The interview with Mr. Hobson in New York passed off satisfactorily.
He did not seem very enthusiastic about the play, Joan thought, but
he was quite satisfied both with her reading and her grandmother’s,
and the contracts were duly signed. The rehearsals did not start until
September, so Mrs. Lennox and Joan were now free to seek a cooler
place. This they found in Wood Haven, a little village on the coast of
Maine, and here a blissful, quiet month was spent. Joan continued to
work at her part, but in a more temperate manner. She soon regained her
old colour and spirits, while Mrs. Lennox declared that she had not
felt so well for twenty years.
They had not been at this ideal spot many days before Adam Fletcher
suddenly appeared. A proposed camping party had fallen through, he
explained. Besides he had made some small alterations in the play, and
he thought it might be desirable to go through them together. Joan
received him with an enthusiasm, chilling despite its warmth. There
were several points in her part, it appeared, on which she had wished
to consult the author. She had never been so glad to see anyone, she
told him rapturously, but her pleasure took the form of retiring to
her own room with the script directly he had given her the ‘pointers’
she required. Still she could not work the whole day long. The morning
was devoted to study, but after that she idled. She and Mr. Fletcher
joined the gay bathing parties on the shore, or went for boating
picnics, or long tramps in the woods. At first Mrs. Lennox accompanied
the two young people, but she had never been fond of exercise, and
she found these expeditions tired her. A rocking chair on the piazza
was infinitely more comfortable. Besides the young man would only be
staying a few days. When the days prolonged themselves into weeks and
finally his departure was postponed to correspond with theirs, Granny
began to wonder!
But although Joan and Adam Fletcher became increasingly friendly,
they did not become anything more. The girl, and perhaps Mr. Fletcher
as well, seemed almost too much taken up with the play to be able
to think of living people, even of themselves. Soon they were all
three back in New York and in the thick of rehearsals. Joan was now
absolutely absorbed. She had no eyes or ears or any sense for anything
but ‘The Combine.’ With some trouble she found a working girls’ club
and insinuated herself into it, not as a helper, but as an actual
member. Her accent and her phraseology became so deplorable that
her grandmother wondered whether they would ever recover. Had the
daily rehearsals not precluded it, Mrs. Lennox felt sure that her
granddaughter would have sought a job as a real garment worker in her
desperate pursuit of perfection.
It was doubtless this same spasmodic capacity for taking infinite
pains, that caused Joan to come to the first rehearsal letter perfect.
Mr. Wright, the producer, nearly fainted away! The author was obviously
pleased, but Mrs. Lennox betrayed some annoyance. “Who ever heard of a
leading woman knowing her words?” she scolded Joan afterwards. “That’s
not the way to reach stellar eminence!” A more sensible objection to
the innovation was the certainty of cuts. “Besides, you want to get the
words and action together,” the grandmother added.
“I didn’t think about cuts, but I have got the words and action
together, Granny. I can see every movement right through the play.”
The girl certainly seemed to be amazingly definite. She was so sure,
that Mr. Wright largely followed her ideas. “She’s star material of the
first rank,” he told his chief.
Perhaps it was on account of this report, that the great little manager
came down to rehearsal the next day. Up till then Mr. Hobson had taken
small interest in the play. As he frankly told the author, he did not
think the piece would be a financial success. Indeed, it was probably
only gratitude for the phenomenal takings of Adam Fletcher’s previous
play that had made him stage it. The young man reminded him that ‘The
Under Dog’ also had not at first been viewed with managerial optimism.
Might not Mr. Hobson be equally mistaken with regard to ‘The Combine?’
“That’s so.” The fat little manager gave his comfortable laugh. “I
don’t pretend to infallibility. You may be all right, Mr. Fletcher,
and I may be all wrong. Still I can’t see the play somehow. But don’t
let that worry you. Whatever my opinion may be, the play is going to
be staged in a manner worthy of a Hobson production. And you’ve picked
your own leading woman--you can’t want more. No, I don’t go back on my
offer to buy all your time.”
An evident flutter went round the company when it was known that Mr.
Hobson was in the parquet, witnessing the rehearsal. Even Joan was
conscious of it, and it keyed her up to do even better than usual. The
great manager sat in silence, and then bustled off directly the piece
was over. “That’s always his way at the first rehearsal,” she was told.
