‘The Combine’ was playing at Cincinnati, when one day at the hotel,
Mrs. Lennox happened to take up a publication which devoted itself
largely to the doings--or the misdoings--of the great Four Hundred. Her
daughter’s name caught her eye, and she read, to her astonishment, that
the lovely Mrs. Vandeleur had taken an apartment in Paducah, Kentucky,
and was making a considerable stay there. Mr. Vandeleur did not intend
to accompany her, the paragraph ended rather pointedly.
What in the world could Imogen be doing in Paducah, Kentucky? Mrs.
Lennox had never even heard of her daughter having an acquaintance in
such an unfashionable region--far less of her wanting to live there
herself. It suddenly occurred to her that Cincinnati was on the borders
of Kentucky, and next week they would be playing in Louisville, which
was, of course, the chief city of the State. Could this have anything
to do with Imogen’s strange visit? But if her daughter had wanted to
see them, why had she not come to a town where ‘The Combine’ was being
actually given? Perhaps, however, she had been misinformed; their
itinerary had been changed several times. The thought that Imogen
might have been yearning for her, as she had been yearning for Imogen,
brought a warm rush of affection to the mother’s heart.
But whether or no Imogen had made this journey with the object of
seeing her mother or daughter, the fact of her having made it, pointed
to some sort of breach with her husband; which, indeed, was emphasized
by the sting in the tail of the paragraph. In such a case, Mrs. Lennox
felt, she was absolved from her promise to John Vandeleur. If her dear
girl wanted her, if she were feeling lonely and miserable, nothing
should keep them apart. She would write to her this very minute.
A letter of the warmest love and sympathy had already been dropped
in the mail box when Joan came back from her walk. The grandmother
excitedly showed her the paragraph. The girl was equally surprised,
although the loving interpretation that Mrs. Lennox put upon the
strange departure did not occur to her. “Do you think Mother has gone
on the stage too?” she asked with a laugh. “I always thought she had
a lot of dramatic talent running to waste. It seems a bit hard though
on Father!” As she spoke, she began idly turning over the pages of the
periodical, when suddenly among the advertisements, another item of
family interest caught her eye. “Granny, what do you think? Firenze is
for sale!” A small picture of the house left no room for doubt. “Gee,
there must have been a scrap!” the girl went on slangily. “Mother was
real fond of that hateful place, although Father always loathed it. But
what ever does he want to sell it for? He need not live there, and the
money can’t make any difference.”
This further discovery made Mrs. Lennox still more glad of having
written to her daughter so lovingly. It was mean of John, she felt,
to have taken away Imogen’s favourite residence. She eagerly awaited
her daughter’s reply. Two or three days later she saw in the hotel
rack a familiar mauve envelope addressed in Imogen’s delicate writing.
It seemed incongruous that it should be jostling with all the other
ordinary mail. Snatching it out, Mrs. Lennox carried it off to her own
bedroom and opened it with a beating heart.
She read it; then she read it again more slowly. It was as though she
had been struck. Not that the letter was rude--Mrs. Lennox almost
wished it were. Anything would be better than this frigid decorum.
Her daughter began by thanking her for her kind letter--‘kind,’
when she had put her heart’s blood into it! “I have not quarrelled
with John, as you suggest,” Imogen then explained. “I hope that I
have sufficient self-control never to quarrel with anyone, however
great the provocation. I do feel, however, that John has behaved in
such a manner that I cannot live with him and be true to my higher
self.” So she was taking steps to obtain a divorce, she related in
many unnecessary phrases. Of course, as her mother had guessed, she
was deeply sorrowful and lonely. “But I fear no happiness could come
from the meeting you propose. You and Joan have always shut me out of
your lives; you have always been antagonistic to my friends. Just at
present I am hardly strong enough to bear a hostile attitude. Perhaps
I fear again being swayed by your advice, as I was in the past with
such disastrous results. For even when you urged my union with John,
I mistrusted the step, ignorant child as I was. Not that I doubt your
having acted from the kindest motives, but, dear Mother, love is more
than lucre.”--As Imogen had written these words she had been almost
overcome by their alliterative beauty--“And now, at last, I have found
a friend, to whom I can consecrate the remainder of a life, which, in
view of my shattered health, can hardly be very prolonged. At last I
can experience the holy joy of a union of souls.”
