Soon after this episode Mr. Vandeleur found himself obliged to go to
Europe for some weeks on business. But Imogen was not fit to be left
in charge of Joan, he felt uneasily. The problem was solved by his
daughter demanding that she should spend the time of his absence with
her grandmother. Had Mr. Vandeleur known of the surreptitious visit to
the theatre the year before, he might have considered his mother-in-law
an even less desirable custodian than his wife.
If Joan was surprised by her father’s acquiescence, she was still
more surprised by her mother’s. The weekly day at the Dorset was, of
course, an institution, but any suggestion that she had ever made of
staying with her grandmother had invariably been vetoed by both her
parents. Imogen imagined that her refusal sprang from an acute sense
of maternal responsibility; she would not admit, even to herself,
her dog-in-the-mangerish jealousy. This time, however, the intense
irritation she felt against her daughter swamped everything else.
What a relief it would be to be free of the exasperating child for a
few weeks! Moreover, it was getting very warm in New York. Joan could
not go away until her term ended, but that was no reason why the rest
of the household should be deprived of the cooling breezes of Long
Branch. There was also a third motive Imogen had in sanctioning her
daughter’s proposal, although this she would have repudiated with
sincere indignation had it been put into words. Mendel Davidovitch’s
professional engagements were over; he was sailing for Europe next
week. If she had him at Firenze--a chaperon was easy to arrange--surely
even his susceptibility could not withstand the daily and hourly
contact. At last, he would be brought to a suitable attitude of
worshipping devotion. His continued indifference to her charms was not
only insulting, it seemed to mark her as a failure. Although Imogen
did not consciously recognize her tangled feelings, the grand piano
suddenly appeared at Firenze after a transit from New York of sweat and
blasphemy.
As in her babyhood, Joan’s stay with her grandmother was exceedingly
happy. Indeed after the first few days, the girl was lifted out of and
above mere happiness. For one afternoon she came home from school, her
expression transfigured by an almost awed ecstasy.
“Granny, Granny,” she called out as soon as the front door was opened.
“Granny, I’ve something to tell you”--there was a tremble in her voice.
“Where’s Granny, Bridget?”
“And it’s great tidings you’ll be bringing by the look on you I’m
thinking, Miss Joan,” the Irishwoman said with a smile. “I’ll run and
seek for the Mistress.”
The quest was made unnecessary by Mrs. Lennox appearing at the top of
the stairs. “Is that you, Joan darling?” she called down. “Aren’t you
early home to-day? I hope that new chauffeur didn’t drive too fast.”
“Granny!” Joan rushed up with the impetuosity of her fifteen years.
“Granny, I told you the senior class are doing Sophocles’ Antigone--the
translation, of course--on Graduation Day. Antigone’s ill--not serious,
but the doctor says she is on no account to act, and Miss Waring, our
elocution mistress, says I’m the only girl in the school who can do the
part in the time--there’s only ten days. If I don’t, they must give up
the whole idea, and they’ve got the dresses and scenery and everything
and all the parents are asked, and Miss Waring has sent you a note, and
you will let me, won’t you, Granny? Oh say you will--you will!” The
torrent of words paused as Joan held out a rather crumpled envelope.
“My dear child!” Mrs. Lennox felt almost overwhelmed. “But you are so
much younger than the senior class girls,” she demurred, seizing on the
first objection that came to her. “Why, you told me they were grown up.”
“Yes, but I’m quite as tall. And I can act being grown up. Miss Waring
says I can. Besides, there’s no one else. I must, Granny, I must!”
“Ten days is such a short time. Could you possibly do it?” Mrs. Lennox
urged feebly.
“Yes, yes. Oh, Granny, you know I could. Please sit down and tell Miss
Waring I may. Here’s your blotter. I said I’d send the automobile back
with the answer. She has to know at once.”
