Joan did not appear again in ‘Vivi.’ But during the remaining three
weeks of the tour she continued to live and even to save on her salary.
The sensation of being entirely self-supporting brought her a distinct
joy. She now patronized the theatrical boarding house in preference
to the cheap hotel--the cost might not be lower, but the living was
certainly higher. Indeed, it would have been impossible for her to
go on as during the fortnight at Norfolk. Apart from a deepening
disfavour in the hotel staff due to her penurious meals, the girl had
found herself growing languid and perceptibly thinner. The fare at the
boarding houses, although inelegant, was usually ample. She wondered
regretfully why her grandmother had shunned these establishments. There
would have been at least another hundred dollars in the bank. She did
not guess that she was the cause of Mrs. Lennox’s abstention. The fond
grandmother had shrunk from the mixed boarding house society for her
cherished child.
It may have been the more liberal diet that now brought back Joan’s
self-confidence. The money problem ceased to worry her. The girl never
wavered in her confidence as to her ultimate success, but now the
immediate future also seemed to smooth out. As soon as the tour was
over, she would return to Norfolk to make more economical arrangements
for her grandmother and then go to New York. At a theatrical agency,
her flaming critiques, would, of course, secure her an immediate
engagement--what else were theatrical agencies for? She still could not
understand Mr. Clark’s indifference in the whole matter. Probably the
manager himself in his less love-besotted moments had some prickings
of conscience. After a performance such as Joan had given, his duty
to the management had, of course, demanded that he should urge her
immediate engagement. Instead he had not even reported the success.
One day, at Washington, in the last week of the tour, he happened to
come across Joan at the theatre, and nervously murmured something about
Mr. Hobson wanting her for the next season. “Yes, I know,” the girl
replied; “but I must get an engagement at once.” She went on to explain
that in consequence of this, she might not be free in the autumn.
“Oh, of course, in that case----” Mr. Clark acquiesced hurriedly, and
the subject dropped.
It may have been as a salve to his conscience, or merely to relieve
Miss Bransom a day sooner of the understudy’s noxious presence, that
Mr. Clark was so unusually liberal when he heard of Joan’s proposed
return to Norfolk. Her contract only specified that the tour should
terminate in New York. The stage manager now not only waived the
condition of her travelling there with the rest of the company, but
even handed her a mileage ticket that almost covered her journey to
Norfolk and back. “It is little enough,” he stammered in reply to her
thanks.
Joan was still farther heartened on reaching Norfolk to discover
the progress that her grandmother had made during her absence. Mrs.
Lennox was naturally still weak and easily tired, but it was clearly
unnecessary for her to remain longer at a nursing home, even if they
could have afforded it. Dr. Strachey again came to the rescue in
recommending a family who lived at Virginia Beach, an ocean pleasure
resort some fifteen miles out of the city. These people did not take
boarders professionally, but he thought they would welcome a solitary
paying guest. This was arranged, and the terms of fifteen dollars a
week seemed so moderate compared with the fifty at the home, that
Joan hardly remembered they had equally not got it. This time her
grandmother’s fur coat went the way of her own. The weather had turned
so mild that its departure seemed only a disembarrassment.
Another incident that marked the few days the girl spent at Norfolk,
was a letter from Maude Dupuy. In Joan’s initial letter to her
father she had asked that any correspondence might be forwarded to
her grandmother’s bank, which they had kept duly notified of the
many changes of address. But hitherto she had received practically
nothing--who, indeed, was there to write to her? Maude had been her
only real friend at school, and Maude, she imagined, was too hurt by
her desertion to make any sign. So she was overjoyed to get the letter.
When she had finished it, she was more doubtful about her feelings.
Certainly it was a great surprise! For after a page of plaint over her
friend’s absence, Maude related that Mr. Grierson had suddenly appeared
in Venice expecting to meet Joan. He was terribly disappointed, Maude
said, and they had had to console each other. This they had done so
effectually that they were now engaged. Maude was evidently in the
seventh heaven of happiness. She hoped that some day this joy would
come to her darling Joan. ‘Charlie’ was the dearest person in the
whole world. She did not know how she should bear it when he went back
to America. They were to be married the following year. It was so
wonderful that he should care for her!
