Of the two and a half years of Joan’s boarding school life, the first
twelvemonth was miserable, chiefly owing to her unsatisfied longing for
her grandmother; the remainder of the time passed pleasantly enough.
Indeed it would have been strange had it not done so. Nothing could
have been further from any punishing idea than Mr. Vandeleur’s choice
of a school. Apart from his one indispensable stipulation for the
absence of drama in any shape or form, he merely desired a pleasant
home for his daughter. The one he found, Greenlands by name, was more
than pleasant; it was luxurious. The house, a rambling, old Colonial
dwelling, was situated some miles away from Philadelphia in the midst
of a large garden. Ailanthus and other trees dotted the lawn, giving
a pleasant shade, while a big open-air swimming bath and two or three
lawn-tennis courts offered their more energetic attraction. Indoors
it was equally delightful. Each girl had a dainty little bedroom to
herself, while every three shared a study. The fare more resembled
that of a first-class private hotel than of a school; as a matter of
fact the cook received higher pay than most of the mistresses. Every
evening the girls dressed for dinner; they were actually encouraged to
wear stylish clothes. As they all had wealthy parents--indeed no others
could have paid the fees--there was probably nothing new to them in
this mode of living. It might almost be said that luxury formed part of
the curriculum. For the school prided itself on its social training,
and, as the head mistress rightly felt, her pupils’ manners could best
be formed under the same conditions that they would be likely to enjoy
in after life.
One luxury amid all these was wanting, or so it seemed to Joan.
This was the luxury of freedom. All her life she had been stinted of
it. How she had envied in New York the ordinary children who went to
school alone! What fun they had in Central Park, especially in winter,
with their snowballing and tobogganing! _They_ were not fettered by
an attendant maid with the additional encumbrance on wet days of an
auto and a chauffeur! But even New York had not been so restricted
as Greenlands. In a day school the coming together every morning of
different girls from different homes had brought a certain feeling of
expansion, a certain interest and excitement. Here there was nothing.
Day and night she was cooped up, imprisoned in an unreal pleasance.
Sometimes she felt desperately that she could bear it no longer. She
must get out, out through those high gates into the world beyond. She
wanted life, the real life of work and plays.
Probably the only reason that Joan did not put her desire into action,
and escape, was the extreme ease of doing so. For the girls were
allowed to wander about the garden unsupervised. The gates, although
high, were never locked. It seemed too ridiculously simple merely to
walk out. Besides, what was she to do when she got out? Walk in again,
seemed the obvious answer.
Indeed it was not so much physically, as mentally, that Joan felt
entrapped. The sensation was to a certain extent justified. By an
elimination of all books from the library to which any parent might
object, the reading was reduced to the lowest common denomination
of the namby pamby. “I do wonder they let us have a Bible,” Joan
once remarked to a shocked circle. Nor was the teaching as good
as at the New York school. The few mild and elderly masters of
impeccable behaviour who came out from Philadelphia on stated days
were, to say the least of it, not inspiring. And then there were her
schoolfellows--“silly little idiots,” as Joan mentally termed them
with the intolerance of youth. Their conversation reminded her of that
of her many nurses with its constant babble of boys and new clothes.
She was disgusted by all the little sentimental plans and plots. How
could they talk so, she felt, in a world that held Rosalind and Juliet?
For it was not their caring about young men, but their not caring
enough, that outraged this juvenile connoisseur of love.
Still, during her last year at school, Joan was extremely happy. She
was not very popular--which was hardly surprising--but she became
a power. In this rather slack school, it was easy for an ambitious
and clever girl to rise to the head both in lessons and games. But
Joan’s dominance did not rest on her proficiency in either of these
directions. Despite all Mr. Vandeleur’s precautions, his daughter’s
own special talent had established itself. Not that there were ever
theatricals or even recitations in class--the father’s decree had
been too definite for that. But in their studies at night the girls
were in the habit of indulging in semi-surreptitious sing-songs and
cocoa parties. Somehow Joan’s power as an entertainer was discovered.