The next day he came again. This time directions came constantly from
the dark auditorium. They were usually in so low a tone that they had
to be repeated by Mr. Wright. At first Joan resented the deference that
was being paid to this fat, Buddha-like little man sitting in his easy
remoteness. She quickly realized, however, the ability of the criticism
which pierced its jerky and illiterate delivery. Soon she found herself
listening eagerly for Mr. Hobson’s suggestions, even when they did
not concern herself. Though the great manager could not act at all,
he seemed to have an uncanny instinct for dramatic errors in others.
Once there was an argument between him and Joan over some proposed
alteration. “Just try it my way,” he suggested pleasantly. She did, and
had to confess it an improvement.
At last, after three weeks of strenuous work, the great first night
arrived. Joan had never been so excited in her life. Not only did her
own interest depend on the success of this evening’s performance, but
the interest of her grandmother, of all the other actors, of Adam
Fletcher, of the great Mr. Hobson himself, of the property boy, the
supers, the scene shifters, the carpenter, the man who worked the
spot light, even of the orchestra! The excitement felt by each of
these individually, resulted in a huge, cumulative excitement unlike
anything Joan had experienced before. Probably Mr. Fletcher’s socialist
doctrines expressed in the play increased the girl’s consciousness of
this community of feeling. Together with her artistic individualism
was now mingled a wonderful sense of co-operative effort, which was
probably her best preparation for the rôle she had to play. It was
truly a ‘combine.’
And ‘The Combine’ succeeded; of that there seemed no doubt. Even the
socialistic speeches, about which Joan had been a little dubious,
called forth loud applause. The great scene with her grandmother
received an ‘ovation.’ Again and again she and Mrs. Lennox came forward
to bow. The third act went well, although perhaps not quite as well.
Still there were loud and prolonged cries for the author at the end.
When Adam Fletcher reluctantly came forward, leading Joan by the hand,
they were greeted with a storm of clapping. In answer to the calls for
a speech, he said a few words on his creed. “If this play should make
the life of even one sweated garment worker more tolerable, I should
feel it a success,” he told them with a rather noble simplicity. Again
a thunder of cheers swept the house. Joan was transported with joy.
“Isn’t it too lovely?” she cried as the curtain finally came down.
“Granny, we’ve got a success, a real success!” She flung her arms
around her grandmother’s neck, kissing her rapturously. Then she turned
to Adam Fletcher, who was standing near, and put her hands in his. “Oh,
Mr. Fletcher, I am so glad, so very, very glad.”
Mr. Hobson and Mr. Wright suddenly appeared on the stage. They were
talking earnestly and with ill-omened seriousness. Mr. Hobson smiled,
however, as he came near. “Fine,” he said to Joan in a kindly tone.
“You never gave a better performance. Miss West, there wasn’t a dry
eye in the house at the end of your big speech. Mr. Wright”--his voice
changed suddenly--“please see that no one goes home without knowing
that a rehearsal is called for to-morrow.”
“A rehearsal!” Joan exclaimed in surprise. “Are we going to have a
rehearsal? Why, I thought it went so well.”
“Well is as well does--Mr. Fletcher, can you spare me a little time
to-night? Unless we can find some way of cutting those socialistic
disquisitions, the play won’t run a week.”
“Won’t run?” Adam Fletcher echoed in amazement, while Joan stood by
too astounded to speak. “I suppose the audience applauded to show its
disapproval then?” the young man enquired ironically.
“The audience applauded because, for the most part, they were your own
socialist gang. Unfortunately they ain’t numerous enough to support
my theatre. I know what I’m talking about, Mr. Fletcher; wasn’t I up
in the gallery? I tell you, apart from your cranks and highbrows, the
audience found all that trade union talk downright tiresome. Of course
they applauded you when you came on, if only to show they knew you’d
written ‘The Under Dog.’ And Miss North too. I’m not denying that both
of you scored a personal success. Your little speech was beautiful,
just what was wanted, but that ain’t going to carry the play. You see
what the box office says about it to-morrow night!”
“I am not going to hack about my work!” The sudden request, after the
strain of the evening, was proving too much for the dramatist’s usually
equable temper. “I didn’t write for the box office, and I don’t care a
hang what it says.”
