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Transcriber's note:
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CINDERELLA JANE
by
MARJORIE BENTON COOKE
[Illustration: CINDERELLA JANE]
* * * * *
_Books by the Same Author_
BAMBI
DR. DAVID
THE DUAL ALLIANCE
THE GIRL WHO LIVED IN THE WOODS
* * * * *
CINDERELLA JANE
by
MARJORIE BENTON COOKE
Author of "Bambi," "The Girl Who Lived In The Woods," Etc.
[Illustration]
With Frontispiece in Colors
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers
New York
Published by Arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company
Copyright, 1917, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
[Illustration: CINDERELLA JANE]
CHAPTER I
It was the Pageant of the Prophets which gave Jerry Paxton his first
chance. There were several links in the primrose chain of fortune which
led him from the first opportunity to the last. The first and most
important may be said to have been Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, who opened
her house for a portrait exhibition. She had an eye for men as well as
for art, so when handsome Jerry appeared, she annexed him. The second
link was Jerry's sense of dramatic values, which made him play up to
this somewhat elderly siren. The third was the gods, who had ever smiled
on Jerry Paxton.
It was a season when all the society clubs and leagues were spending
themselves and their money in lavish spectacles of all kinds. There were
Balls of the Gods and Pagan Routs, Persian Ballets and Greek Friezes,
personified by the very best people, and some of the second best.
Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, who was socially elect, headed an eager and
earnest group of ladies of her set, who desired to outdo all previous
efforts in a mammoth affair, which would provide woollen underwear for
the Belgians, or something equally practical and unpoetic. She happened
to mention her dilemma to Jerry, as they sat at tea in Mrs. Brendon's
drawing-room a week or so after their first meeting.
"We can't seem to think of anything which has not been done," she
complained. "We have people to be in the thing, people to produce it,
people to come to see it, and all we need is----"
"Brains," said Jerry daringly.
"Have you any?"
"I have a couple of lobes."
"Have you them with you?"
"There is at least one in good working order, and at your disposal," he
laughed.
"Think of something new for us to do."
"If I supply the idea, will you make me director?"
"We'll make you prime minister, court chamberlain, anything you like!"
"Good. The thing will be called the 'Pageant of the Prophets.'"
"What prophets?"
"The old Biblical ones, but we'll draw on the entire Bible for our
characters. We will build a palace throne room, Pontius Pilate's
perhaps, or King Herod's, very gorgeous and beautiful. We can have
groups, and friezes, and scenes; the costuming has infinite
possibilities. We can have music and singing pilgrims. We can have
dancing Salome, with her dripping head. Oh! it will be one magnificent
spectacle!"
"You are a genius!" cried Mrs. Brendon.
"Granted. Then what?"
"We will have you do it all. You shall design the whole thing, and
direct it. Draw your plans and submit your terms. You are elected right
now."
"You are in earnest?"
"Never more so."
"Then accept my services as a poor return for your excellent tea."
"Nonsense. That is a pretty speech, but you have to earn your own
living, don't you?"
"Alas, yes."
"Then there is no reason why you should donate time and brains for
nothing. This is a business proposition. Will you take it?"
"With both hands and a grateful heart."
"You'll have to use both lobes of that boasted brain," she laughed.
"What shall I be?"
"Herodias, beautiful wife of King Herod," said Jerry without hesitation.
"We'll give you a costume that will dazzle 'em!"
"You shall paint me in it."
"Delighted."
"This has certainly been a lucky day for me. I'll call the directors in
the morning, Mr. Paxton. We'll make our plans while you work out yours.
Then we'll meet with you, and appoint our committees at once. Can you
begin right away?"
"If I can postpone some portrait sittings. I shall do my best."
"If they are women sitters put them in the pageant, that will keep them
busy. We must have you at once."
"That's an idea. Au revoir. You have given me an eventful afternoon. My
thanks."
As he walked down the avenue toward his studio, Jerry's mind was in a
whirl. The tap of his feet on the sidewalk made a time: "If I put this
through, I've arrived. If I put this through, I've arrived." It was dusk
when he climbed to his quarters and he hummed as he went. He threw open
the door and rushed in. The big room was dark, save in the far corner,
where a lamp was lit, with the shade off, so that an ugly glare lighted
the face of the woman who sat beside it, mending socks.
"Ah, Miss Jane Judd, is that you?"
"Good afternoon," she answered, not looking up.
Jerry sang gaily as he dumped his belongings on the divan. He lit a
cigarette, and laughed aloud involuntarily.
"Have you ever had _delirium tremens_, Miss Judd?" he demanded. She
looked up without reply. "I've got a case right now."