When Mrs. Lennox laid the letter down, her hand was shaking, and there
were tears in her eyes. Then suddenly her sense of humour came to her
aid. A remembrance of that initial interview with John Vandeleur in
her dressing-room at the Chicago theatre came to her mind; she thought
of her anger and despair. And now she was accused of having ‘urged the
union,’ of having sacrificed ‘love to lucre’! She laughed aloud.
Well, she would not show the letter to Joan. The child did not appear
to have any tenderness or illusion about her mother, but if the least
atom remained, she would not be the one to destroy it. So the scented
sheets, torn into very small fragments, were confided to the waste
basket. It was symbolical of the future. Imogen, by her letter, had put
her mother and her daughter out of her life for ever. Now they must
needs put Imogen out of theirs. After all, Mrs. Lennox reflected, she
and Joan had each other. A passion of grandmotherly tenderness filled
her. Thank God for Joan.
Considering the dominant social position held by three generations
of Vandeleurs, the name figured but seldom in the press, for John
Vandeleur, both by training and disposition, abhorred notoriety. So,
although Joan now made a point of studying society papers, she drew a
constant blank. Then suddenly, three months later, some enterprising
‘yellow’ journalist ferreted out the news of the approaching divorce,
and even spoke of the probable transformation of the lovely Mrs.
Vandeleur into Mrs. Lee-Baxter. In addition to this ‘scoop,’ the
reporter had succeeded in obtaining snapshots of each member of
the triple alliance. The press of the country fell gloatingly on a
scandal compromising the hitherto impeccable Vandeleurs, and the news,
together with the photos, was blazoned from ocean to ocean. Joan’s
shocked dismay was merged into commiseration for her father. How
absolutely furious he must be! At the same time she could not help
a certain amusement at the reflection that whatever she might do in
her reprobated career, she was hardly likely to achieve a greater, or
a more disgraceful sensation. She studied the man’s photograph with
interest. “What a beast!” was her terse comment as she scanned the
Senator’s heavy lineaments, and wondered what ‘Mother’ could possibly
see in him. Her mother appeared quite unchanged, but Joan was startled
by the snapshots of her father. They had evidently been taken when
he was unaware; in one he was talking; in another he stood lost in
thought. Could this be Father? the girl asked herself. He had aged
incredibly in one year. He looked so worn, so ill--yes, so unhappy.
The fact that her father might have feelings like other people,
that he grew older like other people, came to her as a revelation.
In her recollection he had always appeared exactly the same, except
that sometimes he was angry. She really regarded him as an abstract,
impersonal force, a sort of natural law with no beginning and no end.
“How old is Father?” she asked her grandmother that evening suddenly.
“Let me see, he was fifty-one when they were married, and you are
eighteen and half. Why he must have been seventy on his last birthday.”
Joan made no further comment, but she seemed thoughtful. Presently she
went up to bed. Seventy, she was meditating, that was very old! Why, in
the Bible they gave three score years and ten as man’s allotted span.
Even if one did live to be older than that nowadays, a person would
feel at seventy that he had not a great deal of life before him. And
to spend it all alone, without anyone to care for, or be cared by--it
sounded rather pitiful. She slowly got out her writing case.
The letter Joan penned was more affectionate than any she had ever
written to her father before. It did, indeed, begin by stating clearly
that she could never give up the stage and that she was sure her
grandmother did not wish to do so either. Granny was quite strong
again, she explained, and had made a big success. They now had plenty
of money. But after this uncompromising beginning the tone changed. “If
ever you cared for me to come home and it did not interfere with my
work, I should be very glad,” she wrote. “We do not act in the summer
months. I would promise not to talk about theatrical matters and I
would try not to vex you in any other way. Do not trouble to answer
now, but if you want me at any time, please write and I will come. I
should like to see you. Your very affectionate daughter, Joan.”
