Joan had no difficulty in selling _Titania_ for Lady John Bevan, to a
Swiss millionaire, the proprietor of a popular chocolate, who was
disporting himself on the Riviera that winter. The yacht was to be
delivered to him at Corsica, so that when the charming Miss Mordaunt and
her chaperon steamed out of Nice Harbour, none of those who bade them
farewell needed to know that _Titania_ was to be disposed of. If they
found out afterwards, it did not matter much to Joan. After her the
Deluge.
The girl had grown fond of Lady John Bevan, and could not bear to
exchange her friend's warm affection and gratitude for contempt.
Therefore she made up a pretty little fiction about an unexpected
summons to America, and parted from Lady John, with mutual regret, at
Ajaccio. Joan's one grief in this connexion was that Miss Mordaunt
would scarcely be able to keep her promise to write from New York; but
this grief was only one of the rain-drops in that "deluge" which had to
fall after the vanishing of the American heiress.
If she had been prudent, Joan might have come out of this adventure with
a small fortune after sending Tommy Mellis his share of the spoil; but
she had been intoxicated with success, and had spent lavishly, as money
came from the sale of the shares. She made a good commission on the
"deal" with the yacht, which she sold for a somewhat larger sum than
Lady John had asked; but where a less generous young person might have
closed the episode with thousands, Joan Carthew had only hundreds. She
had also, however, many smart dresses, some jewellery, and the memory of
an exciting experience. Besides, the money she kept had been got
easily, in addition to the joy of her adventure.
It had been in the girl's mind, perhaps, that she might, as Miss
Mordaunt, capture a fortune and a title; but in this regard, and this
only, the episode of the _Titania_ had proved a failure. She had had
plenty of proposals, to be sure; but the men who were rich were either
too old, too ugly, or too vulgar to suit the fastidious young woman who
called the world her oyster; and the titles laid at her feet were all
sadly in need of the gilding which a genuine American heiress might have
supplied for the sake of becoming a Russian princess or a French
_duchesse_.
So Miss Mordaunt disappeared from the brilliant world where she had
glittered like a star; and at about the same time, Miss Joan Carthew
(who had nothing to conceal) appeared at her old quarters in Woburn
Place. She went back there for two reasons; indeed, Joan had bought her
experience of life too dearly to do anything without a reason. The
first was because she wished to lie hid for awhile, spending no
unnecessary money until the twilight of uncertainty should brighten into
the dawn of inspiration and show her the next step on the ladder which
she was determined to mount. The second reason was that the landlady--a
quite exceptional person for a landlady--had been kind, and Joan desired
to reward her.
If the girl had not gone back to Woburn Place, her whole future might
have been different. But--she did go back, and arrived in the midst of
a crisis. Since Joan had vanished, some months ago, bad luck had come
into the house and finally opened the door for the bailiff.
Joan found the landlady in tears; but to explain the fulness of the
girl's sympathy, the landlady must be described.
In the first place, she _was_ a lady; and she was young and pretty,
though a widow. Her husband had been the Honourable Richard
Fitzpatrick, the scapegrace son of a penniless Irish viscount.
"Dishonourable Dick," as he was sometimes nicknamed behind his back, had
gone to California to make his fortune, had naturally failed, but had
succeeded in marrying an exceedingly pretty girl, an orphan, with ten
thousand pounds of her own. He had brought her to England, had spent
most of her money on the race-course, and would have spent the rest, had
it not occurred to him that it would be good sport to do a little
fighting in South Africa. He had volunteered, and soon after died of
enteric.
Meanwhile, the Honourable Mrs. Fitzpatrick was at a boarding-house in
Woburn Place, where the landlord and landlady were so kind to her that
she gladly lent them several hundred pounds, not knowing yet that she
had only a few other hundreds left out of her little fortune.
Suddenly the blow fell. Within three days Marian Fitzpatrick learned
that she was a widow, that her dead husband had employed the short
interval of their married life in getting rid of almost everything she
had; and that, her landlord and landlady being bankrupt, she could not
hope for the return of the three-hundred-pound loan she had made them.