“But, my dear, I can’t agree like that.” Mrs. Lennox began to feel as
though she were hypnotised. She tore open Miss Waring’s still unread
note. It contained very much what her granddaughter had already told
her. “Unless Joan can step into the breach, we shall have to give
up the whole play, which will be a dreadful disappointment,” the
recitation mistress wrote. “I need hardly tell you how high an opinion
we have of your granddaughter’s dramatic powers. It was merely on
account of her being so young and the interruption to her school work,
that it was at first thought better for her not to take a part.”
“Oh dear, what would your father say?” Mrs. Lennox almost wailed. “And
why does Miss Waring write to me? Oh, I see, she thinks your mother is
abroad too.”
“I never said anything about Mother,” Joan explained. “I said Father
was in Europe and that I was staying with you. But what does Mother
matter? She doesn’t care what I do as long as it doesn’t bother her.
And Father is half way across the Atlantic, so we can’t ask him. Write,
Granny, write.”
But Mrs. Lennox was absolutely firm that before anything else was done,
Joan’s mother must be consulted. It was too great a responsibility for
her to face alone. “We can telephone to Long Branch at once,” she said
when Joan demurred at the delay.
They got through to Firenze almost immediately, and asked to be put on
to Mrs. Vandeleur’s own room. Both at Fifth Avenue and Long Branch,
Imogen had a receiver standing by her couch. It was the one loop-hole
in the invalid’s prison walls, she often plaintively remarked. The
reply came that Mrs. Vandeleur’s own telephone was out of order. Was
there any message he could take to her, the butler asked.
Mrs. Lennox had already given her name. Now she told the man to request
Mrs. Vandeleur to come to the telephone herself. After all, Imogen
could walk about, although sparingly. It was only a minute, although
it seemed a long time to Mrs. Lennox and still longer to Joan, before
the telephone spoke again, still in a male voice which this time had a
slightly foreign accent. “Mrs. Vandeleur is very fatigued this evening.
She says is the matter really of the first importance, or could you not
give a message to me? I am Mendel Davidovitch.”
Mrs. Lennox felt despairing. She was quite sure that Imogen would not
consider the question of the first importance. If she were brought
to the telephone on false pretences, she might be so annoyed as to
negative Joan’s request off hand. “Please tell Mrs. Vandeleur that
it is about her daughter,” Mrs. Lennox explained. “They want Miss
Vandeleur to act in a play at her school and I have to send the answer
to-night. I don’t know if her father----”
Mrs. Lennox was almost pushed aside. “Please, please Granny, let
me speak,” Joan implored. “Who is it?--Mr. Davidovitch? Oh, Mr.
Davidovitch, I’m so glad. It’s the Antigone of Sophocles, the
translation of the Greek play, you know, and they’ve asked me to be
Antigone. Oh, do get Mother to let me. Think how you’d feel if the
piano was locked--every piano in the world! Do, please, implore Mother.”
“My dear Joan!”--Mrs. Lennox again firmly took the receiver. “Please
ask Mrs. Vandeleur if she could not possibly come to the telephone
herself. I could talk to her so much more easily.”
This time there was really a considerable wait. Indeed, the young lady
at the Exchange cut them off, as the time for long distance calls was
up, but Joan frantically got put on again. Then at last Davidovitch’s
voice was heard once more. “Mrs. Vandeleur says she is really too
fatigued to come and speak. She says she does not mind about the
acting. She leaves the question to Mrs. Lennox to decide.”
With this the grandmother had to be content. She guessed that her
daughter’s refusal to speak to her denoted something besides fatigue.
As a matter of fact Imogen was furious. Mendel had been in the house
for three days, and that evening he had, for the first time, shown the
smallest sign of sentiment. Probably the wonderful new gown that she
was wearing had played its appointed part. But for this interruption he
would have succumbed; Imogen felt sure of it. Now the phase had passed;
it was unlikely that it would be recaptured that evening--indeed she
felt too annoyed to try. And the next day she expected other visitors,
in addition to the unobtrusive chaperon already laid in; there would be
no more chance for private talks.