It seemed as though the olive branches tendered by Joan and her
grandmother to the intervening generation were destined to wither
fruitlessly. Mr. Vandeleur did reply, but in the negative. He, like
Imogen, used the word ‘kind’--he was obliged to Joan for her ‘kind
communication.’ He feared, however, that the arrangement she suggested
was impracticable. If, at any time, she gave up the stage, he would be
only too glad to welcome her. He, too, would like it if they could meet
and he remained her affectionate father.
Joan was not pained by the letter as Mrs. Lennox had been by Imogen’s.
Indeed, it is doubtful whether she was not on the whole relieved. She
was taken up by her own life and work, and her father again slipped
to the background of her mind. Had she seen him, the new solicitude
would doubtless have returned. For, as the snapshot suggested, John
Vandeleur had altered amazingly. One cause was doubtless overstrain;
he had worked unceasingly during the four months since Imogen had left
him, leaving the barest minimum of the day for food and sleep. And what
added to the strain was the fact of his work being unavailing. Instead
of retrieving his losses, he was continually increasing them. He could
not but realize himself that he had somehow lost his former grip of
things and people, and the knowledge unnerved him further. He hesitated
when he should have acted--and lost. He acted when he should have
hesitated--and lost again. And yet there was something more to account
for this débâcle than the growing incapacity of old age. To the savage
indifference of Wall Street, John Vandeleur was accustomed, but now an
active, malevolent, unseen fate seemed to dog his steps. It stultified
his projects, queered his markets, seduced his most trusted clerks. And
so his heaped multi-millions melted further.
In March the new Copper Bill came before Congress. It was a necessary
piece of legislation that would benefit the whole country, as well
as, incidentally, the Vandeleur interest. Had it been against the
public weal, Mr. Vandeleur would hardly have fostered it. He had
not the slightest doubt of the bill passing. This was, at last, his
opportunity to ‘make good’ and he plunged with an unusual recklessness.
As he expected, the bill obtained a huge majority in the House of
Representatives. It was just at the end of the session, but everyone
imagined that it would pass through the Senate unopposed. To the
general surprise the new Senator of Kentucky started on an impassioned
harangue against it. He went on and on, his tactics gradually becoming
clear. Finally by means of a rather marvellous fifteen hours’ speech--a
triumph of physical endurance, if of nothing else--the bill was talked
out. The copper market collapsed, falling to unheard of figures. Now,
at last, John Vandeleur understood the ‘dark force’ that had hung over
him during these last months. Lee-Baxter was ‘getting even.’
After that, the wonderful Renaissance house in Fifth Avenue was put up
for sale. Among the few, a whisper was already going round that ‘old
John Van’ was losing, and losing heavily, and this sale gave the rumour
substance. The general public, however, which included Mrs. Lennox
and Joan, had the legend of the Vandeleur millions far too deeply
ingrained for any such doubt. No, they considered that the desire to
get rid of a house so intimately connected with a disastrous marriage,
needed no explanation. The press gave long, if discrepant, articles
as to the site that the copper king was supposed to be acquiring for
a new residence and the marvellous architecture that was to adorn it.
It was reported that an agent had been sent to Europe for the sole
purpose of collecting the very best workmen. Another account related
that the Vandeleur mansion was to be built entirely of marble from
Mount Helicon. Meanwhile Mr. Vandeleur had taken up a temporary abode
at Sherry’s, which certainly did not smack of poverty. Probably the
total result of the change was to increase, rather than to diminish the
popular myth.
Meanwhile ‘The Combine’ continued to pursue its chequered existence. On
the whole it did better on the homeward route, but its success could
only be described as very moderate. Neither Joan nor her grandmother
was sorry when April brought the long tour to an end. Despite Mrs.