So that was over, Joan reflected soberly. Mr. Grierson was now holding
Maude’s hand and bidding her ‘a rivederla.’ She had not thought much
about her whilom adorer during the three months of tour--indeed, she
had not had the time--but he had remained in the background of her mind
as a pleasant and devoted figure. Well, her work was quite enough to
fill her life, she told herself. She was very, very glad that Maude was
so happy.
The first step in Joan’s programme was coaxing her grandmother over to
the idea of an unchaperoned visit to New York. As she had expected,
Mrs. Lennox was horrified. She insisted that a young girl like Joan
could not stay there alone; she would have to come too.
“But, Granny, you aren’t strong enough yet,” the girl remonstrated.
“You know that you would only be ill.” She pointed out further that she
would certainly get an engagement within two or three days, and no one
could tell to what part of the States it might take her. Suppose she
had to come straight back South! How absurd it would have been then
for Granny to have had the long and expensive journey for nothing.
Her final argument, to which Mrs. Lennox yielded, was to produce the
address of a New York boarding house for ladies only, at which Mr.
Montgomery’s wife had stayed.
In addition to the name of the boarding house, Joan had also obtained
from the kind little man, details as to the best dramatic agency--it
never even occurred to her that she might have to do with more than
one. So the morning after her arrival in New York she confidently
sallied out to find it. The office was fairly full. Several smart
ladies were sitting in rocking chairs, while two or three men of
indeterminate age, and belonging to the theatrical type she could
already recognize, were standing idly about. They all seemed to
know each other, Joan noticed, and were carrying on an animated
conversation. A sensation of being an alien immigrant assailed her as
she advanced to the wire fence that railed off half the room. Despite
her secret discomfort, her manner was assured. This and the perfect
cut of the spring suit she was wearing, seemed to impress the haughty
employees on the other side, for one of these young ladies, merely
pausing to give her hair a couple of pats, sauntered slowly forward.
“Kindly take my card to Miss Hoskin,” Joan observed.
“You’ve got an appointment, I presume?” There was a slump in the girl’s
civility as she heard there was no appointment. However, another
appraising glance at Joan’s Fifth Avenue costume seemed to have a
subduing effect, and the damsel disappeared with the card. Joan herself
subsided into a chair--a mere, plain, stable one--a little apart from
the other women, who eyed her with a slightly hostile curiosity, and
went on talking. They seemed to be discussing plays, new and old, and
there were several references to ‘The Under Dog.’ What a run that dog
was having, Joan reflected humorously. She unfolded a newspaper that
she fortunately had bought on her way.
After a wait of more than an hour, during which several of the
assembled company departed, Miss Hoskin came out from an inner room.
She seemed to be on friendly terms with the assembled Thespians, for
she walked round and had a little chat with each. At last she came to
Joan. Perhaps Miss Hoskin, too, was impressed by the girl’s appearance,
or perhaps the sublimity of her position as boss did not need the
reinforcement of rudeness, for on hearing her errand, she graciously
invited her into the inner office. Joan followed, quite unaware of the
unusual privilege, or of the slightly-elevated brows of the established
rocking-chaired ladies.
Miss Hoskin looked surprised when Joan related her very limited
theatrical experience. She was beginning to say that this was hardly
the right agency, when the girl produced her Norfolk clippings. These
were evidently mollifying. “They are very good, very good indeed,”
Miss Hoskin murmured. “Perhaps you have friends among the Virginian
pressmen?” She gave Joan a sharp look.
“Certainly not. I don’t know any journalists at all.” Joan flushed
angrily.
“Oh, it does one no harm to have a little influence of that sort,”
Miss Hoskin deprecated. “Well, you certainly have wonderful critiques,
Miss North, but the trouble is our New York managers don’t pay much
attention to the provincial press.”
“But I can’t have a New York press until I have appeared in New York,
and apparently I can’t appear in New York until I have had a New York
press!” The absurdity of the position restored Joan’s good humour. “It
is like a man who would not go into the water until he could swim,” she
suggested laughingly.