After that, none of these orgies were considered complete without her
presence. She was not easily cajoled into attendance, which naturally
increased the desire to have her. “I’ll come if you don’t worry me to
recite more than twice,” she would stipulate.
Thus Joan found her gift useful, and not only in giving pleasure;
it also served as a means of punishment. One day, after leaving the
schoolroom for a few minutes, Joan had returned to find the ink
upset all over her newly done algebra. The culprit, who was caught
blackhanded, pleaded an accident. Joan felt sure it was deliberate, for
Mamie Wright was a mean little girl who had long borne her a grudge. If
there was one thing in the world that Joan loathed it was algebra, as
Mamie doubtless knew; indeed only an intense desire to keep her place
at the top of the class ever drove her through it. And now to work out
the problems all over again--it seemed beyond human endurance! Her lips
closed with ominous tightness.
That evening as Mamie was just sinking into a delightful, warm
drowsiness, her bedroom door opened. It was Joan draped in a coverlet
with her black hair floating loose. At the sight of her, Mamie felt
apprehensive, although, as she reassured herself, if Joan Vandeleur
dared touch her, she’d scream and a mistress would come. The apparition
halted at the foot of the bed and exclaimed in blood-curdling tones,
“Out damned spot! Out I say!”
Mamie gave a faint shriek. As the scene went on, terror reduced her
to silence. Possibly she thought her schoolfellow had gone out of her
mind. The last line came with a curious appropriateness:--“What’s done
cannot be undone; to bed, to bed, to bed.” Mamie was left almost in
hysterics, while Lady Macbeth, in the privacy of her own room, sank
into a chair and murmured complacently, “I guess I put one over the
little wretch that time!” Certainly no further accidents ever occurred
to Joan Vandeleur’s property.
Although at school Joan found herself more admired than adored, there
was one girl, Maude Dupuy by name, who combined both attitudes to their
utmost extent. Maude was a pretty, fair, fragile creature, actually six
months older than Joan, but looking considerably younger, and her exact
opposite in every way. Perhaps their unlikeness was the link between
them, if it could be called a link that fettered one friend and left
the other free. Still Joan, although detached, was not indifferent. Her
laughter at Maude’s extravagant worship did not prevent her from being
touched by it. Moreover it had the charm of novelty. In that one thing,
affection, the multi-millionaire’s daughter had always been singularly
poor. Indeed, but for her grandmother, Joan would hardly have known
the meaning of the word. So when Maude implored her to come and stay
for the holidays, tearfully urging that she could not bear to be parted
from her dearest and sweetest for a whole, long five weeks, Joan wrote
home to ask for the necessary permission, after having warned her
friend that she was hardly likely to get it. However, Mr. Vandeleur,
far from objecting, seemed quite pleased. In her innocence Joan had not
realized that the Dupuys belonged to the inner ring of the great Four
Hundred, the happy few, of whom Mr. Vandeleur approved, as combining
both breeding and dollars. Possibly, among this clique, an invitation
to the White House would be refused as being vulgar.
Mr. Vandeleur’s sanction of the friendship was made still warmer the
following vacation when Maude paid her friend a return visit. Miss
Dupuy’s slender prettiness gratified her host’s eyes, while her shy
deference--for she possessed this un-American attribute--charmed
his mind. He was quite gallant to the young lady, much to Joan’s
secret amusement. After the guest was gone, he spoke to his daughter
almost enthusiastically, for now that she had been promoted to late
dinner, their opportunities for conversation were more frequent. “The
friendship does you great credit. Miss Dupuy is the type of young lady
on whom I should wish you to model yourself.”
Joan laughed. “Wouldn’t it be rather a squeeze?” she hazarded
enigmatically.
“I was not referring to her figure.” Mr. Vandeleur’s tone expressed
shocked annoyance. His daughter’s remark struck him as unpleasantly
reminiscent of her grandmother.