Lennox’s unfailing nightly triumph, and her apparently recovered
strength, she had been growing rather weary of the constant change of
place, while Joan was equally weary of the never changing part. “I have
been on the stage over a year and only played in two rôles,” she would
grumble. “How can I learn anything? It’s no wonder the French actresses
beat us to a frazzle. This star system is the ruin of the stage.”
As soon as the tour was over, they made their way, as long decided,
straight to their beloved Wood Haven, only stopping at New York for an
interview with Mr. Hobson. The great little manager, yearly growing
more rotund, was genial and complimentary. “Your play pulled up a
sight better than I expected,” he told them. “But next time we must
induce Mr. Fletcher to give us something that’s more drama
and less sermon. Folks won’t go to church on a week day.” Before they
parted he told them that they were to consider themselves “with him for
life.”
On the strength of a secure engagement for the next season, Mrs.
Lennox rented a little frame house in the forest, a couple of miles
from Wood Haven. The first step was to furnish it, and into this Joan
threw herself with a frenzy of energy and delight. Economy had to be
practised, for although the winter’s salary had been high, the expenses
had also been high; while redeeming the fur coats and other pawned
articles had consumed their savings for at least two months. But
bargain-hunting only added to Joan’s zest. This was the first place
that she had ever really felt her own--a dwelling that she evolved,
instead of having it imposed upon her from the outside. The grandmother
was quite distressed to find how the girl had hated her wonderful
nurseries and schoolrooms fitted with every advantage that art or
science could devise. “They were so strange to me,” Joan said, and
gazed rapturously around the little living room with its colour-washed
walls and cheap print hangings. “This is home.”
Perhaps part of the fun of furnishing had lain in the companionship
of Adam Fletcher. For no sooner had they arrived at Wood Haven than
the playwright also appeared. He stated that it was a nice, quiet
place to do a bit of work which he had on hand, and proceeded to make
an arrangement to board for a couple of months in the summer hotel.
Unless the work to which Mr. Fletcher referred was putting up curtains,
nailing matting, or digging flowerbeds, it is difficult to know when he
found time to do it; for he and Joan pursued these domestic occupations
from morning to night with equal enthusiasm and incompetence. How
young they were, Mrs. Lennox thought, as she heard the gay, laughing
chatter. Indeed, when she remembered the solemn, dark-eyed little girl
of the past, she felt that it was the first time in Joan’s life that
her granddaughter had been young. And the ridiculous mistakes they
made! Mrs. Lennox laughed till she cried when she found Mr. Fletcher
endeavouring to grind coffee in the mincer! Joan on this occasion
assumed airs of scathing superiority, but a few days later, she herself
was heard asking the hired man when the potatoes would be ripe enough
‘to pick!’ “They all seem to be still in flower,” she was complaining
sadly. It was now Mr. Fletcher’s turn to mock. A little bouquet of
potato-blossom appeared to adorn the girl’s place at lunch.
Naturally the renewed irruption of Adam Fletcher into their lives gave
Mrs. Lennox considerable food for thought. There could be no excuse now
of studying a play together. Indeed the reason of Mr. Fletcher’s visit
was not far to seek. Despite the laughing good-fellowship that existed
between them, he was patently in love with Joan. Indeed, the depth
of his devotion was almost comic. When the girl was in the room, his
eyes hardly left her. If she were away, he wandered like a lost soul,
asking plaintively at what hour she would return. “How could you be so
cruel?” he enquired with half-real tragedy when she had made some small
excursion without him.
Although Mrs. Lennox was thoughtful, she was not displeased. If Joan
had to have a suitor, she could hardly have wished for a more desirable
one. Apart from gratitude to Adam Fletcher for giving her the part
of her life, Mrs. Lennox was really fond of him. He was, perhaps,
rather homely in appearance, but she considered him kind, talented,
unselfish--‘good as bread’ was her mental phrasing. Also she was sorry
for him. Mr. Fletcher’s mother had died the previous autumn, and
although they evidently had had little in common, yet at times Mrs.