Miss Hoskin also smiled. “Well, call again in two or three days and I
will see what I can do for you,” she told her.
Joan was intensely surprised at finding herself in the street again
without a definite engagement. However, her confidence was still
unshaken. It kept her from even approaching another agency before her
return to Miss Hoskin’s a couple of days later. This time the principal
did not see her. “Miss Hoskin is sorry, but she has not heard anything
for you yet,” one of the superior young ladies behind the wire fence
informed her. “Will you call back again in a few days’ time?”
New York was evidently not on tiptoe to acclaim a new actress. The
names starred in fire outside the Broadway theatres seemed daily more
incredibly aloof. She had better try one of the other agencies, Joan
realized rather soberly. Indeed, during the next few days she tried
them all. For the most part she was received politely enough, her name
entered, and she was asked to call again. When she called again, it was
always to be told that they had heard of nothing yet. Once or twice she
was sent to see managers, only to hear, to her stupefaction, that she
was not suited for the part. The number of stairs she toiled up and
down in these days would, she was sure, have totalled into millions.
Why theatrical agencies were not approached by elevators, like all
other offices she could not imagine. At last she solved the riddle; the
elevators had all worn out! Gradually the ‘two or three days,’ of which
she had spoken to her grandmother, dragged into weeks.
Although it was still only May, the weather had suddenly turned warm.
The feminine boarding house, with its perpetual clatter of high-toned
voices and pervasive smell of cooking, grew almost unendurable.
The agencies were even worse, packed with anxious and perspiring
applicants. Either the heat, or the perpetual negative, began to get
on Joan’s nerves. She grew white and got up each morning feeling even
more tired than when she went to bed. Her assurance deserted her just
when she most needed it. The incredulity she had felt at not getting
an engagement began to change into an incredulity of ever getting
one. Like her treasured Norfolk cuttings, she felt herself becoming
dingy and worn. How she had got to loathe these fulsome encomiums
as she heard them run through _sotto voce_ by successive agents in
her presence. Certainly no New York manager could have had a greater
contempt for them than she acquired!
And yet other people got engagements, other people who, she felt sure,
had not a tenth of her power--that was the curious part of it! Apart
from the occasional celebrity, a denizen of another sphere, who trod a
haughty way straight through the waiting room into the inner office;
apart from the aristocracy of the rocking chairs that sat fanning
itself in one or two of the most select agencies; apart from such
superior beings, mere humdrum, unknown applicants like herself, with
not a tithe of her appearance or distinction, seemed to get taken while
she was left. By the end of May the waiting crowd perceptibly thinned.
All this time the girl had been existing on her best evening dress
and the gold brocade cloak that had won Mr. Chalfont’s undesirable
admiration. Like an inverse crustacean, Joan consumed instead of
forming her successive protective coverings. She had thought herself
lucky in thus raising fifty dollars, but the sum was melting away at
an uncomfortably rapid rate even at the extremely economical boarding
house. And, after this, she had nothing left to pawn. Her outfit for
Europe, although costly, had not been large. It would be madness, she
felt, to part with the business asset of well-made clothing in order
to buy inferior substitutes, and a dubious gain even pecuniarily. Of
course, her grandmother still possessed objects of luxury, but she
would sooner starve, Joan felt, than touch one cent accruing from these.
For the girl’s earlier careless acceptance of her grandmother’s
sacrifices had, since the illness, been replaced by a rather
dramatically exaggerated sense of her own responsibility. Whatever
happened, Granny must be maintained in, at least, her present state of
comfort. The poor lady’s words when she heard of the refusal of Mr.
Vandeleur’s offer had bitten deeply into Joan’s consciousness. “Oh, my
dear child,” Mrs. Lennox had cried with tears of weakness welling into
her eyes, “I do wish you had discussed the matter with me before taking
such a decisive step.”
“But, Granny, you were too ill to discuss it.” A sudden horrible fear
had seized the girl that perhaps for the second time she had sacrificed
her grandmother. “How could we have accepted Father’s offer when he
wanted us both to promise to give up the stage for ever?”