And all this was Joan’s fault! It was maddening the ridiculous fuss
that everyone made over the child. Imogen’s anger would have driven her
to forbid the acting altogether if Mendel had not seemed so shocked. He
was quite excited about this pretentious-sounding play. “I only wish
I could wait and see Miss Joan act in it,” he had said. Well, Imogen
told herself savagely, she wasn’t going to let him go away, thinking
the child a martyr. Of course, she might have based her refusal on her
husband’s prejudices but that was assigning to John altogether too
complimentary a position of authority. No, if John didn’t like it, let
him have it out with his daughter himself when he came home. She washed
her hands of it, and of Davidovitch as well. If the young pianist did
not recognize the inspiration that she might have brought into his
life, he could go without. ‘La Princesse Lointaine’--that was what
one of her friends had called her, quoting Rostand’s beautiful lines.
Imogen’s thoughts turned appreciatively to this admirer, him of the
blue and white soul, whom she had quite ignored of late.
Meanwhile Joan was dancing a breakdown of triumph in her grandmother’s
drawing-room, after having first sent off the automobile with the note
of acceptance to Miss Waring. “Now we’ll start on the Antigone at
once,” she announced. “Miss Waring lent me a copy. And I know lots of
it already from hearing the girls. It’s fine, Gran, just fine--though
some of them do it rather awfully!”
A few minutes later both grandmother and granddaughter were utterly
absorbed. Mrs. Lennox knew nothing of this, or indeed of any Greek
play, so as a start they decided to read it straight through, Joan
taking the Antigone. How extraordinarily well she was doing it, Mrs.
Lennox felt with a glow of exultation. A feeling of defiance came over
her. After all John Vandeleur was powerless. He would be two thousand
miles away. Afterwards he might do or say what he liked. She did not
care. For once Joan should show what she could do.
The next ten days were lived, sleeping or waking, in the Antigone.
Joan’s school work was almost entirely neglected, but the mistresses
excused her. After all it was for the credit of the school that the
play should go well. As for Miss Waring, after the second rehearsal,
she went about with a mysterious and almost rapt look on her wizened,
monkeyish face. It was Mrs. Lennox, however, who had most opportunity
of judging Joan’s progress. Again and again the grandmother tried to
check and discount her own judgment. She had come to take an amateur,
and not a professional standard, she kept telling herself. Yet through
all her belittling, the consciousness remained that her little girl was
something unusual. A vision came to her of the child becoming a real
“star,” whose light would shine and be recognized all over the world.
Her own little rushlight of talent grew negligible by comparison. Or
were such speculations merely the maunderings of a besotted, doting old
grandmother?
At last the day came. As she sat at the performance, poor Mrs. Lennox
felt so sick with agitation that she was unable to receive any definite
impression. The audience was delighted, but then the audience was
composed of fond parents and of the girls themselves; it would have had
to be a poor show indeed not to delight them. Certainly a thrill seemed
to go through the listeners at some of Joan’s lines, and the applause
at the end was unusually prolonged. Again and again the actors were
recalled. How much did it really mean?
After the performance the spectators migrated into the dining hall,
and there calmed their excitement with the very mild lemonade. As she
sipped, Mrs. Lennox suddenly thought she saw the rotund figure of
Mr. Hobson near the door. But it must have been a mistake, she told
herself, for there was no further sign of him. She was just going to
leave when she heard the well-known, cheery voice almost at her elbow.
There stood the great, little Manager. “Say, Miss West, why didn’t you
tell me your little girl was a genius?”
“Oh, do you really think so?” Mrs. Lennox’s lemonade wavered
perilously. “I didn’t dare to believe it--But what brought you here
this afternoon?”
“Why, the young lady herself. She sent me a card--didn’t you know? I
thought you’d told her to. ‘Miss Joan Vandeleur presents and very much
hopes that for this once Mr. Hobson will accept,’ she’d written on it.
I thought it was pretty smart.”
“Joan asked you!” Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. Her
granddaughter was not exactly shy, but she certainly had never in any
way put herself forward before. “Why how did she know your address
even?”
