With scant delay Joan began to pick up acquaintances: nothing is easier
in that milieu to which the girl dedicated herself.
The process of widening her circle began with meeting the girl whom Joan
had heard singing in the adjoining bedchamber. They passed twice in the
corridors of the Astoria Inn before Joan had been resident there
twenty-four hours, and on the second occasion the girl with the voice
nodded in a friendly way and enquired if Joan didn't think the weather
was simply awf'ly lovely today. Joan replied in the affirmative, and
their acquaintanceship languished for as long as twelve hours. Then,
toward six in the evening, the girl presented herself at Joan's door in
a condition of candid deshabille, wishing to borrow a pair of
curling-irons. Being accommodated, she came on into the room, perched
herself on the edge of the bed, and made herself known.
Her name was Minnie Hession and she had been singing in the chorus for
seven years. Originally a prettyish, plump-bodied brunette, she was at
present what she herself termed "black-and-tan": in the middle of the
process of "letting her hair go back." Her father was Chief of Police of
some Western city (name purposely withheld: Joan was, however, assured
that she would be surprised if she knew _what_ city) and her folks had
heaps of money and had been wild with her when she insisted on going on
the stage.
"But, goodness, dearie, when you've got tempryment, whatcha goin' to do?
Nobody outsida the business ever understands."
All the same, much as the folks disapproved of her carving out a career
for herself, whenever she got hard up all she had to do was telegraph
straight back home....
She was, of course, at present without employment; but Joan was advised
to wait until Arlie Arlington got back into Town; Arlie never forgot a
girl who had not only a good voice but _some_ figure, if Miss Hession
did say it herself.
They went shopping together the following afternoon, and in the evening
dined together at a cheap Italian restaurant, counterpart of that to
which Quard had first introduced Joan and the Sisters Dean. Joan paid
the bill, by no means a heavy one, and before they went home stood treat
for "the movies."
After that their friendship ripened at a famous rate, if exclusively at
Joan's expense.
Before it had endured a week Joan had loaned Minnie ten dollars. Toward
the end of its first fortnight she mortally offended the girl by
refusing her an additional twenty, and the next day Minnie moved from
the Astoria Inn without the formality of paying her bill or even of
giving notice. The management philosophically confiscated an empty
suit-case which she had been too timorous to attempt to smuggle out of
the house--everything else in her room had mysteriously vanished--and
considered the incident closed. In this the management demonstrated its
wisdom in its day and generation: it never saw Miss Hession again.
Nor did Joan.
But through the chorus girl, as well as independently, Joan had
contracted many other fugitive friendships. She never lacked society,
after that, whether masculine or feminine. Men liked her for her good
looks and unaffected high spirits; women tolerated her for two reasons,
because she was always willing to pay not only her own way but
another's, and because she was what they considered a "swell dresser":
her presence was an asset to whatever party she lent her countenance.
Frankly revelling in freedom regained, and intoxicated by possession of
a considerable amount of money, she let herself go for a time, quite
heedless of expense or consequence. Within a month she had become a
familiar figure in such restaurants as Burns', Churchill's, and
Shanley's; and her laughter was not infrequently heard in Jack's when
all other places of its class boasted closed doors and drawn blinds.
Inevitably she acquired a somewhat extensive knowledge of drink. Most of
all she learned to love that champagne which Matthias had been too
judicious to supply her and from which she had abstained out of
consideration for Quard's weakness. But now there was no reason why she
should not enjoy it in such moderation as was practised by her chosen
associates. She preferred certain sweetish and heady brands whose
correspondingly low cost rendered them more easy to obtain....
But with all this she never failed to practise a certain amount of
circumspection. In one respect, she refrained from growing too
confidential about herself. That she had been the leading woman with
"The Lie" was something to brag about: the very cards which she had been
quick to have printed proclaimed the fact loudly in imitation Old
English engraving. But that she had been wife to its star was something
which she was not long in discovering wasn't generally known. The
success of the sketch was a by-word of envy among actors facing the
prospect of an idle summer; and the route columns of _Variety_ told her
that, in line with her prediction, Quard had somehow surmounted his San
Francisco predicament and was continuing to guide the little play upon
its triumphal course. But Quard himself had always been too closely
identified with stock companies of the second class to have many friends
among those with whom his wife was now thrown: actors for the most part
of the so-called legitimate stage, with scant knowledge or experience
(little, at least, that they would own to) of theatrical conditions away
from Broadway and the leading theatres of a few principal cities. So
Joan kept her own counsel about her matrimonial adventure: its
publication could do her no good, if possibly no harm; and she preferred
the freedom of ostensible spinsterhood. Her wedding-ring had long since
disappeared from her hand, giving place to the handsome diamond with
which Matthias had pledged her his faith.
