaped across her forehead rather
openly. “It’s a cut, a deep cut,” she shrieked, pushing aside her
companion’s supporting arm. “I shall be disfigured for life. Give me a
mirror. Why do you stand there like a fool? Why did you take me out if
you couldn’t drive? Oh, I hate you. You fool! You fool!”
Little Joan had on occasions seen her mother angry before, although
never quite so angry as this. But young Grierson had probably thought
his divinity incapable of any human weakness. He did look rather
foolish as he stood absolutely dumbfounded before the railing woman.
His youthful face had been pale before; now it became almost grey. “I
wish I had been killed,” he said.
“What good would that have done to me? How selfish you are! Oh, do stop
standing there like an idiot!” Pressing her scarf to her forehead, Mrs.
Vandeleur staggered to her feet. “I must have a surgeon at once--the
best surgeon from New York. Oh, can’t you suggest anything?” She rushed
towards the car and began to pull at it as though she thought she could
right it alone.
The child began to think that it was time to show herself. She
scrambled to her feet, the pain in her side making her feel rather
sick. “Hullo,” she said waveringly. “Won’t Fielding be cross about his
car?”
Both her companions started. Indeed, Mr. Grierson was staring as
though he hardly knew her. “Are you all right, Joan?” her mother asked
quickly. She was a little ashamed at having completely forgotten the
child’s presence. “Well, you don’t seem hurt, I’m thankful to say,
though it’s no thanks to our driver.” She laughed hysterically.
“Yes, I’m all right.” Joan went up to them. Suddenly with an
unchildlike intuition she put her hand into Mr. Grierson’s. “I think
it’s worst for you,” she said.
She had hardly spoken, when wheels were heard coming along the road.
It was a “Surrey” with two men in it. They drew up alongside of the
overturned car. There were commiserations and offers of assistance.
“What a piece of luck the little girl wasn’t hurt,” one of the
newcomers observed. He offered to drive the wrecked party home--they
had fortunately only come three or four miles--while his companion
stayed to guard the damaged automobile. At Imogen’s suggestion, Mr.
Grierson was dropped at a telephone office on the way. “Please let Mr.
Vandeleur know at the Wall Street office,” she said faintly, with an
amusing wifely dependence. “He will see about a surgeon and everything
for me.”
In less than a couple of hours a surgeon of world-wide reputation was
entering Firenze. Mr. Vandeleur himself had brought him down. The cut
was pronounced not serious. The great man would put in a stitch or two;
he guaranteed his reputation that there would be no permanent scar. Mr.
Vandeleur retired downstairs while the little operation was performed.
A knock came at the door, and a very fair young man appeared. His
boyish face was so haggard that Mr. Vandeleur guessed who it must be.
“Are you the young gentleman who upset the car?” he enquired.
“Yes. If you’d shoot me I’d thank you.”
The words were theatrical, and so, by conviction as well as
temperament, Mr. Vandeleur objected to them. Yet, he was somehow moved
by the underlying ring of misery and truth. “It isn’t very serious,”
he said kindly. “The surgeon assures us that Mrs. Vandeleur won’t be
marked.”
“That’s something--I mean I’m awfully happy and relieved.” Young
Grierson might say he was happy but he did not look it. “I don’t know
how I can apologise enough to you, Mr. Vandeleur.”
John Vandeleur was looking at the young fellow curiously. He thought
he had never seen anyone look quite so miserable. He wondered suddenly
what Imogen had said to her escort when she found that her forehead was
cut. Judging from the observations she had since made on the subject to
himself and the surgeon, her words could not have lacked force. “Was
Mrs. Vandeleur able to speak after the accident?”
“Almost at once.” A lively blush spread suddenly over the poor boy’s
face, confirming Mr. Vandeleur’s suspicion. Any further rebuke as to
the young man’s carelessness seemed uncalled for. There was a pause.
“Well, I’d better be going,” Mr. Grierson stammered. “If there’s
anything I can do--any reparation I can make?”
“No, only I should advise your not driving ladies out in automobiles
again--particularly married ladies; it is dangerous.” Mr. Vandeleur
shook the young man’s hand with a quite unusual friendliness.
As Mr. Grierson reached the door, he turned. “Oh, please thank your
little girl. She was so kind and courageous.” He bolted suddenly.
Joan? So Joan had been in the accident too. Mr. Vandeleur had not
understood this. He went to find his daughter rather anxiously. There
was no reply when he called. She was not in any of the sitting-rooms.
“Where is Miss Joan?” he asked a maid.
“I think she is in her bedroom, Mr. Vandeleur. Shall I fetch her?”
“No, I will go up.” The maid showed the way. Mr. Vandeleur knocked at
his little daughter’s door and then quickly went in.
The room was dim, for the shades were closed on account of the heat.
The child was sitting on her bed. She still had her coat on, and she
looked very white. She did not get up or speak. Her father wondered
if she recognized him in the half light. “So you were in the accident
too?” he said kindly. “I hope you didn’t get hurt at all, my dear.”
Suddenly the little girl broke into sobs. “My side, my side,” she
wailed. “I can’t be brave any more; I want Granny. Oh dear, oh dear, my
side.”
After that things moved quickly, as was always the case when Mr.
Vandeleur took them in hand. Almost before the great surgeon had
finished with Imogen, he was hurried up to the next floor to see
the little girl. Two ribs were broken, he found, but his skilful
manipulation and bandaging soon eased the pain. Almost before it seemed
possible Mrs. Lennox was at her granddaughter’s bedside. She kissed her
tenderly. “Darling, why didn’t you say sooner that you were hurt?”
“I didn’t want Mr. Grierson to know. Granny, have you ever seen
grown-up gentlemen cry?”