“I guess that wasn’t so mighty hard. But she’s got the makings of a
star all right, tracking down managers and all! I’ve just been round
to the back and told her so. If she wants a part at any time, she’s to
come right along to me.”
“A part!” The words filled Mrs. Lennox with dismay. To think of
such an idea having been put into the child’s head! What would John
Vandeleur say? “Of course my granddaughter is far too young even to
consider the question of going on the stage,” she said stiffly. Fifteen
unprofessional years had considerably altered Mrs. Lennox’s tone
towards the managerial demi-god.
“Oh, I didn’t mean right away. I reckoned she’d have to finish up
with the regulation school stunts first. But when she’s through, you
send her right along to me; I ain’t going to have the Schumanns grab
her. Of course I don’t know how much of the Antigone business is your
work; maybe you’ve just stuffed it into her, though that wasn’t the
impression it gave. How old is she anyway--seventeen? Not quite fifteen
yet! My word, she’s a great little actress!”
“But you seem to have forgotten Mr. Vandeleur’s objection to the stage.”
“No, Ma’am! I guess I’ve got good reason for knowing ‘old John Van’s’
attitude.” This was the name with which the press had recently labelled
the “copper king,” to his intense irritation. “But that young lady
looks to have a will of her own. Poppa’ll have to climb down I reckon.”
Mr. Hobson gave his cheery laugh. “Well, so long,” he said and bustled
off.
Mrs. Lennox had known that her son-in-law would be angry when he
heard of Joan’s escapade into the drama, but even she did not realize
how angry he would be. The passing of years, instead of enlarging
Mr. Vandeleur’s sympathies, had merely stiffened his prejudices,
for it is not only physical tissues that ossify with age. Possibly
also the unsatisfactory character of his marriage was to some extent
responsible. Because his wife had not developed as he desired, he was
all the more determined that his daughter should do so. Joan must be a
graceful, retiring, feminine creature, with her mother’s refinement,
but without her mother’s selfish idiocy--for so in the privacy of his
own mind John Vandeleur thought of his wife.
Perhaps had Joan confessed to the incident herself, her father might
have been less incensed. That she did not do so, was due to no desire
for concealment on her part, but merely to the lack of opportunity. Mr.
Vandeleur’s stay in Europe was so brief that there was no time after
the performance to write and tell him about it. When he returned to
America, Joan was at Firenze with her mother. Two days passed before he
joined them, days of nerve-racking pressure at Wall Street which were
not conducive to an amiable or forgiving frame of mind. On the second
of these days, he unfortunately chanced upon an acquaintance who had
a daughter at the same school. “I hear your little girl had a regular
triumph at that Graduation Day play, Mr. Vandeleur,” the man observed
pleasantly over lunch. “I wasn’t there myself, but my wife raves about
her--says she was quite wonderful, and that there’s no better actress
on the real stage.”
Mr. Vandeleur made no comment on this amazing news. It did, however,
slightly change his plans. Instead of going down to Long Branch by the
five-fifty train, he told his secretary to ’phone to the Dorset. If
Mrs. Lennox had not yet left New York, he was to ask whether she could
see Mr. Vandeleur that afternoon at six o’clock.
Mrs. Lennox had not yet gone away despite the heat. Indeed holidays
were always rather a problem. She did not care for hotels, perhaps
because she had had a surfeit of them in early life; also, even after
all these years, she had never quite adapted herself to her social
environment. Every summer Imogen formally asked her to Firenze, and
every summer she declined, despite Joan’s enthusiastic urging. The only
time the experiment had been tried, it had proved an utter failure.
Mrs. Lennox disliked her daughter’s mode of life and disbelieved in her
invalidism. Although she had tried to conceal these feelings, Imogen
had guessed and resented them. Moreover, the bond between herself and
Joan was a constant irritation to the child’s mother.