“Well, _I_ do then!” Mr. Hobson gave his genial laugh and laid his hand
soothingly on Mr. Fletcher’s arm. He was unexpectedly fond of this
young visionary, who was so unlike most of the men he came across. “My
dear fellow, no one wants you to hack about your work, but if you could
pull it together a trifle here and there--you’ll know how. Otherwise, I
tell you, even Miss North’s acting isn’t going to save us. I wish you
could have seen your way to making Sue a wee bit more sympathetic,”
he went on regretfully. “A line or two would do it, just to show she
really did feel for that old worker, don’t you know? The audience want
a woman with red blood in her veins, not a Statue of Liberty exuding
noble principles. And the ending--it wants uplifting. I’ve always
mistrusted a falling curtain.” The two men went off together, the
unfortunate author still protesting that he would rather have a failure
than mutilate his play.
The next morning’s papers proved the sagacity of Mr. Hobson’s insight.
For the piece was universally condemned, the “New York Journal” even
coming out with a bold headline, “Fletcher’s New Play a Frost.”
Perhaps, indeed, the critics would have run down any play by this
author in their reaction from the adulation lavished on ‘The Under
Dog.’ They had also clearly been annoyed at having had to listen to
nearly three hours of a thinly-veiled socialist tract. As regards
Joan the notices were far more laudatory. As one critic wrote, “Miss
North has evidently been caught up in the Hobson star machine, and
she will deserve her success. For quiet, reserved strength we hardly
know her equal.” Another wished the heroine “better luck in the next
starring vehicle,” for they all agreed that the character of Sue
was unsympathetic. It was probably on this account that the highest
encomiums were reserved for Miss West. Joan was delighted at her
grandmother’s success, even while she was naïvely surprised. “What do
you think of this, Granny?” she asked, and read triumphantly: “Miss
Frances West’s touching representation of the old garment worker will
awaken a responsive echo in every heart. Why has this talented actress
not been seen before on Broadway?”
But in spite of the sympathy aroused by Miss West, in spite of Joan’s
steady brilliance, in spite of Mr. Hobson’s rigorous cutting--or
perhaps because of it, as Adam Fletcher maintained--the play was a
failure. The public was evidently puzzled and uneasy at this new type
of heroine who put a cause before human affection, and, as Mr. Hobson
had said, they found the sermonizing an unmitigated bore. For in this
play there was little of the heart interest and none of the dramatic
thrill that had successfully formed the jam to render ‘The Under Dog’
powder palatable. Here Fletcher had offered his medicine openly--and
the public refused to take it. The box office receipts fell lower and
lower. After two weeks the theatre closed suddenly and the piece was
sent on tour.
It now did a good deal better. For once in his life Mr. Hobson
‘featured’ the author, the play being everywhere billed as the
successor to ‘The Under Dog.’ This at least ensured a good opening in
each town. Moreover some weeks ‘The Combine’ achieved a certain success
on its own account. In Pittsburg they had rising receipts, and on the
Saturday night played to capacity. Cleveland was satisfactory. Then
followed a dreary succession of poor houses and indifferent audiences.
But Denver, for some unknown reason, violently espoused the production.
The week’s takings ran into eight thousand dollars. It proved a
‘life saver,’ causing Mr. Hobson to alter his previous intention of
cancelling the tour.
But the hope that the play would raise Joan to the ‘stars’ was doomed
by the New York failure. Had it been another ‘Under Dog,’ she might
have had her name up in that Broadway heaven of electric lights before
the season was over. Now her stellar début appeared indefinitely
postponed. Even if Mr. Hobson gave her another New York appearance, the
best she could hope for was to be put opposite some male star, and even
this was improbable. She would more likely have an ingénue part.
But Joan did not worry very much about the future. She had thought
that the initial failure meant the end of the play, and her relief
when she found that this was not so, quite eclipsed all other feeling.
For despite the public’s disapproval, the girl herself liked her
part; she wanted to go on playing it. Her rendering could still be
improved, she felt. To abandon it before she had reached her highest
level would be maddening. The touring made her anxious with regard to
her grandmother’s health, but apart from this, she was not sure that
she did not prefer it. To have a different audience every week, that
took up different points for applause, or laughter, or disapproval was
supremely interesting. It gave a certain solidity to her performance,
she felt.
Despite Joan’s fears, Mrs. Lennox did not seem to find the travelling
too tiring. The fact was, touring on a joint salary of a hundred and
seventy-five dollars a week was a very different matter to touring
on twelve. They could now afford to pay for the cushioning of life.