“No, I suppose not.--Of course, you must go on with your career,
darling,” Mrs. Lennox had reassured her. “It is only that I get so
tired since my illness. Sometimes I wonder whether I shall ever play
again. I am afraid your poor old Granny is only a drag on you, dear,
instead of a help.”
It was this episode that made Joan glide so lightly over her
discouragements in her frequent letters to her grandmother. Indeed Mrs.
Lennox still had the impression that Joan was on the point of getting
a first class engagement, when the girl, in despair, was contemplating
posing for the films. She had a long struggle with herself. The cinema
had not then attained its present gilded respectability, and she felt
such work a degradation, a prostitution of her art. However, for
Granny’s sake she decided to make the sacrifice--only to find that
no one would accept it. The film managers did not even get as far as
reading her notices. “You may be all right in ordinary drama,” they
told her bluntly, “but that don’t make you any good for us.”
When June came and the girl found that she had only twenty dollars
left in her purse, a sudden panic seized her. It was not so much for
herself--she had no doubt that she could somehow worry through--but
there was Granny. Already Mrs. Lennox’s fur coat must have been
consumed; indeed the doctor’s bill had accounted for more than half
of it. Of course, Granny still had her onyx ring. Also in the three
trunks, that Joan had now got out of storage, there were a good many
things with which her grandmother could comfortably part. But one would
not be able to raise much on these odds and ends, Joan realized with
her newly-acquired wisdom. She felt sure that all together they would
not pay Granny’s fifteen dollars a week for four months. Well, for the
time being she must give up the stage and look about for a lucrative
job.
As a first step she would get back again to Norfolk, while she still
had the money for the fare. She must be near Granny to look after her
and see about pawning the ring. Even if Granny had been well enough
to come to New York, she wanted to get away from the constant nervous
dread that had seized her here of meeting her father whenever she
went out. Besides, she supposed that domestic service was her obvious
opening, and she knew that in the South white labour was at a premium.
A dramatic realization of herself in a neat, white apron, earning
fabulous sums, passed before her eyes.
During the long railway journey, unalleviated by a sleeper, the girl
had plenty of time in which to think out her plans. The possibilities
of the Jamestown Exposition from the money-earning point of view came
into her mind. One of the nurses at the Home in Norfolk--a terrible
gossip--had chattered to her about a friend who was going to be a
waitress there. “She expects to make quite a good sum by the end of
the summer,” the nurse had said. Apparently a lot of girls would be
engaged in this capacity, while peanuts would be sold, tickets taken,
and wheel-chairs pushed by young fellows earning their college fees.
Well, why shouldn’t she be one of these girls? Joan now asked herself.
It would be far pleasanter to have daily work than to live with a
strange family. Of course, the Exposition had been opened since she
went to New York; possibly they might have got all the waitresses they
needed. Her soaring optimism, however, refused to be depressed. Nor did
her entire lack of experience weigh with her. She felt certain that
she could do anything of which a friend of Nurse Brown’s was capable.
How lucky it was, it occurred to her suddenly, that she had _not_ had
a photograph to give to the pressmen after her solitary triumph. It
would never have done for a star, however transient, to be handing iced
drinks! But without the photograph she was safe. No one could possibly
know ‘Vivi’ again without the make up. She remembered the nice,
unknown young man’s astonishment, and odious Mr. Chalfont’s start of
surprise. And, as for recognition in her own capacity, her circle had
hitherto been so limited--the girls at school, the guests at her small
coming-out dance, a few friends of her parents, and of the Dupuys. How
unlikely that any of these would just happen to come to the restaurant
where she was employed. And if they did, it would never occur to them
that John Vandeleur’s daughter could be waiting on them. At the most
they would comment on the likeness. Of course, she on her side, would
not give any sign of recognition. Whatever the managers thought, she
could act well enough for that! She would study the proper accent, the
proper way of doing the hair, all the accessories for the part of a
waitress. Her spirits rose at the dramatic possibilities of the new
occupation.