It was as an outcome of this friendship that Joan left Greenlands at
Christmas, when she was only seventeen and a half, instead of staying
until the following summer as her father had originally intended. It
had long been settled that this was to be Maude Dupuy’s last term at
school, but there was no idea of Joan not returning, when they broke up
for the holidays and the two girls travelled up to New York. However,
on reaching the parental house, poor Maude proceeded to cry herself ill
at the thought of the separation from her idol--a separation that would
be prolonged by the year’s “grand tour” in Europe with which Mrs. Dupuy
proposed to complete her daughter’s education. “Oh, Mother, why can’t
you ask Joan Vandeleur to come with us?” she pleaded.
Mrs. Dupuy hesitated; but Maude was her only child and her will was
apt to be law. At last she called on Mrs. Vandeleur, and made the
suggestion. Imogen was sweetly and vaguely negative. Mrs. Dupuy came
home discouraged, and Maude wept afresh. But the next afternoon, to
Mrs. Dupuy’s enormous surprise, Mr. Vandeleur was announced. He asked
if his wife had understood the offer aright, and then proceeded to
accept it, stipulating, of course, that he must be responsible for all
Joan’s expenses. “You start early in February, you say,” he enquired.
“Then it will not be worth while for my daughter to return to school.
I wonder if I might presume further on your kindness and ask whether
you would be good enough to superintend the purchase of her outfit. I
fear that I am trespassing on your good nature, but Mrs. Vandeleur,
unfortunately, is such an invalid.” He did not add that Imogen had
absolutely refused the task on the score of fatigue. And yet he was
continually receiving the most unmistakable reminders that his wife’s
delicacy did not incapacitate her from the purchase of clothes on her
own behalf!
Mrs. Dupuy willingly agreed. She would be getting an outfit for her own
daughter, she said, and so it would be little more trouble to duplicate
it. Maude, who had come in just before, and had been told the glad
news, now clasped her hands in ecstasy. “And couldn’t we have our
dresses made just the same, like real sisters?” she asked.
The two elders smiled at her. “Is Joan pleased too at the thought of
coming?” Mrs. Dupuy asked. She was surprised when Mr. Vandeleur said
that he had not yet told his daughter.
“Oh, but I am sure Joan will be pleased,” Maude broke in joyously. “She
is always talking about Europe and longing to see it.”
Mr. Vandeleur rose to take his departure. As he shook Miss Dupuy’s
hand, the girl, greatly daring in her joy, stood on tiptoe and kissed
the old gentleman’s cheek. “You have made me so happy, dear Mr.
Vandeleur,” she murmured sweetly.
“I am very glad, my dear.” The “copper king” was quite confused, but
obviously very pleased. He had never felt so paternal before. How
delightful it must be for Dupuy to possess such a charming daughter. If
only Joan resembled her more!
He felt this still more strongly when he got home and told Joan of the
arrangement. The girl received the news in absolute silence, first
flushing and then turning pale. “Well, aren’t you pleased at the idea
of going to Europe?” Mr. Vandeleur asked at last sharply.
“Ye--es. At least, I should simply love it, if it could be until about
August. I don’t want to be away longer. Can’t I come back then?”
“Impossible.” Mr. Vandeleur’s tone was curt. “I couldn’t have you
travelling back alone. If you go with the Dupuys you must stay with
them.” There was a silence. What was his daughter’s reason for not
wanting to be away the whole year, Mr. Vandeleur speculated. He didn’t
flatter himself that it was due to any desire to see him. Ever since
the Antigone episode, the little intimacy that had ever existed between
them had vanished. Nor did he think that Joan cared much for her
mother. Indeed, this was not surprising, for on Imogen’s side there
had always been a positive antipathy. Probably Joan’s reluctance was
due to her affection for her grandmother. Yes, that must be it. She
did not want to leave Mrs. Lennox for so long. It was a pity that he
had ever let them come together again after that year of separation;
the ban should have been permanent. Why, it was largely to get Joan
away from her grandmother’s influence that he had encouraged the idea
of this trip. The Dupuys were really nice people; they would serve as
an antidote to the theatrical taint. “Mrs. Dupuy tells me that they
propose to visit Algeria and Sicily in the autumn, and then spend the
winter in Egypt,” Mr. Vandeleur amplified a shade less frigidly. “I
should imagine that that would interest you?”