Moreover the tour was a transcontinental one. Christmas would find them
in California, which, from Mrs. Lennox’s point of view, seemed ideal.
But, probably, the chief factor in the grandmother’s well-being was
her continuous success. For in whatever else the audiences differed,
they were all alike in their appreciation of the pathetic figure of
the elderly garment worker. Each night a tearful audience frantically
applauded Miss West at the end of her big scene, calling her again and
again before the curtain. It almost seemed, as Joan suggested, that
the public had an unconscious feeling of wanting to make up to the old
needlewoman for her life of toil and self-sacrifice, and of mitigating
by their affection the cold severity of Sue’s decree. “I don’t believe
they appreciate your acting one bit, Granny,” the girl laughed; “they
just think it’s you.” However this might be, Mrs. Lennox pursued a
shining, watery way across the continent.
If uneasiness about her grandmother was the one thorn in Joan’s present
life, uneasiness, not about her granddaughter, but about her daughter,
was the one thorn in Mrs. Lennox’s. It was not hard for Joan to forget
an indifferent mother for whom she cared so little, but it was not
easy for Mrs. Lennox to forget her only child. For although they had
grown estranged of late years, Imogen was, after all, the little baby
who had come to her in a time of black distress; she was the exquisite
fairy child who had danced like a sunbeam through those strenuous
years of touring life; she was the beautiful girl-bride who had clung
to ‘Mother’ in an agony of apprehension during the months before her
baby’s birth. What was Imogen doing now? came ceaselessly to Mrs.
Lennox’s mind. Did she miss them? Was she well? Although in the past,
Mrs. Lennox had rightly felt that her daughter’s invalidism was largely
a pose, she now reminded herself that, eleven years ago, it had started
in a real and painful trouble, which had been courageously concealed.
Had she throughout judged Imogen too harshly? Mrs. Lennox wondered.
Perhaps the growing alienation had been her fault. But though she had
her daughter so much in her thoughts, practically there seemed nothing
to be done. For she felt in honour bound not to communicate; that had
been in spirit the original pact with John Vandeleur. Only why did not
Imogen write to her, Mrs. Lennox asked herself, or had she too made
some promise? Her daughter must have known of their appearance in New
York. Even if she did not recognize Joan under her stage name, the many
notices of ‘Frances West’ could hardly have escaped her attention.
Surely she might have found some means of getting into touch.
The truth was that Mrs. Vandeleur had not written, simply because she
had not the faintest desire to do so. From the first, the theatrical
adventure had struck Imogen as a blessed relief. The early distaste
she had felt for her daughter had grown with years, and a crowning
touch had been put to it by Joan’s triumph on the night of the
dance. A little more, Imogen felt, and she would hate this tall,
dark girl who was called her daughter, but who had always seemed to
her a contemptuous and hostile stranger. Her affection, too, for her
mother, which had once been quite genuine, had since evaporated.
Here again Joan was largely responsible, for Imogen had always been
desperately jealous of her mother’s love for the child. Indeed the
contrast between Mrs. Lennox’s admiring devotion towards Joan, and
the humorous and rather scornful tolerance that she accorded to the
lovely Mrs. Vandeleur, was patent to all, and, perhaps, would have
awakened resentment even in a more generous nature. Nor could John
Vandeleur’s attitude afford his wife much rehabilitating satisfaction.
He was by nature rigidly honest, and when he had once discovered the
artificiality of Imogen’s character, he despised her for it far more
than her mother ever could or did.
Probably nothing could have been much worse for Imogen’s spiritual
development than this attitude of contemptuous indifference on the part
of those nearest her. After all, she had only been seventeen when she
married. Had her husband and her mother guided her more cleverly, had
they tried to take her at her own valuation, they might have brought
out her finer qualities and produced a less ignoble woman. Instead,
Mrs. Lennox concentrated her love upon little Joan, and John Vandeleur,
in his disappointment, grew not only bitter towards his wife, but
unfair. He told himself that she had never cared for him, that she had
had no thought but for his money; he failed to realize that her craving
for the money had been so intense as genuinely to glorify in her eyes
the elderly husband who brought it. During that first year of marriage
Imogen had been really attached to ‘old John Van,’ as well as deeply
grateful to him for being so rich. Her baby’s birth had then come, with
the pain and subsequent ill-health, and had set up a repulsion towards
the man who had occasioned it. Probably if John Vandeleur had taken as
much trouble over his wife’s fluctuations as over those of the copper
market, he could have overcome the feeling. He did not try, and the
breach between them widened.