Thus the telephone found Mrs. Lennox an easy prey. She had, indeed,
been expecting this message, for she had seen in the papers the news of
her son-in-law’s return. But previous expectation of the interview only
served to increase, rather than diminish, her nervousness. It was with
difficulty that the poor lady kept herself from replying that she would
be out all day or that she was ill in bed; indeed, she was withheld
rather by a sense of the futility of the excuse than by its mendacity.
Even when at Long Branch John Vandeleur usually came up to his business
every day. A respite of twenty-four hours was therefore the most that
could be gained. Even this was problematic, for her son-in-law’s
requests always bore an uncomfortable resemblance to commands. So poor
Mrs. Lennox telephoned back--with no less mendacity--that she would be
delighted to receive Mr. Vandeleur at any hour.
Punctually at six o’clock her son-in-law was announced. He looked
rather tired. Mrs. Lennox realized suddenly that John was getting on
in life. He must be at least sixty-five, although no one would think
it. Perhaps the heat had tried him. At any rate it would serve as a
topic of conversation. “It must be mighty warm down town,” she observed
sympathetically.
The remark was unfortunate. Mr. Vandeleur had always hated
Americanisms, and in deference to his susceptibility Mrs. Lennox had
largely purged her conversation of them, to the great detriment of its
vitality. Now, her embarrassment had caused her to relapse. “Yes, it is
an exceedingly warm day,” John Vandeleur acquiesced with a frigidity
of manner that was almost sufficient to cool it. “But I am not here to
discuss the weather. I have just learnt from a trustworthy informant,
that, while my daughter was under your charge, she took part in some
theatricals. You were aware that I had definitely prohibited her even
attending any such form of entertainment.”
Mrs. Lennox was disconcerted by the direct attack. The awe she had
always felt of her son-in-law had not decreased with fifteen years of
complete and enervating dependence on him. The grandmother had, indeed,
nobly volunteered to break the news of the escapade to Joan’s father on
his return, but her relief had been great when her granddaughter had
indignantly declined the offer. “It’s up to me to tell Father myself,”
the girl had said. But evidently Joan had not had the chance. “The dear
child wanted to act so much,” Mrs. Lennox began, almost stammering with
fear. Then she pulled herself up. Whatever happened she must shield
her granddaughter. “As it was only a school performance, I thought you
would not seriously object. In any case Joan is not to blame, for I
gave her permission.”
The verdict was short and sharp. After the vacation Joan would be
sent to boarding school. Although Mrs. Lennox regretted this on her
own account, she felt that it was probably the best thing for Joan.
The child’s home-life was so unsatisfactory that she might really be
happier at school. And then there would be the holidays; they would be
together then. “Joan will not see you at all during the next year,” Mr.
Vandeleur’s cold voice went on. “If, at the expiration of that period,
you will give me an undertaking that there will be no mention between
you of the drama or of its exponents, I shall be prepared to reconsider
the position.”
The poor grandmother stared in blank dismay. “I am not to see Joan for
a year?” she gasped.
“A year was what I said. I also do not wish you to correspond with
her. My dear Mrs. Lennox, you were perfectly aware of my attitude
with regard to the stage. If you encourage my daughter flagrantly to
disobey my wishes, you cannot be surprised at my removing her from your
influence.”
“Oh you are cruel, cruel,” Mrs. Lennox wept despairingly.
John Vandeleur was not the man to do things by halves. In one detail
only he was thwarted. When he reached Firenze, intending to have an
interview with his daughter, he found that she had already gone to
bed. The fact was that the long evenings with the governess, or with
her mother and her mother’s admirers bored Joan so unutterably that
she always took the earliest opportunity to escape. She longed to go
out, to wander alone in the warm, sweet-smelling darkness, but that was
considered out of the question. Her hot bedroom was her only refuge.
Although Mr. Vandeleur could not see his daughter, his wife was in
the drawing-room, and, for once, in anticipation of his coming, she
was there alone. She looked exquisite, reclining on her couch, but
her husband hardly noticed it. Directly he had greeted her, he asked
whether she had been aware of Joan taking part in a play.