“Yes, it would--tremendously.” Joan hesitated again. She seemed to be
going to say something, but checked herself. “But I didn’t want to be
away as long as that,” she repeated at last. “I don’t know if I ought
to go at all.”
Mr. Vandeleur might be pardoned his exclamation of annoyance. “Well,
please yourself,” he said, as he stood up. “Only it must be understood
that if you go with the Dupuys, you go for the whole year. Now I have
work to do.”
However, the next day Joan seemed to have abandoned her objection.
Indeed, it would have been hard to maintain it in the face of her
friend’s exuberant delight. Directly after breakfast Maude was
announced. She was rosy with rapture. “Oh, my angel-seraph!” she
exclaimed, flinging her arms round Joan’s neck. “Isn’t it just great? I
think your Father is a perfect peach!” Fortunately the “peach” was not
present to be shocked by the schoolgirl slang on the lips of the model
Miss Dupuy.
Perhaps one reason for Joan’s acquiescence was that she had no time
left for thought. The days were soon filled with a whirl of shopping,
a round of dressmakers, milliners, shoemakers, tailors. She was even
whisked off to stay at the Dupuys’ house, “so that the lay figure might
always be on the premises,” as she told them laughingly. In spite of
secret struggles after superiority, the girl enjoyed it hugely--this
wonderful, uncanny acquisition of anything and everything she wanted.
For, notwithstanding her father’s huge wealth, Joan had hitherto been
innocent of the power of money. She had never gone out alone. On the
score of hygiene her various attendants had been forbidden to take
her into any stores. When had she had the opportunity to shop? But,
indeed, no girl of seventeen could have remained unmoved amid this rain
of smart travelling suits, dainty waists, fur coats, rugs, cushions,
writing cases, opera-glasses and all the other accessories of luxurious
travel.
One day Mr. Vandeleur presented his daughter and her friend with two
superb dressing cases similar in every detail except the monogram. Joan
flushed a dull red and seemed almost unable to speak, while Miss Dupuy
gracefully expressed the most charming gratitude. “Dear, _dear_ Mr.
Vandeleur,” she cried, “you are just a perfect fairy godfather! And how
lovely to have them alike.”
After Mr. Vandeleur had gone, Maude turned an anxious regard on her
friend. Joan had disapproved of the cherished scheme of similar
dresses; indeed, it had been the one blot Maude felt on perfect
happiness. Their colouring was too different, Joan had urged. “Even a
beauty like you, Maude,” she had told her friend lightly, “can’t stand
the wrong shade, and as for me I’d look more of a guy than ever dressed
in your blues and greys.” Maude had forthwith declared her willingness
to wear any colour on earth, however unbecoming, so long as they could
be alike. Then a greater objection had been raised. “I want my things
different from anyone else’s,” Joan had impatiently declared. Maude
now wondered with dismay whether her friend’s individualism extended
even to dressing cases. What else could be making her so queer and
embarrassed? “Do you feel badly about their being alike?” she enquired.
“No; why should I?” Joan looked genuinely surprised. When Maude
reminded her of her previous remark, she laughed. “Oh, I don’t mind
grips being twins, only oughtn’t we to tie a blue bow on one and a pink
bow on the other?”
The girls then began to investigate their gifts more closely, pulling
out the tortoiseshell-backed brushes with their gold initials and the
beautifully engraved bottles. “Aren’t they just too elegant?” Maude
sighed with rapture. “Mustn’t they have cost a perfect fortune?”
Joan’s embarrassment suddenly returned. She began stuffing in the
things hurriedly. “I wish Father had never given it to me,” she
muttered.