Loneliness, boredom, and perhaps resentment had subsequently caused
Imogen to take up Society, and she had become conscious of the charm
of masculine society. “My family does not care for me,” she used at
that time to lament to successive admirers with a certain truth. Thus,
shadowed by domestic disapproval, the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur felt
herself forced along a path that constantly deepened it. If her own
family did not appreciate her, then she would fall back on others who
did, she told herself angrily. The worshipping young artists were first
called in, more as a salve for her wounded self-esteem than from a
desire for sex excitement.
Lately, however, this new and far more dangerous element had come into
Imogen’s life in the shape of Senator Lee-Baxter. That the Senator
should be attracted, was not surprising, for Mrs. Vandeleur was still
beautiful despite her thirty-eight years, but that Imogen should be
attracted by the Senator, a gross, middle-aged, business man, was more
remarkable. It may, indeed, have been his very grossness that appealed
to her. For Imogen was growing tired of her artists, tired of all
their posing and pretences, and incidentally of her own. After a life
of make-believe, her whole being clamoured for something real. She
was sick to death of always attitudinizing, although she did not know
it. The admiration of her usual adorers was of a vapid, reverential
character. Before she grew too old, she wanted to provoke a dominant,
elemental passion. At times she had been afraid that she was too old
already. In the morning, prior to her maid’s magic ministrations, she
often looked quite elderly and faded. But the Senator had dispelled
her doubts. Unlike her young artists, he saw through her pretences, he
gauged the value of her sham delicacy, her pretended reticence; unlike
her own family, he could penetrate without despising. On the contrary,
he laughed and kissed her with a still rougher passion, calling her a
damned clever little fraud. For Mr. Lee-Baxter did not worry about his
lady-love’s soul; it was frankly her body that he desired. Sometimes
Imogen felt it an unspeakable relief to be with someone who was no
better than she was herself--who was, indeed, a good deal worse. The
man’s masterful bearing fascinated, even while it frightened her. She
was more in love with him than she had imagined she could ever be with
anyone. Where would it end, she wondered, with a half-delighted terror.
For with a man of Senator Lee-Baxter’s temperament an end of some sort
could not be long postponed. So far, Imogen had been able to avert a
climax, though discretion was the better part of her virtue. The same
prudence had made her absolutely refuse to run away with her lover,
as the Senator continually urged. For Imogen’s new passion had not so
clouded her native shrewdness as to make her trust the man to this
extent. No, any happening of that sort must be prefixed by a legal
marriage. With this end in view, she toyed with the idea of taking
steps to get a divorce from John. In Kentucky, the Senator’s own State,
she learnt that six months’ habitual behaviour by a husband indicating
aversion to his wife and causing her unhappiness was a sufficient
ground for divorce. “For me there have been sixteen years of such
suffering, not a mere six months,” Imogen was beginning with a sigh of
pensive sadness, when Lee-Baxter engulfed her. “Why should a lovely
woman like you to be tied up to a parchment-faced Methuselah? That’s
grounds enough,” he said hoarsely.
It was just at this time that ‘The Combine’ opened in New York. Imogen
did notice that her mother was to appear in it, and, she supposed,
with an acute jealousy, that the heroine must be Joan. Indeed, she
could not repress a certain pleasure at the run of the play being cut
short. It would do her daughter good, she felt spitefully; Joan had
always been conceited. But, anyway, she could not trouble about other
people’s affairs, when her own were so critical. Did she, or did she
not, want this divorce? She really did not know. That is, she did not
know in her calmer moments when she was alone and unswayed by the
Senator’s almost brutal love-making. Although Imogen did not respect
her husband--indeed, she considered him an exceedingly tiresome old
man, who would grow still more tiresome with advancing years--she
had retained the very greatest respect for his apparently limitless
wealth. Mr. Lee-Baxter was wealthy too, of course, but not at all to
a comparable extent. Oh dear, what was she to do? Was ever poor woman
so tried in the struggle between love and duty?--for that was how she
phrased it.
But while Imogen was thus dallying with the situation, events shaped
themselves. There had already, indeed, been some minor accidents.