Lennox thought he felt very lonely. He had no other near relations,
and his hosts of friends, unattached busy people like himself, could
not supply the home element in his life. He lived in some sort of
settlement club in New York, and was obviously very tired of it. “It’s
pretty nice having a little place like this,” he said rather enviously,
as he came into their parlour the first evening after they were really
settled. The room certainly did look rather attractive after the dark
forest outside, for the shaded lamp and dancing woodfire were throwing
their light on great jars of willow catkins and budding maple branches,
which Joan had arranged, and on a pleasant, homely supper table
fragrant with a bowl of brakes and white violets. Chiefly, however, Mr.
Fletcher’s eyes rested on Joan herself, seated on a low stool at her
grandmother’s feet. “As a man gets older he seems to want things of his
very own,” he went on thoughtfully, “despite all communist theories.”
It was, indeed, these same theories that gave Mrs. Lennox the only
pause. They were such a pity, she felt. Had not the insistence upon
socialism in ‘The Combine’ ruined a good play? Still young people got
over things of that sort, especially when they were married. For the
grandmother always regarded these enthusiasms as diseases of youth,
comparable with the chicken-pox and measles of the earlier decade.
Unfortunately Mr. Fletcher seemed to have taken the complaint rather
late and in a particularly aggravated form.
But even Mr. Fletcher’s ‘isms’ did not worry Mrs. Lennox as much as her
granddaughter’s puzzling attitude. How much did Joan care for this new
friend? she wondered with increasing anxiety. That the child enjoyed
his society was evident--why, they spent the greater part of the day
alone together. As soon as the furnishing of the little house was
complete, they had resumed their previous, and even more compromising
occupation of long rambles along the shore and in the woods. Also
Joan must have confided in him a part, at least, of the great secret,
for she now openly spoke of ‘Granny’ in his presence, while he had
substituted ‘Mrs. Lennox’ for ‘Miss West.’ But if matters had gone so
far, the harassed grandmother speculated, why did they not go farther?
No one could consider the present situation as satisfactory. Sooner
or later gossip would be sure to arise. Surely Joan had had by now
sufficient opportunity to make up her mind--besides, in any case, she
had tied her hands. How in common decency, could she refuse a man after
encouraging him so outrageously for months?
At one time it had crossed Mrs. Lennox’s mind that perhaps Mr.
Fletcher’s socialism was keeping the young people apart. If Joan
disagreed with him, it was certain to be with the fierce intolerance of
youth that gives to any intellectual divergence such tragic importance.
But she soon realized that there was no difficulty of this sort. Joan
became nearly as foolish on the subject as the young man himself.
Her granddaughter seriously seemed to share the belief that to give
the State more power would produce a new heaven and a new earth--as
though it did not make quite enough muddle with the power it already
possessed. How enraged John Vandeleur would be to hear such doctrines
from his daughter, the grandmother told herself with a chuckle. For the
views of her erstwhile alarming son-in-law could now be disregarded,
she felt. His last letter rejecting Joan’s overtures evidently meant
that he had cut her off for ever.
But what then could explain the continuance of the present indefinite
relation? Mrs. Lennox remembered having heard that socialists held
peculiar opinions on the subject of matrimony, and so one day she
judiciously sounded Mr. Fletcher, basing the discussion on the most
general grounds. To her relief she found his views quite conventional.
“The present system is mighty unsatisfactory, but it seems to me any
other would be worse,” he said. He was a little amused, for he had
guessed the motive of the conversation, which Mrs. Lennox had tried so
elaborately to conceal. “Anyway I have always felt I wanted marriage
‘in mine,’” he told her with unmistakable sincerity.
Then it must be Joan’s fault the grandmother concluded. Probably it
was on account of her work. Joan wanted to be more firmly established
in her profession before getting engaged. Some remark of the girl’s
about matrimony as a luxury for stars came back to Mrs. Lennox’s mind.