Despite his daughter’s exceedingly ungracious acceptance of the favours
he had already conferred on her, Mr. Vandeleur arranged yet another
plan for her benefit. “We must have a dance for Joan before she sails,”
he announced to his wife.
“A dance!” Imogen sat up straight in her surprise. Then she sank back
among her cushions. “I fear it would be impossible with my miserable
health, although, of course, I should love to give the dear girl any
pleasure in my power. Such fatigue would make me ill for months.” She
sniffed delicately at her salts.
“I intend Joan to have a dance. Each of my nieces did so, I remember,
when she left school. Why, you were present at Grace Sharman’s ball,
were you not? I should have thought that you would wish to do the
correct thing for your daughter, even if it did involve a little extra
exertion.”
“Oh, of course I am selfish! I know that in your opinion everything
is always my fault,” Imogen retorted angrily. “Naturally if you had
not arranged to send Joan away, contrary to my wishes, she would have
had a coming-out ball like every other girl, even if the exertion had
killed me. No one can say that I have not always sacrificed myself
for my daughter. But I fail to see the use of her having a dance now
and getting innumerable return invitations when she is on the point
of sailing for Europe. Instead of squandering the small remnants of
strength that I possess, I was going to try and build up my health this
year, and then possibly I might be able to take the dear girl into
society a little on her return.”
Mr. Vandeleur was shaken, but too obstinate to yield. “I didn’t mean
a regular ball,” he explained uneasily. “That might, as you say, be
purposeless, as Joan is leaving so soon. But she must have a small
dance to mark the close of her school life. And if you do not feel
strong enough to appear yourself, I will ask Mrs. Dupuy to act as
hostess.”
The threat served its purpose. Imogen promised to send out invitations
at once. The notice had to be short for the Dupuys were sailing in
less than three weeks, and on February 1st, a couple of days before
their departure, Mr. Vandeleur himself would be starting on his annual
copper tour. It had occurred to him to postpone his journey in order
that he might first see his daughter and her friends safely embarked.
But apart from the considerable re-arrangement that the change would
involve, Mr. Vandeleur’s plans, just because they were his plans, were
apt to take on the solemn immovability of Church festivals. Besides it
was not even as though the Dupuys were sailing from New York. They had
chosen a Boston line and intended to stay there a day or two first.
This was the one part of the arrangements of which Mr. Vandeleur’s
approval was a little uncertain. To sail from Boston seemed to verge
on the unconventional. Still as Mrs. Dupuy’s brother was the chief of
this shipping line, it was perhaps natural that she should select it.
Besides, it might be true that, as Mrs. Dupuy had said, the passengers
on the Northern route were of a better class and so the girls would be
less likely to form undesirable acquaintances. Personally he would have
forbidden the girls to speak to anyone not of their own party on any
ship, but Mrs. Dupuy appeared to consider this an impossible counsel of
perfection. However, whatever the advantages or disadvantages of the
Boston plan, it certainly made it still more impossible for him to wait
and see his daughter off.
But when Imogen suggested that the dance, too, should take place after
his departure, so as to form a farewell celebration for dear Joan’s
last day, Mr. Vandeleur put his foot down. He felt quite certain
that unless the party took place while he was there, it would never
take place at all. Why his wife should be so set against having an
entertainment for their daughter he could not imagine, but whatever her
motive might be, he was sure it was a mean and petty one. And how she
had fought! Sometimes Mr. Vandeleur realized that his iron will was
outmatched by the silken, subtle obstinacy of his wife. However, this
time he determined to carry the point. He had three hundred invitations
engraved for January 31st and detailed his most capable secretary to
send them off, under Mrs. Vandeleur’s direction.
Four days before the dance was to take place, Mr. Vandeleur discovered
that the great bulk of the invitation cards had not been sent at all.
“I knew the printers must have made a mistake in delivering so many,”
Imogen explained sweetly, “as we both had agreed that it was to be
quite a tiny party.”
“How many people are coming?” Mr. Vandeleur asked curtly.
“Oh, we shall be about fifteen--so tiresome that it an odd number. Of
course one could not expect very many to accept at such short notice.”