This time Joan’s confidence in herself was more justified. There
had been an unexpected rush of visitors in the first month of the
Exhibition, and the sudden hot weather had strained the resources
of the buffets to their utmost. The new type of ‘manager’ whose
acquaintance she now made, was only too glad to secure the services
of such a respectable, capable-looking girl. “Oh, you’ll soon pick it
up,” he replied to her frank confession of inexperience. “Start right
in to-morrow morning.” The hours were ten to nine, with an hour off
during the afternoon. Food was provided, and the nominal pay one fifty
a week. “But, of course, you may make anything in tips,” the manager
assured her. “Why, some girls get three or four dollars a day if they
are smart.”
It sounded an El Dorado after her recent experiences. Evidently
waitresses were in more request than actresses. She might even be able
to pay for Granny herself without pawning anything else. On her arrival
in Norfolk the night before, the girl had gone to her old hotel, but
now she set out to find a furnished room in the neighbourhood of the
Exhibition. She was rather startled at the rents they were asking
in these ramshackle little houses, many of which had been merely
temporarily run up. Still it would be no economy and a great waste of
time to take the car four or five miles into Norfolk each day; and
the other cities, such as Newport News, Portsmouth and Hampton, were
even further. At last, she found a clean, little room in the house of
a respectable old carrier and his wife. The charge here was a little
lower--four dollars a week. Moreover a vague, glittering prospect of
limitless tips seemed to justify the expenditure.
All this time poor Mrs. Lennox was not even aware that her
granddaughter had left New York. For Joan knew very well that her
scheme would be opposed, and so wished to present it as a _fait
accompli_. Now, with all her arrangements settled, she started off for
Virginia Beach. It was quite a little journey from the Exhibition, and,
worse still, an expense. But, in any case, the girl told herself, her
work would have prevented her visiting Granny more than once a week.
Mrs. Lennox’s delight at seeing her at first precluded questioning.
Joan was equally enraptured, both at being with her grandmother and
at finding her looking so much stronger. Granny seemed to like her
‘family’ very much; indeed, they must be nice people Joan felt, when
they all tactfully withdrew and left her and Granny alone together.
How pleasant it was, sitting rocking on the shady piazza, with a
cooling breeze coming from the ocean, and the humming birds--tiny,
prismatic flashes in the sunshine--darting their beaks into the white,
trumpet-shaped blossoms of the broad-leaved creeper. The peace was soon
shattered by the bombshell of Joan’s announcement.
“My dear child, it is impossible!” Mrs. Lennox gasped. “You cannot go
as an ordinary waitress. What would your father say?”
“I’d love to hear him say it! Why, Granny, I am going to enjoy myself
enormously. Think of what a lot of funny people I shall see, and how
interesting it will be to get all those new types! It is an open air
buffet, you know--such a relief after four weeks of stuffy agencies.
But I do wonder what happens when it rains? Do we just swim round
to the customers dressed in neat, little bathing suits with trays
balanced on our heads?” At last, after a good deal more of this
laughing chatter, the girl succeeded in winning her grandmother’s
reluctant consent. Indeed, as her refusal would obviously have made no
difference, Mrs. Lennox probably felt that in this way her authority
would be best preserved.
The work at the buffet was certainly not so terrible as Mrs. Lennox
had imagined. At first standing all day was tiring, but Joan soon
adapted herself. If she was a waitress, her ambition forced her to be
a star waitress; she was unfeignedly delighted when she found herself
outstripping all the others. “Why you want to fly around so, my dear,
I can’t imagine,” one of the other girls protested. “It makes me real
tired to look at you. Let the customers wait! It don’t harm them any.”
Certainly Joan’s activity could not be explained by her desire
for pecuniary gain, for in this respect, the job was an utter
disappointment. She got, of course, her specified pay, but the three or
four dollars a day in tips, which the manager had dangled before her,
were a figment of his imagination. None of the girls at this restaurant
received anything like it, and Joan, despite her ‘smartness,’ received
the least of all. The fact was her lofty manners and evident refinement
made people nervous of ‘feeing’ her. She was too superior, they felt.
But, indeed, the clientèle that patronized the buffet had not the
tipping habit. Most of them were humble folk, teachers, storekeepers,
farmers, cotton agents, who would have been insulted to receive a
monetary gratuity themselves and considered it equally insulting to
offer one. The waitresses were their equals--not niggers to have
surreptitious dimes and nickels slipped into their palms. Occasionally
a couple hailing from New York, or hardened by European travel, would
leave a quarter beside their empty plates. Once a gilded youth tried to
press a dollar bill on the good-looking waitress, but Joan almost threw
it at him in her indignation. Indeed, she soon decided that the people
who wanted to fee her were the only ones she did not want to serve!