It was finally arranged, as the best thing to be done, that she should
take over the lease of the boarding-house and try to get back what she
had lost, by "running" the establishment herself.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had just shouldered this somewhat incongruous burden,
when Joan Carthew had been attracted to the house by the brightness of
the gilt lettering over the door, and the pretty, fresh curtains in the
windows. Joan was nineteen, and Marian Fitzpatrick twenty-three. The
two had been drawn to one another with the first meeting of their eyes.
When, after a few weeks' acquaintance, the girl had been told the young
widow's story, her interest and sympathy were keenly aroused, for Joan's
heart was not hard except to the rich, most of whom she conceived to be
less deserving, if more fortunate, than herself. Now, when she came
back fresh from her triumphant campaign on the _Cote d'Azur_, to hear
that things had gone from bad to worse, all the latent chivalry in her
really generous nature was aroused.
Joan was tall as a young goddess brought up on the heights of Olympus,
instead of at a French boarding-school. Despite the hardships and
wretchedness of her childhood, she was strong in body and mind and
spirit, with the strength of perfect nerves and a splendid vitality.
Marian Fitzpatrick, broken by disappointment, and worn by months of
anxiety, was fragile and white as a lily which has been bent by savage
storms, and the sight of her small, pale face and big, sad, brown eyes
fired the girl with an almost fierce determination to assume the _role_
of protector.
"I've got money," she reflected, in mental defiance of the Fate with
whom she had waged war since childish days, "and I can make more when
this is gone. I suppose I'm a fool, but I don't care a rap. I'm going
to help Marian Fitzpatrick, and perhaps make her fortune, as I mean to
make my own. But just for the present, mine can wait, and hers can't."
Aloud, she asked Marian what sum would tide her over present
difficulties. Two hundred and fifty pounds, it appeared, were needed.
Joan promptly volunteered to lend, on one condition, but she was cut
short before she had time to name it.
"Condition or no condition, you dear girl, I can't let you do it,"
sobbed Marian. "I'm perfectly sure I could never pay. I'm in a
quicksand and bound to sink. Nobody can pull me out."
"I can," said Joan; "and in doing it, I'll show you how to pay me. You
just listen to what I have to say, and don't interrupt. When I get an
inspiration, I tell you, it's worth hearing, and I've got one now. What
I want you to do is to give up trying to manage this house. You're too
young and pretty and soft-hearted for a landlady, and you haven't the
talent for it, though you have plenty in other ways, and one is, to be
charming. My inspiration will show you how best to utilise that
talent."
Then Joan talked on, and at first Marian was shocked and horrified; but
in the end the force of the girl's extraordinary magnetism and
self-confidence subdued her. She ceased to protest. She even laughed,
and a stain of rose colour came back to her cheeks. It would be very
awful and alarming, and perhaps wicked, to do what Joan Carthew
proposed, but it would be tremendously exciting and interesting; and
there was enough youthful love of mischief left in her to enjoy an
adventure with a kind of fearful joy, especially when all the
responsibility was shouldered by another stronger than herself.
The first thing to do towards the carrying out of the great plan was to
get some one to manage the boarding-house in Mrs. Fitzpatrick's place.
This was difficult, for competent and honest managers, male or female,
were not to be found at registry-offices, like cooks; but Joan was (or
thought she was) equal to this emergency as well as others. She sorted
out from the dismal rag-bag of her early Brighton experiences the memory
of a wonderful woman who had done something to make life tolerable for
her when she was the forlorn drudge of Mrs. Boyle's lodging-house at 12,
Seafoam Terrace.
This wonderful woman had been one of two sisters who kept a rival
lodging-house in Seafoam Terrace. The Misses Witt owned the place,
consequently it was not improbable that they were still to be found
there, after these seven years; and as they had not always agreed
together, it seemed possible that the younger Miss Witt (the clever and
nice one, who had given occasional cakes and bulls'-eyes to Joan in
those bad old days) might be prevailed upon to accept an independent
position, with a salary, in London.
Joan had always promised herself that, when she was rich and prosperous,
she would sweep into the house of her bondage like a young princess, and
bestow favours upon little Minnie Boyle, whom she had loved. But Lady
Thorndyke had not wished her adopted daughter even to remember the
sordid past; and after the death of her benefactress, the girl had not
until lately been in a position to undertake the _role_ of fairy
princess. Even now, to be sure, she was not rich, but she swam on the
tide of success, and she had at least the air of dazzling prosperity.