On two occasions, the inopportune entrance of a servant had broken
short a compromising embrace. But although the domestics had no doubt
gossiped among themselves, the incident evidently did not come to
her husband’s ears. Indeed, why should it? Mr. Vandeleur was not
particularly popular with his entourage, while the Senator scattered
largesse freely. Moreover the servants realized that the certain result
of any disclosure would mean, from one cause or another, the loss of
a good situation. With regard to visitors, Imogen was safe, for she
had given the strictest orders that no one was to be admitted while
the Senator was there. So only John remained, and from him, Imogen
felt, there was no danger. Unless her husband was out of New York, Mr.
Lee-Baxter only called in the daytime, and, from the Fifth Avenue point
of view, John Vandeleur was then non-existent. Only two or three times
during their whole married life had he come back in office hours.
But one afternoon the unexpected happened. It was about half-past
three when Mr. Vandeleur let himself in at the front door to the
scarcely-concealed astonishment of the footman in the hall. “Is Mrs.
Vandeleur in her boudoir?” he asked.
The man hesitated. “I am not sure, Sir. I will see.” He started to go
upstairs.
The curious expression on the man’s face had not been lost on his
master. “It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Vandeleur said sharply. “I am going
up in any case.” He did not consciously tread more softly than usual,
but he was a light weight and the thick pile of the stair-carpet dulled
his steps. He reached the first landing and gently pulled aside the
portière.
Imogen was lying on her usual couch, her head turned away. On a low
chair beside her sat Lee-Baxter. His thick arms sprawled across her
recumbent form, while his face was buried in the curve of her neck. She
was wearing a ‘rest gown’ cut low.
John Vandeleur gave a slight exclamation of disgust. It seemed
inadequate to the situation, but disgust was his only sensation. He
felt as though he had accidentally stepped on something dirty. He
walked across the room and pressed the bell. Presumably his ejaculation
had been heard by the affectionate couple, for when he looked round,
the Senator was standing in a normal attitude at some distance from the
couch. Imogen’s face was still invisible, for she was holding up a fan
ostensibly to screen her eyes.
The man servant, impelled by curiosity, had followed his master almost
to the top of the stairs. So, directly the bell rang, he came in
eagerly. “Senator Lee-Baxter’s hat and coat,” John Vandeleur commanded.
“If Senator Lee-Baxter calls again Mrs. Vandeleur is not at home.”
The Senator had been red before, now he grew almost purple. He had been
prepared to have a scene with the husband, but to be thus humiliated
before a flunkey made him feel that the reparation was due to himself.
He was a powerful man and physically courageous; and it was with
difficulty that he contained himself. He would indeed have made short
work of John Vandeleur, who had never been athletic and whose seventy
years had changed his former spareness almost to emaciation. The
young footman also would probably have been easily mastered. But, as
Lee-Baxter knew, there were two or three other men-servants within
call. Although, at that moment, he would have given his entire fortune
to wring John Vandeleur’s wizened neck, he managed to control his rage.
“I’ll be even with you for this,” he shouted, and marched downstairs.
As soon as they were alone Imogen began to weep. “Oh, my poor heart,”
she moaned; it was indeed beating tumultuously; the shock, for once,
had been real. As her husband did not speak, she went on whimperingly:
“You must not draw false conclusions. Senator Lee-Baxter came to-day to
tell me about a bill that he is going to introduce. Although you think
me so brainless, he considers me very clever. He says my opinion is
extremely valuable to him.”
“Please spare me these imbecilities.” John Vandeleur could hardly
trust himself to speak. “For the future you will dispense with Mr.
Lee-Baxter’s acquaintance or discontinue residing in my house.”
“But I tell you there has been nothing really wrong between us,” Imogen
began indignantly.
He waved her down. “I am absolutely indifferent as to whether there has
been anything really wrong, as you call it, or not.”
Imogen stared in genuine surprise. “John, how can you be so immoral?”
she said indignantly. “You don’t deserve to have a good woman for
your wife.” Probably Mr. Vandeleur himself at another time would have
deprecated his speech. The fact was, the whole incident had given him
such a feeling of nausea, that the difference between the more or less
really became immaterial. “Of course you can prevent Mr. Lee-Baxter
coming here,” his wife went on spitefully, “but I fail to see how you
can prevent us meeting elsewhere.”
“You overlook the existence of our justly celebrated detective force.”
Mr. Vandeleur was trembling with anger. “I merely repeat that if you
meet that man you will find this house closed to you on your return.”