Mr. Vandeleur had turned red. “You had better ask the obliging fifteen
to dinner first. Or rather, I suppose, it is only twelve whom you
expect, as the larger number, no doubt, includes ourselves. We can
hardly open the ball with a dozen people. I shall order the dinner
from Delmonico’s, so it is unnecessary to tell me that Alphonse cannot
manage it. Has Joan got a dress for the occasion?” he asked suddenly.
“A dress; she has dozens! Hasn’t Mrs. Dupuy been buying her dresses for
the last month?” Imogen laughed a trifle hysterically.
Mr. Vandeleur grew still redder. For Mrs. Dupuy had carefully explained
to him that she was not getting regular evening dresses for either of
the girls. It was unlikely that they would want them while travelling.
In any case they expected to spend May in Paris, and it would be wise
to wait and have as many gowns as possible made there. Of course,
Imogen knew all this as well as he did,--indeed far better. “Vesta
makes your gowns, does he not?” he asked.
Imogen raised her eyebrows. “You surely are not proposing to ask Vesta
to make a dress for Joan? I can hardly imagine that a dozen young
people coming informally calls for a very elaborate toilette. Besides,
in any case, I do not suppose Vesta would dress a schoolgirl, even if
there was time. But, of course, the fact of there being only three
days before the dance, and one of these a Sunday, puts it out of the
question.”
“I have rarely found such people unaccommodating.” Mr. Vandeleur
hurriedly left the room while his temper was still controllable. His
secretary was curtly told to ring up the great man modiste. An hour
later Mrs. Dupuy was chaperoning Joan into Vesta’s innermost sanctum.
The gown was an easy matter. It was far harder to swell the list of
guests. Imogen had said that three weeks’ notice had been too short.
This John Vandeleur did not in the least believe. But to obtain
desirable young people at three days’ notice in the height of the
New York season was certainly a difficulty. Of course, if he had been
content to lower his social standard, Mr. Vandeleur could have filled
his house as many times over as he wished, but this he felt impossible.
At last, with a good deal of trouble, he secured about twenty more
dancers. Among them was Charles Grierson, the unfortunate young man who
had upset Imogen in the car so many years before. Even at the time Mr.
Vandeleur had taken an unusual fancy to the culprit, and when business
had since brought them into contact, he had always spoken to him with
a distinct friendliness. He had not indeed asked Mr. Grierson to his
house before--the less the young fellow saw of Imogen the better,
John Vandeleur had felt. But, curiously enough, he now happened to
run across him again, and it came into his mind that he had been told
Charles Grierson was a fine dancer. After all, that automobile accident
had occurred when Joan was quite a little girl; why, it must have been
over ten years ago. No doubt the man had long since forgotten his
unfortunate infatuation. “We are giving an informal dinner and dance
for Miss Vandeleur on Tuesday,” the father said, “and we should be
pleased to see you, if you happen to be disengaged.”
“Miss Vandeleur? Not the little girl I upset out of the car? And she’s
grown up? Well, well, I didn’t realize I was so elderly!” Charles
Grierson was clearly interested. Indeed, he was interested enough
to throw over several other engagements and accept Mr. Vandeleur’s
invitation. He knew he would be forgiven--it is hard for an entirely
eligible man to do wrong. “I always thought your little girl was about
the most courageous kid I’d ever heard of,” he now told Mr. Vandeleur.
“Of course, I didn’t know a thing about her being hurt at the time. It
was years afterwards that I met her grandmother, Mrs. Lennox, at some
function or another, and she told me. There aren’t many grown people
who would break a couple of ribs and say nothing, let alone a child.
It’s very forgiving of you all to have me!”