For, on the whole, she liked the customers, she liked their kind
patience, their blunt courtesy. Often when she was carrying a heavy
tray, some man would rise and silently take it out of her hands. Had
she been there as Miss Vandeleur she could not have been treated with
more politeness. She was even amused by the constant enquiries to which
she was subjected with regard to the Exposition. Its distinguishing
features, according to the handbills, were the great “naval rendezvous”
and “the exploitation of history.” On both of these subjects Joan now
found herself constituted an authority. “Say, Miss”--an anxious seeker
after knowledge would begin, and then a string of questions followed.
By retailing scraps of information gleaned from previous customers,
Joan usually managed to come out successfully. A favourite tit-bit, she
discovered, was the value of the fighting craft in Hampton Roads--“two
hundred and fifty million dollars,” she would announce impressively,
“and double that amount on gala days.” “You don’t say?” the awed
interlocutor would exclaim, and hurrying to the shore line, gaze at the
multi-million spectacle with rapt enthusiasm.
But although Joan liked her work, its financial aspect began to
be acutely worrying. Far from paying for her grandmother, it was
all that she could do to support herself. For there were many
incidental expenses that she had forgotten--aprons to be bought and
laundered--shoes--these wore out at an appalling rate. She had never
known before that it was possible to have boots mended--but now the
discovery became a commonplace! Every other week a pair seemed to
need soling, and what a lot it cost! With a new enlargement of her
sympathies, she wondered how poor people managed who had several
children, each with two feet!
Often the thought came to her of giving up this job and getting
something better paid. But she had no time to look for other work, and
she dared not give notice on an uncertainty. Besides what else was
open to her? For domestic service a reference was necessary, she had
discovered; how, in her peculiar position, was she to procure one?
Factory work of any sort would spoil her hands--she was not vain, but
nice hands were a stage necessity. And, after all, would factory work
in the end bring in more money? Here, at least, she got her food and
plenty of it. Indeed, too much! At times the constant sight and smell
of things to eat and drink quite sickened her. Would she ever enjoy a
meal again? A diet of meat lozenges became her epicurean ideal.
As the summer went on, the position grew more trying. The restaurant
was shamefully understaffed; rushing around in the intense heat became
almost unbearable. Certainly the greater number of the customers
now ordered sodas and ice cream, and these were cool and pleasant
to handle, but some misguided folk still demanded their planked
steak, or pork and beans, even for the sweltering mid-day meal. Pork
and steak with the thermometer over a hundred in the shade! Joan
used to speculate in dejected amazement over their salamander-like
constitutions. For herself, she grew to eat less and less--now that
she could have all she wanted free of charge! She had never in her
life experienced such heat. July had always found her at Firenze, or
in the mountains, not grilling down South in Virginia! Her buffet was
at some distance from the shore line, but from it she could see the
blue water. It added the tortures of Tantalus to her toil. Oh, how she
longed to plunge into the sea, to have it cover her all over, to be for
once cool. Even the hated Long Branch took on an alluring aspect in her
memory!
It was not only the heat that tried her; the whole Exposition had got
terribly on her nerves. She hated the noise, the crowds, the gritty
paths, the tawdry unreality. At night the place was really rather
beautiful with its lagoons and white buildings outlined with myriads
of tiny electric lamps, while the ships in the roads took up the same
starry effectiveness, and great searchlights played over the whole
with weird solemnity like pointing fingers of fate. But the beauty,
instead of soothing, only galled Joan further. What was the use of it
all? she asked herself impatiently. Scenic effects should be a means
and not an end. This was a dead playhouse, a theatre without a soul.