He abruptly left the room.
The conversation was not re-opened. Two days later, while Imogen was
still debating as to what she should do and lamenting the difficulty
caused by the possession of extraordinary beauty--“like poor Helen of
Troy,”--she happened to see in an evening paper the sale announced of a
large house at Long Branch. Curious to know whether it belonged to any
of her friends, she began to read the advertisement. The description
struck her as familiar. Suddenly she came to the name--Beau Site.
A perfect fury seized her. So this was how John was trying to pay her
out! He was probably in the library. She rushed downstairs. “How dare
you sell Firenze! How dare you!” she cried. “I suppose this is your
revenge because another man admires me.”
“Kindly do not indulge in histrionics. Do you suppose I care enough
about you to have any desire for revenge?” John Vandeleur carefully
blotted the letter he was writing. “As it happens I had come home on
purpose to discuss this subject with you the day before yesterday, when
I so inopportunely interrupted your tête-à-tête. I am selling Firenze
because I cannot afford to keep it.”
“What? You cannot afford it?” Imogen thought that she could not have
heard aright. Surprise quite obliterated her previous rage. In their
twenty years of married life, it was the first time the word had ever
crossed her husband’s lips. She had always thought of his wealth as
a boundless, inexhaustible sea of gold into which she could dip and
dip without leaving any impression. “Not afford it?” she repeated
incredulously. “What do you mean?”
“Surely the words are simple. Firenze is too expensive. It costs
too much. I have not sufficient money.--Probably even you are aware
of there having been a great financial crisis last year. I lost
incredibly. Since then I have formed the Vandeleur Syndicate, as you
may possibly have heard. Although I hold the majority of the shares, my
profits will not be as great as in the past.”
Imogen had turned pale. “Not afford Firenze?” she murmured as though
dazed. “But perhaps then you won’t be able to go on affording even this
house?”
“At present I can do so. I will let you know if such a time occurs.”
Mr. Vandeleur took up his pen again. “You need not fear real poverty,
Imogen,” he added in a more kindly tone. “You will always be what
most people would consider well-to-do. I have made that secure. And
possibly I shall be able to retrieve the disaster. This largely depends
on my being able to keep it from becoming known. At present no one
suspects--or rather they do not suspect the magnitude of the loss. I
must ask you therefore to treat the matter as absolutely confidential.”
This revelation was the last straw, Imogen felt. John spoke of
retrieving his loss, but she felt certain he would not be able to do
so. The fact was, he was growing too old, she reflected contemptuously.
She herself had noticed of late a distinct decrease in his former
vigour and decision. Instead of weakness appealing to Imogen’s
protective instinct, as it would with most women, it merely aroused her
antipathy. John could no longer compete with virile men in the prime of
life--such as Mr. Lee-Baxter. Well, if she must consider expense, if
she would only be ‘well to do’--an odious phrase--it should not be in
the company of a doddering septuagenarian.
Although this was the decision Mrs. Vandeleur reached, she did not word
it in this crude fashion, even to herself. A mist of noble sentiments
transfigured her selfish plan almost into a renunciation. Great mental
play was made of finding herself indispensable to the happiness of a
distinguished man, of aiding him in his life’s work. Had John needed
her, of course, she would never, never have left him. But doubtless,
with his crabbed and fidgety ways, he would actually prefer to live
alone. At this point a tiny tear rolled down Imogen’s cheek. How
pitiful it was to be so forlorn, so unappreciated, when she had always
tried so hard to do her duty. First her mother and her only child had
abandoned her, and now her husband. Regardless of herself she had ever
striven for the good of others--why, even now she would be condemned
to pass long, dreary months of solitude in some barbarous Kentucky
town in order to fulfil her mission. Afterwards, indeed, a happier
prospect might open before her, but no one could imagine it was her
own happiness that she was seeking. No, she only wished to devote her
life to a great man’s welfare, to taste with him the divine communion
of spiritual love. All this, and much more, she poured out in a scented
epistle to the Senator--she had already informed him fully of her
husband’s financial troubles--and she concluded by remarking that John
would be away the following week, so if her ‘Beloved’ came to New York,
they could together make the necessary plans for her departure.
The Senator laughed as he read the letter over his breakfast table in
his Washington apartment. “She’s a devilish lovely woman,” he murmured,
“but what a lot of words she takes to say that she wants a good hug!”