On Tuesday afternoon a little parcel arrived for Joan delivered by
special messenger. When she opened it, she found a pearl necklace with
her father’s card and the formal inscription that accompanied all his
gifts. Compared with her mother’s jewels, the necklace was naturally
a small affair. Indeed, Mrs. Vandeleur’s famed pearls were so large
and so regular that no one could possibly have believed them to be
real unless a millionaire’s wife had been attached as guarantee. But
in Joan’s eyes this necklace was prettier--indeed, from the standpoint
of abstract æsthetics she was probably right. She had given a cry of
pleasure as she first saw it. Now she took it out and tried it on with
girlish delight. But her face soon clouded. The pretty thing was pulled
off and she stood looking at it irresolutely with an almost wistful
expression in her eyes. Suddenly she thrust it back into the case and
closed the lid with a decisive snap.
The evening came, and all the guests had arrived, but Joan had not
yet appeared. Mrs. Vandeleur was half-sitting and half-reclining on a
couch draped in the clinging folds of a wonderful, shimmering gown.
Evidently she had not considered the occasion too informal to warrant a
new dress on her own account. Mr. Vandeleur frowned as he saw it, but
his chief irritation was with his daughter. Joan must take after her
grandmother in unpunctuality, he was thinking, for this was not one of
his wife’s many failings. A more amiable expression came over his face
as Maude Dupuy flitted up to him. She looked very fresh and charming in
a little soft, white silk frock. “Now, Mr. Vandeleur, I am going to be
very forward,” she laughed. “If you don’t ask me for the first dance--I
shall ask you!”
The portière was pulled aside and then fell back into its place behind
the latest comer. A sudden stir went through the room. Everyone was
looking at the figure that stood thrown into relief against the dark
velvet of the curtain. Maude gave a distinct gasp. “Oh, doesn’t she
look wonderful!” she murmured almost awed.
Mr. Vandeleur, too, was staring at his daughter as though he had
never seen her before. Indeed, he never had. Could this be Joan,
this brilliant, dazzling creature? Vesta had done his work well. In
deference to tradition the gown was white, or rather a very dark cream,
but otherwise it was daringly unconventional for a débutante’s wear.
The heavy silk fell in long straight lines from neck to hem, hardly
broken by a golden girdle and dull golden embroidery. It emphasized
the finely-shaped, tall young figure and the vivid colouring of the
face. Also the dress was quite décolleté and revealed the unknown fact
of Joan’s most beautiful neck. Perhaps her striking unadornment made
this still more noticeable. She was not even wearing her new necklace,
as Mr. Vandeleur noticed with annoyance. Indeed, his whole sensation
was one of anger. His daughter did not look like a young girl; she had
not come into the room like one. She looked--even in his thoughts Mr.
Vandeleur hesitated. He glanced at her again as she stood with her
flaming cheeks and her great dark eyes, posed in front of the curtain.
Yes, she looked like an actress.
The pause had really only been momentary. Joan came forward and went up
to her father. She put a little box in his hands. “Thank you so much,”
she said, “but I was--afraid to wear it. Will you give it to me later,
when I am older, if you would like to?”
“Miss Vandeleur will hardly remember me,” Mr. Grierson’s voice broke
in. There was a curiously eager note in it for such a blasé society
man. “May I be presented?”
The hush of surprised stillness was broken. Other guests crowded round
with the same object. For Joan’s life at home had been so solitary,
that she knew no men besides her mother’s queer, artistic admirers.
These had been tabooed to-night by Mr. Vandeleur; indeed, Imogen
herself had not been anxious to invite them. Probably they could not
dance, and though this might be an advantage, their dress clothes would
certainly be peculiar. Thus, except for a few of the girls who were
schoolmates, Joan had found herself among strangers. Not that they
long remained so. Although the dazzling moment of the girl’s first
appearance was over, there was no mistaking her triumph. Poor little
Maude’s girlish prettiness was wiped out. Even Mrs. Vandeleur’s far
greater, though somewhat faded beauty, became mere background. Joan, in
the theatrical parlance, held the stage.
After dinner Mrs. Lennox came in to watch the dancing. She was not so
surprised at Joan’s transformation as the girl’s parents had been. Also
she was most naïvely triumphant. Joan had run up to her grandmother
directly she appeared. “Oh, Granny,” she whispered, “it’s such a
surprise after thinking all one’s life that one was hideous to find one
isn’t!”