The fact was that perhaps for the first time in Joan’s life, she was
experiencing an attack of intense depression. Her sanity and coolness,
inherited from her father, had hitherto almost concealed an artistic
temperament, but now this had asserted itself. The present was
intolerable and the future worse. Her drab outlook gradually deepened
to an inky sable. She was losing her courage--she knew it herself--and
it was almost the last thing left to lose. Everything belonging both
to her and to her grandmother was slowly being pawned. The last time
she had been to Virginia Beach--a rare luxury nowadays--Granny had said
that she meant to give notice. She could not wish for a nicer family
to board with, but the financial position was becoming impossible,
particularly as her ring had proved a disappointment. If Joan wanted
to try the stage again--the girl had here been conscious of her
grandmother’s wistful, interrogatory look--then she too, Mrs. Lennox
said, must find some method of earning her living. The fact was, that
with returning strength, the grandmother was shedding her apathetic
acquiescence. Did Joan think they would employ an old woman at the
buffet? she asked.
Joan had exclaimed in horror at the idea. Indeed, it would have been
absolute folly. Mrs. Lennox was already looking pulled down by the
heat. If she felt it resting there quietly in the pleasant, shaded
house, it was inconceivable that she could stand being a waitress in
the hot, bustling Exhibition. But what then was to be done, Granny
insisted. They simply had not enough, either in cash or in goods, to
carry on like this for another two months. If she did not work, at
least she must come and share her granddaughter’s little room. That,
in itself, would be an immense economy. Joan, knowing the oven-like
properties of her abode, again demurred. There was hardly a scrap of
green round the house and no screens to the windows. Granny would
certainly fall ill in such a place. And where was she to get her meals?
At last, after much persuasion, Mrs. Lennox consented to wait until the
end of the month before giving her hosts notice.
But as Granny had said, what was to be done? The decision, though
postponed, was not avoided. Joan asked herself the question with
growing despondency during the next few days. How were they to get on
until the autumn? And even if they managed it, would it be of any use?
For the girl had heard nothing from Mr. Hobson. Mr. Walker had told
her in his earlier letter that the great man was returning from Europe
early in July. So to make sure of not being forgotten, on the first of
July Joan had written to him. That was three weeks ago. Her letter had
not even been acknowledged!
But there was a still deeper shade to the gloom, a lower circle to the
Inferno. If Mr. Hobson did give her an engagement, was it in the least
likely that he would give her anything but a small part? She would be
lucky if she got fifteen dollars a week. How was she going to support
Granny in any decent comfort and keep herself on that sum? It was very
unlikely that Granny would be strong enough to tour in a piece herself,
even supposing she were able to get an engagement. Oh, why had she
persuaded Granny to ‘elope’? Out of sheer selfishness she had broken up
Granny’s comfortable life, she had exposed her to all this hardship,
she had nearly killed her. Well, she was being punished now, the girl
reflected bitterly. If Granny had not been there, she would have
been able to win through. Why hadn’t she had sense enough to ‘elope’
alone? Her father would not have been so unfair as to stop Granny’s
allowance, if she had known nothing about the project. At the worst he
could only have made Granny promise never to see her--and how often did
they meet now? She had seen Granny five times in the last three months.
At last one night Joan’s despair reached its climax. She got out of
bed--it was far too hot for sleep--and began to write to her father.
The letter showed a business-like instinct that should have appealed
to Mr. Vandeleur. For the girl had determined that if she had to give
up her career, she would get a good price for it. The terms that her
father had offered her before were fair enough, but they were not
lasting. For herself she did not mind; but she meant to have a clear
understanding with respect to her grandmother. So she wrote, with a
vague recollection of the phraseology in her theatrical contract, that
if her father, John P. Vandeleur, would settle on Mrs. Lennox her
former allowance unconditionally for the term of her natural life,
then she, Joan Vandeleur, the third contracting party, would agree
to renounce all idea of appearing on the theatrical stage, such an
undertaking on her part to be terminated either by the decease of the
aforesaid John P. Vandeleur or of the aforesaid Frances Lennox. As she
appended her signature to the queer, semi-legal document, she suddenly
pushed it aside and buried her face in her hands. “But I can’t bear
them to die--not even Father,” she sobbed wildly, “and if they ever
did, it would be no use. For I’d be much too old by then, much, much
too old. I am losing it all, I am losing everything. I am giving up my
life.”