Furthermore, such dissipation as she indulged in was never permitted to
carry her beyond the border-line which, in her understanding, limited
discretion in her relations with men. She enjoyed leading them on, but
marriage had made her too completely cognizant of herself to permit of
any affair going beyond a certain clearly defined point: she couldn't
afford to throw herself away. And more than once she checked sharply and
left an undrained glass, warned by her throbbing pulses that she was
responding a trace too ardently to the admiration in the eyes of some
male companion of the evening.
But there were only two whom she held dangerous to her peace of mind,
one because she was afraid of him, the other because she admired him
against her will.
The first was an eccentric dancer and comedian calling himself Billy
Salute. A man of middle-age and old beyond his years in viciousness, the
gymnastic violence of his calling in great measure counteracted the
effects of his excesses and kept him young in body. He was a constant
and heavy but what was known to Joan's circle as a safe drinker;
drunkenness never obliterated his consciousness or disturbed his
physical equilibrium; in spite of its web of wrinkles, his skin remained
fair and clear as a boy's, and retained much of the fresh colouring of
youth. But his eyes were cold and hard and profoundly informed with
knowledge of womankind. His regard affected Joan as had Marbridge's,
that day at Tanglewood; under its analysis she felt herself denuded;
pretence were futile to combat it: the man _knew_ her.
He made no advances; but he watched her closely whenever they were
together; and she knew that he was only waiting, patient in the
conviction that he had only to wait.
And thus he affected her with such fear and fascination that she avoided
him as much as possible; but he was never far out of her thoughts; he
lingered always on the horizon of her consciousness like the seemingly
immobile yet portentous bank of cloud that masks the fury of a summer
storm....
The other man pursued her without ceasing. He was young, not over
twenty-five or six--an age to which Joan felt herself immeasurably
superior in the knowledge and practice of life--and happened to be the
one man of her acquaintance who was neither an actor nor connected with
the business side of the stage. By some accident he had blundered from
newspaper reporting to writing for cheaply sensational magazines, and
from this to writing for the stage. It is true that his achievements in
this last quarter had thus far been confined to collaboration with a
successful playwright on the dramatization of one of his stories; but
that didn't lessen his self-esteem and assertiveness. He claimed
extraordinary ability for himself in a quite matter-of-fact tone, and on
his own word was on terms of intimacy with every leading manager and
star in the country. Nobody Joan knew troubled to contradict his
pretensions, and despite that wide and seasoned view of life she
believed herself to possess she was still inexperienced enough to credit
more than half that he told her, never appreciating that, had the man
been what he claimed, he would have had no time to waste toadying to
actors.
He might, if not discouraged, prove very useful to her.
In fact, he promised to--repeatedly.
More than this, his attentions flattered her more than she would have
cared to confess even to herself. He didn't lack wit, wasn't without
intelligence, and the power of his imagination couldn't be denied; thus
he figured to her as the only man of mental attainments she had known
since Matthias. It was something to be desired by such as this one, even
though his abnormally developed egotism sometimes seemed appalling.
It manifested itself in more ways than one: in his strut, in the
foppishness of his dress, in his elaborate affectation of an English
accent. He was a small person by the average standard, and slender, but
well-formed, and wore clothing admirably tailored if always of an
extreme cut. His cheeks were too fleshy, almost plump: something which
had the effect of making his rather delicate features seem pinched.
Near-sighted, he wore customarily a horn-rimmed pince-nez from which a
wide black ribbon dangled like a mourning-band.
His name was Hubert Fowey.
So Joan tolerated him, encouraged him moderately through motives of
self-interest, checked him with laughter when he tried to make love to
her, secretly admired him even when his conceit was most fatiguing, and
wondered what manner of women he had known to make him think that she
would ever yield to his insistence....
She had been nearly six weeks in New York when she awoke one morning to
rest in languorous regret of a late supper the preceding night, and to
wonder whither she was tending, spurred to self-examination by that
singularly clear introspective vision which not infrequently follows
intemperance--at least, when one is young.
She was reminded sharply that, since returning to Town, she had made
hardly a single attempt to find work, beyond having her professional
cards printed.
And this was the edge of Summer....
Where would the Autumn find her?