Joan’s chief enlightenment on this score came, no doubt, from Mr.
Grierson. Although he was now thirty-two, he appeared as impressionable
as ten years before. Before the evening was over he was obviously as
much in love with Joan as he had formerly been with her mother. The
number of times they danced together were better left unrecorded. On
Joan’s side she was really unaware that there was anything unusual
in giving half her programme to one man, although had she known it,
it probably would have made no difference. Their steps suited, and
she enjoyed the link of old association. Moreover, the man’s evident
admiration interested her. She had never experienced anything of the
sort before. It seemed unreal, incredible. She was not sure whether
she liked it or disliked it, but in any case it was enormously
exciting. Whatever happened, she must go on.
It was after Mr. Grierson’s fifth dance that Joan mentioned that she
was leaving for Europe on Friday. The change in her companion’s face
was almost comic. Unconsciously Joan made a mental note of it. So that
was how disappointed people looked. “But by what boat are you sailing?”
he asked. “They don’t go Fridays.”
Joan explained that she was travelling by the Boston route. Poor Mr.
Grierson’s dejection increased. “Then I can’t even see you off. How
long will you be away?”
“A year.” As Joan said the words, she again studied the man’s face with
interest. Then as their eyes met, she had the grace to blush.
It was an unfortunate blush. At the sight of her confusion an eager
pleasure lit up Charles Grierson’s face. “A year is impossible,” he
said. Then after a pause he observed nonchalantly, “By the way, I’m
going to Europe in a couple of months.” After all he did make the trip
most summers, if only to replenish his wardrobe. If this time his
journey were rather earlier than usual, that was no one’s affair but
his own.
Further judicious questioning elicited from Joan her route. They were
to be in Venice for Easter. “I wonder if I could recommend an hotel
there to Mrs. Dupuy,” Mr. Grierson suggested. “I know a stunning one.”
But Mrs. Dupuy had already engaged a suite at the Danieli, Joan told
him. Charlie Grierson surreptitiously scribbled the name on his cuff,
though he felt he was in little danger of forgetting. There was an odd
light in his eyes. The thought of sailing in a gondola with Joan by
moonlight almost intoxicated him.
He was the very last to leave that evening. Indeed, he stayed so late
that Mr. Vandeleur wondered grimly whether he had better offer the
young man a night’s lodging. But perhaps he was so infatuated that he
would accept it! Not that Joan’s father objected to the infatuation,
although he thought it a little too sudden to be quite decorous.
But certainly for Joan to marry young Grierson would be the most
satisfactory solution of the domestic problem and there was no one to
whom he would object less as a son-in-law. It was Imogen who at last
brought proceedings to a close. As the penultimate guest departed, she
yawned delicately behind her fan. “I am afraid my poor nerves will not
let me stay up any longer. Will you kindly ring for my carrying-chair,
John. I am sure I hope dear Joan will never know what it is to pay for
every little bit of pleasure with days of pain.”
“I am glad you have found it a pleasure,” John Vandeleur interposed,
a trifle sardonically, as he touched the bell. Certainly, judging
by Imogen’s martyred expression all the evening, no one would have
guessed it. As the French maid later confided to her cronies in
the housekeeper’s room, “Madame has the tempaire of a mule at all
times--but to-night, mon dieu!”
Meanwhile, his hostess’s retirement had, at last, made Charlie Grierson
realize the lateness of the hour and the emptiness of the rooms. “I
must apologize,” he cried, jumping up in a hurry from a palm-screened
nook in which he had been sitting with Joan. “I’d no idea I was the
last. Good-night, Mr. Vandeleur. Good-night, Miss Joan.” His voice
lingered on the name, and his fingers closed round hers tightly.
Joan did not speak, but looked at him with a curious softness that
almost increased her new-found beauty. “A rivederla,” Charlie Grierson
stammered.