Yes, that no doubt was it. Perhaps some day Joan would burst in with
the announcement of an immediate marriage, just as she had burst in
with the announcement of going on the stage. Fortunately this time,
the grandmother thankfully reflected, she would not be required to
share the adventure. At sixty, one was too old for any more upheavals!
She was, indeed, intensely grateful to Mr. Hobson for having taken
them under his sheltering, managerial wing and so assured their future
whether Joan married or not. It was strange that they had not yet heard
about the new autumn production in which they were to appear, she
reflected.
A few days later the expected letter from the office arrived.
“Oh we are going to tour again in your ‘Combine,’ Mr. Fletcher,” Mrs.
Lennox announced. “They think there is still money in it. Well, I shall
be real glad to get back to that dear old garment-worker.”
“I shan’t.” Joan had started to her feet, the colour crimsoning her
cheeks. “I mean I won’t play Sue any more. Mr. Hobson must get somebody
else.”
“My dear child!” Her grandmother was staring at her aghast. “How can
you talk so foolishly? Of course we must take what Mr. Hobson offers
us. Why, we owe it to him, if only because he has been so honourable in
not telling----” Mrs. Lennox checked herself. If Adam Fletcher did not
know their real identity, she herself was ‘telling.’ “I should think
you’d like to do Mr. Fletcher’s play and feel your work is benefiting
him,” she said instead.
The young dramatist, who was looking exceedingly perturbed, tried to
speak, but Joan interrupted him. “Mr. Fletcher knows how much I admire
his play, Granny,” she said more mildly, and smiled at the hapless
author. “He knows that I just loved playing Sue. But one can have too
much even of her, you know. I feel that I must get more experience,
more--more development. Think of what a lot of plays there are in the
world, and what a few one can do at the best!” She was now frankly
addressing herself to her friend. “Oh, don’t you see, I feel that I
must play and play and play--everything!”
“She is quite right, Mrs. Lennox,” Adam Fletcher broke in eagerly,
shattering that poor lady’s last hope. “She mustn’t play ‘The Combine’
any more. It would be waste.”
“You’re hopeless, both of you!” The grandmother was nearly in tears.
“Can’t you see, Mr. Fletcher, that unless Joan accepts Mr. Hobson’s
offer, he’ll be mad, and won’t give her a part at all? She’ll have the
whole Syndicate up against her. And then she talks of getting more
experience! I tell you it’s Sue or nothing. And very likely if she
refuses, Mr. Hobson will give up the idea of the tour altogether, and
then we shall both be out of work.”
This was a new idea, and it sobered Joan. The Norfolk experience was
sufficiently recent for her to realize the horror of such a prospect.
Unfortunately Mrs. Lennox, in her effort to strengthen her case,
proceeded to weaken it. “And it affects you too, Mr. Fletcher,” she
urged. “Why, I have always heard that an author’s royalties are paid
on the gross, so even if we did bad business, you would stand to gain
pretty considerable.”
“I don’t want to gain!” The young man looked almost as indignant as
Joan. “I would sooner pay the royalty than have Joan stultify her
talent.” In his excitement he did not notice that he had slipped into
the Christian name, which had hitherto been reserved for the strictest
dual privacy. “Why, I feel ashamed already of the amount that comes
rolling in from my plays. It is against my principles to be rich, you
know, Mrs. Lennox,” he went on more lightly; “so you needn’t worry
about my interest.”
Joan had turned and was standing by the window, playing with the tassel
of the shade. Her companions could not see her face. “Thank you,” she
said softly.
But Mrs. Lennox persevered. “_You_ may have plenty of money, Mr.
Fletcher,” she urged, “but we haven’t any at all. Joan can’t afford to
offend Mr. Hobson. How are we going to live?”