Slipping quickly out of bed, she collected her store of money, and
counted it for the first time in several weeks.
The sum total showed a shocking discrepancy between cold fact and the
small fortune she had all along been permitting herself to believe she
possessed. Even allowing for these heavy initial purchases on returning
to New York, her capital had shrunk alarmingly.
She began anew, that day, the rounds of managers' offices.
Also, she laid down for her guidance a rigid schedule of economies. Only
by strict observance thereof would she be able to scrape through the
Summer without work or financial assistance from some quarter.
Characteristically, she mourned now, but transiently, that she had so
long deferred going to see her mother and Edna--something now obviously
out of the question; they would want money, to a certainty, and Joan had
none to spare them.
A few days later she moved to share, half-and-half, the expenses of a
three-room apartment on Fiftieth Street, near Eighth Avenue, with a
minor actress whom she had recently met and taken a fancy to. Life was
rather less expensive under this régime; the young women got their own
breakfasts and, as a rule, lunches that were quite as meagre: repasts
chiefly composed of crackers, cold meats from a convenient delicatessen
shop, with sometimes a bottle of beer shared between two. If no one
offered a dinner in exchange for their society, they would dine frugally
at the cheaper restaurants of the neighbourhood. But their admirers they
shared loyally: if one were invited to dine, the other accompanied her
as a matter of course.
An arrangement apparently conducive to the most complete intimacy;
neither party thereto doubted that she was in the full confidence of the
other. There were, none the less, reservations on both sides.
Harriet Morrison, Joan's latest companion, was a girl whose very
considerable personal attractions and innate love of pleasure were
balanced by greenish eyes, a firm jaw, and the sincere conviction that
straight-going and hard work would lead her to success upon the
legitimate stage. She knew Joan for an incurable opportunist with few
convictions of any sort other than that she could act if given a chance,
and that men, if properly managed, would give her that chance. For one
so temperamentally her opposite, Hattie couldn't help entertaining some
unspoken contempt. On the other hand, she believed Joan to be decent, as
yet; and halving the cost of living permitted her to indulge in the
luxury of a week-end at the seaside once or twice a month.
One day near the first of July the two, happening to meet on Broadway
after a morning of fruitless search for engagements, turned for luncheon
into Shanley's new restaurant--by way of an unusual treat.
They had barely given their order when Matthias came in accompanied by a
manager who had offices in the Bryant Building, and sat down at a table
not altogether out of speaking-distance.
To cover her discomfiture, which betrayed itself in flushed cheeks, Joan
complained of the heat: an explanation accepted by Hattie without
question, since Matthias had not yet looked their way.
Joan prayed that he might not; but the thing was inevitable, and it was
no less inevitable that he should look at the precise instant when Joan,
unable longer to curb her curiosity, raised her eyes to his.
For a moment she fancied that he didn't recognize her. But then his face
brightened, and he nodded and smiled, coolly, perhaps, but civilly,
without the least evidence of confusion. They might have been the most
casual acquaintances.
And, indeed, the incident would probably have passed unremarked but for
the promptings of Joan's conscience. She was sure the glance of Matthias
had shifted from her face to the hand on which his diamond shone, and
had rested there for a significant moment.
As a matter of fact, nothing of the sort had happened. Matthias was
absorbed in negotiations concerning an old play which had caught the
fancy of the manager. Joan, though he knew her at sight, was now too
inconsiderable a figure in his world for him to recall, off-hand, that
he had ever made her a present.
Nevertheless the girl coloured furiously, and blushed again under the
inquisitive stare of her companion.
"Who's that?"
"Who?" Joan muttered sullenly.
"The fellow who bowed to you just now."
"Oh, that?" Joan made an unconvincing effort at speaking casually: "A
man named Matthias--a playwright, I believe."
"Oh," said the other girl quietly. "Never done anything much, has he?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know him very well?"
There was a touch of irony in the question that struck sparks from
Joan's temper.
"That's my business!"
"I'm sure I _beg_ your pardon," Hattie drawled exasperatingly.
And the incident was considered closed, though it didn't pass without
leaving its indelible effect upon their association.
With Joan it had another result: it made her think. Retrospectively
examining the contretemps, after she had gone to bed that night, she
arrived at the comforting conclusion that she had been a little fool to
think that Matthias "held that old ring against her." He hadn't been her
lover for several weeks without furnishing the girl with a fairly clear
revelation of his character. He was simple-hearted and sincere; she
could not remember his uttering one ungenerous word or being guilty of
one ungenerous action, and she didn't believe he could make room in his
mind for an ungenerous thought.