She dressed herself in a way to make Mrs. Boyle grovel, and bought a
first-class ticket, one Friday afternoon, for Brighton. She took her
seat in an empty carriage, and hardly had she opened a magazine when a
man got in. It was George Gallon; and if he had wished to get out again
on recognising his travelling companion, there would not have been time
for him to do so, as at that moment the train began to move out of the
station.
These two had not seen each other since the eventful morning when Joan
had resigned her position as Mr. Gallon's secretary. She was not sure
whether she were sorry or glad to see him now, but the situation had its
dramatic element. George spoke stiffly, and Joan responded with
malicious cordiality. Knowing nothing of her identity with Grierson
Mordaunt's brilliant niece, long pent-up curiosity forced the man to ask
questions as to where she had been and what she had been doing.
"I have an interest in a London boarding-house, and am going to Brighton
to try and engage a manageress," Joan deigned to reply, with a twinkle
under her long eyelashes. "I forgot that you would of course have kept
on the old place at Brighton. I suppose you are going down for the
week-end?"
George admitted grimly that this was the case, and as Joan would give
only tantalising glimpses of her doings in the last few months, and
seemed inclined to put impish questions about the office she had left,
he took refuge in a newspaper. Joan calmly read her magazine, and not
another word was exchanged until the train had actually come to a stop
in the Brighton station. "Oh! by the way," the girl exclaimed then, as
if on a sudden thought. "It was I who got hold of those Clerios I
believe you had an idea of buying in so very cheap. I knew you could
afford to pay well if you wanted them. One gets these little tips, you
know, in an office like yours. That's why I snapped at your two pounds
a week. Good-bye. I hope you'll enjoy the sea air at dear Brighton."
Before George Gallon could find breath to answer, she was gone, and he
was left to anathematise the hand-luggage which must be given to a
porter. By the time it was disposed of, the impertinent young woman had
disappeared. Yet there is a difference between disappearing and
escaping. Joan's little impulsive stab had made Gallon more her enemy
than ever, and perhaps the day might come when she would have to regret
the small satisfaction of the moment.
But she had no thought of future perils, and drove in the gayest of
moods to Seafoam Terrace, where she stopped her cab before the door of
No. 12. There, however, she met disappointment. Her first inquiry was
answered by the news that Mrs. Boyle had died of influenza in the
winter, and the house had passed into other hands. The servant could
tell her nothing of Minnie; but the new mistress called down from over
the baluster, where she had been listening to the conversation, that she
believed the little girl had been taken in by the two Misses Witt next
door.
Death had stolen from Joan a gratification of which she had dreamed for
years. Mrs. Boyle could never now be forced to regret past unkindnesses
to the young princess who had emerged like a splendid butterfly from a
despised chrysalis; but Minnie was left, and Joan had been genuinely
fond of Minnie. She had therefore a double incentive in hurrying to the
house next door.
The nice Miss Witt herself answered the ring, and Joan had a few words
with her alone. She would be delighted to accept a good position in
London; and it was true that Minnie Boyle was there. She had taken
compassion on the child, who was as penniless and friendless as Joan had
been when last in Seafoam Terrace; but the elder Miss Witt wished to
send the little girl to an orphanage, and the difference of opinion, and
Minnie's presence in the house, led to constant discussion. "The only
trouble is," said the kindly woman, "that if I leave, sister will send
the little creature away."
"She won't, because I shall take Minnie off her hands," retorted Joan,
with the promptness of a sudden decision. "Do let me see the poor pet."
Minnie was nine years old, so small that she did not look more than six,
and so pathetically pretty that Joan saw at once how she might be fitted
into the great plan. She could do even more for the child now than she
had expected to do; and because the little one was poor and alone in the
world, as she herself had been, Joan's heart grew more than ever warm to
her playmate of the past. She made friends with Minnie, who had
completely forgotten her, and so bewitched the child with her beauty,
her kindness, and her smart clothes that Minnie was enchanted with the
prospect of going away with such a grand young lady.
"I used to know some nice fairy stories when I was very, very little,"
said the child. "This is like one of them."
"I told you those fairy stories," returned Joan. "Now I am going to
make them come true."