Mr. Fletcher was evidently considering the matter deeply. “There is an
actress I know up in Boston, a Mrs. Vincent-Dawe. Her husband is quite
a wealthy man, and they were talking of running a little Shakespeare
repertory theatre next season. Of course it would all be in a very
small way, small theatre, small company, small takings, small salaries.
I wonder----”
“Oh, write to her about me.” Joan had swung round and was clasping her
hands in ecstasy. “That’s just the very thing I want--lots and lots of
work. It would be too heavenly.”
“Well, I suppose you will, at least, have the sense to wait and see
if you get this engagement before refusing Mr. Hobson,” Mrs. Lennox
remarked bitterly.
In answer to Adam Fletcher’s letter, Mrs. Vincent-Dawe asked Joan
to come and see her. So the girl paid a flying visit to Boston--her
grandmother having firmly refused to sanction Mr. Fletcher’s escort.
Joan came back radiant, and poured out her news to the other two as
they were sitting on the piazza. Yes, she was definitely engaged, and
the season opened in October. A fresh Shakespeare play was to be put
on every fortnight. Mrs. Vincent-Dawe would, of course, take the chief
woman’s part, but she was to have the next in importance and sometimes
duplicate, as the company was so small.
“And what is your salary to be?” Mrs. Lennox enquired.
“Oh, thirty dollars--but that is quite enough for us, even if Mr.
Hobson doesn’t take you--and I am sure he will. _You_ were the hit last
season, not I. And just think of the experience I shall get, Granny!
From Ariel to Juliet’s nurse, from the Queen in Hamlet to the witch in
Macbeth! Won’t it be glorious?”
Mrs. Lennox was nearer being irritated with her granddaughter than she
had ever been before. The lack of consideration for ‘Frances West’ was
galling. And then to throw away the lead in a Hobson production and a
hundred dollars a week for a fraction of the salary and minor rôles
under what was practically an amateur management. The child must be
crazy! Why, the money sacrifice alone ought to have kept her from doing
it. But Joan seemed as indifferent to money as she was to love! Really,
she was quite inhuman. For the indifference that the girl had shown
to Mr. Fletcher’s interest in refusing to act Sue, had now finally
convinced her grandmother that she did not care for him. Well, it was a
good thing that the poor young man had now to go off to some socialist
conference and meetings, so that he would be away from Wood Haven for a
time. It was scandalous the way Joan had treated him.
Perhaps Joan was sensible of the disapproving atmosphere, for she now
jumped up. “Oh, what a lovely afternoon!” she cried. “Too good to stop
indoors. Let us go into the woods. How one appreciates them after
Boston! I suppose you won’t come too, Granny?” She lightly kissed Mrs.
Lennox and then wandered out bareheaded, closely followed by Adam
Fletcher.
It was, as Joan had said, exquisite in the forest, for the heat of the
cloudless June day was now pleasantly tempered. They wandered along,
deep in talk about their respective work and plans. At last, Joan said
that they must go home or Granny would be anxious. As they were coming
down the last steep little bit of the wood trail in Indian file, with
Joan characteristically leading, a swaying vine caught in her thick
hair. She stopped, trying to disentangle herself, but failed. “I feel
like Absalom,” she laughed.
Adam Fletcher came to her assistance. As he disentangled the
pertinacious branch, his fingers were trembling. At last he got it
free. He took away his hands. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her hair.
Joan gave a gasp. Then she hurried on at a breakneck pace down the
steep path in front. Was she angry, Adam Fletcher wondered miserably.
He did not try to overtake her. For one thing he doubted his power.
Besides, it would only make her go still faster, and then she might
stumble and hurt herself. Round the next bend their own little garden
came into view, although it was still a considerable way below. Mrs.
Lennox was sitting in it, and waved her hand. Joan now waited until her
companion came up, and they both waved in return. “I am so sorry,” Adam
Fletcher stammered in abject apology. “I didn’t think you would mind so
much.”
Joan smiled. “My work comes first, but I didn’t mind at all,” she said,
secure in her grandmother’s long-distance chaperonage.