Now if she were to return it, he would think that fine of her....
Of course, she must take it back in person. If she returned it by
registered mail, he would have reason to believe her afraid to meet
him--that she had been frightened by his mere glance into sending it
back.
Not that she hadn't every right in the world to keep it, if she liked:
there was no law compelling a girl to return her engagement ring when
she broke with a man.
But Matthias would admire her for it.
Moreover, it was just possible that he hadn't as yet arrived at the
stage of complete indifference toward her. And he had "the ear of the
managers."
Nerving herself to the ordeal, two days later, she dressed with
elaborate care in the suit she had worn on her flight from Quard. Newly
sponged and pressed, it was quite presentable, if a little heavy for the
season; moreover, it lacked the lustre and style of her later
acquisitions. It wouldn't do to seem too prosperous....
It was a Saturday afternoon, and Hattie had taken herself off to a
nearby ocean beach for the week-end; something for which Joan was
grateful, inasmuch as it enabled her to dress her part without exciting
comment.
To her relief, a servant new to the house since her time, answered her
ring at the bell of Number 289, and with an indifferent nod indicated
the door to the back-parlour.
Behind that portal Matthias was working furiously against time,
carpentering against the grain that play to discuss which he had lunched
at Shanley's; the managerial personage having offered to consider it
seriously if certain changes were made. And the playwright was in haste
to be quit of the job, not only because he disapproved heartily of the
stipulated alterations, but further because he was booked for some weeks
in Maine as soon as the revision was finished.
Humanly, then, he was little pleased to be warned, through the medium of
a knock, that his work was to suffer interruption.
He swore mildly beneath his breath, glanced suspiciously at the
non-committal door, growled brusque permission to enter, and bent again
over the manuscript, refusing to look up until he had pursued a thread
of thought to its conclusion, and knotted that same all ship-shape.
And when at length he consented to be aware of the young woman on his
threshold, waiting in a pose of patience, her eyes wide with doubt and
apprehensions, his mind was so completely detached from any thought of
Joan that he failed, at first, to recognize her.
But the alien presence brought him to his feet quickly enough.
"I beg your pardon," he said with an uncertain nod. "You wished to see
me about something?"
Closing the door, Joan came slowly forward into stronger light.
"You don't remember me?" she asked, half perplexed, half wistful of
aspect. "But I thought--the other day--at Shanley's--"
"But of course I remember you," Matthias interrupted with a constrained
smile. "But I wasn't--ah--expecting you--not exactly--you understand."
"Oh, yes," Joan replied in subdued and dubious accents--"I understand."
She waited a moment, watching narrowly under cover of assumed
embarrassment, the signs of genuine astonishment which Matthias felt too
keenly to think of concealing. Then she added an uneasy:
"Of course...."
"Of course!" Matthias echoed witlessly. "You wanted to see me about
something," he iterated, wandering. With an effort he pulled himself
together. "Won't you sit down--ah--Joan?"
"Thank you," said the girl. "But I'm afraid I'm in the way," she
amended, dropping back into the old, worn, easy-chair.
"Oh, no--I--"
The insincerity of his disclaimer was manifest in an apologetic glance
toward the manuscript and a hasty thrust of fingers up through his hair.
Joan caught him up quickly.
"Oh, but I know I am, so I shan't stay," she said, settling herself
comfortably. "I only ask a minute or two of your time. You don't mind?"
"Mind? Why, I--certainly not."
She looked down as if disconcerted by his honest, perplexed, questioning
eyes.
"I was afraid you might, after--after what's happened--"
He fumbled for a cigarette, beginning to feel more calm, less nervous
than annoyed. The fact of her unruffled self-possession had at length
penetrated his understanding.
"No," he said slowly, rolling the cigarette between his palms, "I don't
mind in the least, if I can be of service to you."
"But I was very foolish," Joan persisted, "and--and unkind. I've been
sorry ever since...."
"Don't be," Matthias begged, his tone so odd that she looked up swiftly
and coloured.
Thus far everything had gone famously, quite as rehearsed in the theatre
of her optimistic fancy; but the new accent in his voice made her
suddenly fear lest, after all, the little scene might not play itself
out as smoothly as it had promised to.
"Don't be," Matthias repeated coolly. "It's quite all right. Take my
word for it: as far as I'm concerned you've nothing at all to reproach
yourself with."