Imogen raised her eyebrows. Really John was becoming a perfect boor.
His lack of consideration for her new “Vesta” gown affronted her even
more than his lack of consideration for herself. For the future she
would reserve the dress for a more appreciative audience. “Joan taking
part in what?” she drawled, with wilful misunderstanding.
“A play that was produced at her school--Antigone. Did you, or did you
not know about it?”
“Oh, I think Mother did send a message over the ’phone a day or two
after you had sailed about some school theatricals. I imagined that
she had arranged it with you. As you and Mother have taken my child
completely out of my charge, I now make it a rule never to interfere.”
“Well, you ought to have interfered. You knew perfectly well that I
should never allow my daughter to appear on a stage.” In his annoyance
Mr. Vandeleur slightly raised his voice.
Imogen fanned herself wearily. “How curious it is,” she observed with
pensive sweetness, “that you have been in this house exactly two
minutes and you are already raising a brawl. It is so demoralizing for
the servants. I wish we had had doors put to the rooms in the English
fashion instead of portières. I wonder if Englishmen have very bad
tempers.”
Joan was still at breakfast the next morning when the summons came that
Mr. Vandeleur wished to see her. Of course her father might merely
desire to greet her after his absence, she told herself, but he had
never sent for her before. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably as she
went into the study, although she managed to conceal any outward sign
of it. “How do you do, Father?” she said calmly.
“How do you do?” Mr. Vandeleur did not attempt to kiss her. “I
have already seen your grandmother. I understand that she gave you
permission to act in a play at school?”
“Granny didn’t exactly give me permission. It was more that I worried
it out of her. Besides Mother said she didn’t mind.”
Mr. Vandeleur’s anger increased. So the question _had_ been submitted
to Imogen. He was certainly glad that he had decided on the boarding
school. “You knew, I suppose, yourself, that I have an extreme
objection to dramatic performances?” he suggested.
“Yes, but I thought as this was the translation of a Greek play you
might feel differently about it, and the whole school wanted it; they
would have been dreadfully upset. At least that wasn’t my real reason,
and I knew really that you would not like it. But it seemed as if I
just _must_ do it.”
His daughter’s honesty left Mr. Vandeleur unmoved. Indeed he was
further irritated by her defiance and lack of contrition. “I hardly
think it was a question of ‘must,’” he corrected coldly. “However, I
will find another school for you, a boarding school, where theatricals
do not form part of the curriculum, and then the question will not
recur. I have already told your grandmother that as your being under
her influence has resulted in this disobedience, I must take steps to
prevent its being exerted upon you in the future.”
“What do you mean?” Joan had suddenly turned white. “What do you
mean?” she repeated slowly. “You do not mean that I am not to be with
Granny--not to see her? You can’t mean that?” Her father’s silence
showed her that this was meant. “No, no, no!” she almost screamed. “I
must see Granny. I will see her. I can’t live without her.”
The violence of his daughter’s words only increased Mr. Vandeleur’s
anger, and at the same time made him feel his decree justified. It
was obviously necessary to keep the girl away from her grandmother’s
pernicious theatrical aura. “Kindly remember that you are not
play-acting now,” he told her.
“If you don’t let me see Granny, I shall hate you. I shall hate you for
ever!” She was trembling all over.
“You had better retire to your own room until you have recovered your
senses.” Mr. Vandeleur took up his newspaper and began to read in order
to mark the conclusion of the interview.
Joan might have said more, but she was stopped by a sudden lump in
her throat. Father should not know that she was crying. She turned
and rushed upstairs, furious with him and furious with herself. Why
couldn’t she have remained calm? She ought to have discussed the whole
matter with Father. Perhaps even he could have been made to see the
unreasonableness of his position, although it was like arguing with
a stone wall. But now she had lost her chance; she had behaved like
a baby. She flung herself down on her own bed, stuffing the coverlet
in her mouth as in her old, childish rages. “I wish I were dead,” she
sobbed.