She went on with her work. He glanced at her, marked how the shadow from
the lamp accentuated the bold modelling of her face, bringing out its
mask-like quality.
"I suppose you don't deal much in emotions," he added.
She neither smiled nor answered. He laughed at the idea himself.
"Jane Judd, conversationally, you are about as satisfactory as 'a
bloomin' idol made of mud.'"
"You do not engage me to talk," she answered, in a low rather dull
voice. "You engage me to work."
"So I do, but some day I am going to pay you double rates for your
thoughts. A silent woman is a menace. I'm afraid of you."
A rat-a-tat-tat came on the door.
"Come in," called Jerry gaily.
An odd, boyish-looking girl stuck in her head.
"At home, Jerry? What's the celebration?"
"I've got a job, Bobsie, a big, cash-in-hand kind of a job, and I'm
trying to raise a spark of human response in the frozen buzzum of Jane
Judd."
"Oh, is this your Jane day? Hello, Jane," she added, seating herself
comfortably. "Go ahead, Jerry, let's hear."
He told her the story, in some detail, with touches of his own. He was
so boyishly elated over it that she was fired with some of his
enthusiasm.
"But look here, Jerrymander, how about the big mural designs? How about
my portrait? This pageant won't get you anywhere."
"Won't it? You should have heard me tell the Abercrombie Brendon that I
would try my best to put off my portrait sitters. You, my dear Bobs, are
my portrait sitters."
"It will ruin your winter's work. They'll pick your brains, that crowd,
and take your time, and you can whistle for your money."
"I wasn't in kindergarten yesterday, Bobs. I know a thing or two about
the dear rich. They will pay-as-we-go, one good big deposit down in
advance."
"Get you all out of the work spirit--make you yearn for the flesh
pots."
"Well, Bobs, I never did choose a diet of figs and thistles."
"That's just the trouble with you. It's nip and tuck all the time
between the artist and the senses, Jerry. That uptown crowd can ruin you
for good."
"Dear old Bobs! If they ruin me, I'll come to you for a scourge. Let's
go to Buffanti's for a celebration. We'll get Chat and Jinny for a
foursome, what? Are the Chatfields at home to-day, Jane?" he added.
"Yes; I was there this morning," she answered.
"Come on, old wailing banshee!" he cried.
"All right; but I don't like it, just the same. This very night may mark
the grave of Jerome Paxton, painter."
"Well, think up some jolly epitaph and we'll sing it in our cups. Don't
dree, Bobs; you're as bad as Jane."
At his mention of her, they both glanced at the silent bent figure, so
indifferent to their presence.
"Time to close up, Miss Judd; we're off to dinner," said Jerry.
She quietly rose and put away the mended things. She set things to
rights, as noiseless as a wraith. The other two went on talking and
laughing, until she came toward them in her hat and coat.
"What do I owe you?" Jerry asked.
"Just for to-day."
"I haven't any change. Can you let it go until next time?"
"No," she said simply.
"Well, old Shylock, here's five. Consider yourself paid as long as that
lasts."
"I don't wish to do that. I'll bring you change."
"Bother you, Jane Judd; what difference does it make whether you get it
all at once, or in driblets?"
"Here, Jerry, I've got it even. You owe me," Bobs said.
"All right; much obliged."
Jane hesitated a moment, then took it with a bow, and went to the door.
"Good-night, Jane Judd," said Bobs.
"Good-night," the woman answered mechanically.
"Night," said Jerry, searching for cigarettes among his impedimenta.
"Queer creature, that," Bobs mused.
"What's that?"
"Jane Judd. What do you suppose she thinks of us all?"
"God knows, and I care as little as He does."
"I care. I'd like to know her. She's like steel, clean-cut, shining,
efficient, silent, unbreakable."
"Is she? I've never noticed," said Jerry indifferently.
"She knows all our secrets, our economies, our loves, and hates. She
mends us up, keeps us in order. Jane Judd is the law and order of our
set. She glides among us, and we say everything we know before her, as
if she were a wall."
"Gog and Magog! Do I have to listen to you ramble on about Jane Judd?
She interests me about as much as a Wheeler and Wilson sewing machine.
Come on to dinner."
Bobs rose and stretched herself luxuriously, with a yawn.
"Man is the most incomprehensible animal evolved from protoplasm," she
remarked.
"That remark doesn't seem to have any point, Bobs, but I suppose it
has."
"Thanks. From now on, I suppose only Bible allusions will have point to
you."
"Well, there's nothing Biblical about Jane Judd."
"Humph! She might be the dim and vasty void out of which creation
sprang."
"Good Lord!" cried Jerry, turning out the light. He took her by the
elbow and led her out, closing the door on that conversation.