Chapter VIII

Soon after this episode Mr. Vandeleur found himself obliged to go to Europe for some weeks on business. But Imogen was not fit to be left in charge of Joan, he felt uneasily. The problem was solved by his daughter demanding that she should spend the time of his absence with her grandmother. Had Mr. Vandeleur known of the surreptitious visit to the theatre the year before, he might have considered his mother-in-law an even less desirable custodian than his wife.

If Joan was surprised by her father’s acquiescence, she was still more surprised by her mother’s. The weekly day at the Dorset was, of course, an institution, but any suggestion that she had ever made of staying with her grandmother had invariably been vetoed by both her parents. Imogen imagined that her refusal sprang from an acute sense of maternal responsibility; she would not admit, even to herself, her dog-in-the-mangerish jealousy. This time, however, the intense irritation she felt against her daughter swamped everything else. What a relief it would be to be free of the exasperating child for a few weeks! Moreover, it was getting very warm in New York. Joan could not go away until her term ended, but that was no reason why the rest of the household should be deprived of the cooling breezes of Long Branch. There was also a third motive Imogen had in sanctioning her daughter’s proposal, although this she would have repudiated with sincere indignation had it been put into words. Mendel Davidovitch’s professional engagements were over; he was sailing for Europe next week. If she had him at Firenze--a chaperon was easy to arrange--surely even his susceptibility could not withstand the daily and hourly contact. At last, he would be brought to a suitable attitude of worshipping devotion. His continued indifference to her charms was not only insulting, it seemed to mark her as a failure. Although Imogen did not consciously recognize her tangled feelings, the grand piano suddenly appeared at Firenze after a transit from New York of sweat and blasphemy.

As in her babyhood, Joan’s stay with her grandmother was exceedingly happy. Indeed after the first few days, the girl was lifted out of and above mere happiness. For one afternoon she came home from school, her expression transfigured by an almost awed ecstasy.

“Granny, Granny,” she called out as soon as the front door was opened. “Granny, I’ve something to tell you”--there was a tremble in her voice. “Where’s Granny, Bridget?”

“And it’s great tidings you’ll be bringing by the look on you I’m thinking, Miss Joan,” the Irishwoman said with a smile. “I’ll run and seek for the Mistress.”

The quest was made unnecessary by Mrs. Lennox appearing at the top of the stairs. “Is that you, Joan darling?” she called down. “Aren’t you early home to-day? I hope that new chauffeur didn’t drive too fast.”

“Granny!” Joan rushed up with the impetuosity of her fifteen years. “Granny, I told you the senior class are doing Sophocles’ Antigone--the translation, of course--on Graduation Day. Antigone’s ill--not serious, but the doctor says she is on no account to act, and Miss Waring, our elocution mistress, says I’m the only girl in the school who can do the part in the time--there’s only ten days. If I don’t, they must give up the whole idea, and they’ve got the dresses and scenery and everything and all the parents are asked, and Miss Waring has sent you a note, and you will let me, won’t you, Granny? Oh say you will--you will!” The torrent of words paused as Joan held out a rather crumpled envelope.

“My dear child!” Mrs. Lennox felt almost overwhelmed. “But you are so much younger than the senior class girls,” she demurred, seizing on the first objection that came to her. “Why, you told me they were grown up.”

“Yes, but I’m quite as tall. And I can act being grown up. Miss Waring says I can. Besides, there’s no one else. I must, Granny, I must!”

“Ten days is such a short time. Could you possibly do it?” Mrs. Lennox urged feebly.

“Yes, yes. Oh, Granny, you know I could. Please sit down and tell Miss Waring I may. Here’s your blotter. I said I’d send the automobile back with the answer. She has to know at once.”

“But, my dear, I can’t agree like that.” Mrs. Lennox began to feel as though she were hypnotised. She tore open Miss Waring’s still unread note. It contained very much what her granddaughter had already told her. “Unless Joan can step into the breach, we shall have to give up the whole play, which will be a dreadful disappointment,” the recitation mistress wrote. “I need hardly tell you how high an opinion we have of your granddaughter’s dramatic powers. It was merely on account of her being so young and the interruption to her school work, that it was at first thought better for her not to take a part.”

“Oh dear, what would your father say?” Mrs. Lennox almost wailed. “And why does Miss Waring write to me? Oh, I see, she thinks your mother is abroad too.”

“I never said anything about Mother,” Joan explained. “I said Father was in Europe and that I was staying with you. But what does Mother matter? She doesn’t care what I do as long as it doesn’t bother her. And Father is half way across the Atlantic, so we can’t ask him. Write, Granny, write.”

But Mrs. Lennox was absolutely firm that before anything else was done, Joan’s mother must be consulted. It was too great a responsibility for her to face alone. “We can telephone to Long Branch at once,” she said when Joan demurred at the delay.

They got through to Firenze almost immediately, and asked to be put on to Mrs. Vandeleur’s own room. Both at Fifth Avenue and Long Branch, Imogen had a receiver standing by her couch. It was the one loop-hole in the invalid’s prison walls, she often plaintively remarked. The reply came that Mrs. Vandeleur’s own telephone was out of order. Was there any message he could take to her, the butler asked.

Mrs. Lennox had already given her name. Now she told the man to request Mrs. Vandeleur to come to the telephone herself. After all, Imogen could walk about, although sparingly. It was only a minute, although it seemed a long time to Mrs. Lennox and still longer to Joan, before the telephone spoke again, still in a male voice which this time had a slightly foreign accent. “Mrs. Vandeleur is very fatigued this evening. She says is the matter really of the first importance, or could you not give a message to me? I am Mendel Davidovitch.”

Mrs. Lennox felt despairing. She was quite sure that Imogen would not consider the question of the first importance. If she were brought to the telephone on false pretences, she might be so annoyed as to negative Joan’s request off hand. “Please tell Mrs. Vandeleur that it is about her daughter,” Mrs. Lennox explained. “They want Miss Vandeleur to act in a play at her school and I have to send the answer to-night. I don’t know if her father----”

Mrs. Lennox was almost pushed aside. “Please, please Granny, let me speak,” Joan implored. “Who is it?--Mr. Davidovitch? Oh, Mr. Davidovitch, I’m so glad. It’s the Antigone of Sophocles, the translation of the Greek play, you know, and they’ve asked me to be Antigone. Oh, do get Mother to let me. Think how you’d feel if the piano was locked--every piano in the world! Do, please, implore Mother.”

“My dear Joan!”--Mrs. Lennox again firmly took the receiver. “Please ask Mrs. Vandeleur if she could not possibly come to the telephone herself. I could talk to her so much more easily.”

This time there was really a considerable wait. Indeed, the young lady at the Exchange cut them off, as the time for long distance calls was up, but Joan frantically got put on again. Then at last Davidovitch’s voice was heard once more. “Mrs. Vandeleur says she is really too fatigued to come and speak. She says she does not mind about the acting. She leaves the question to Mrs. Lennox to decide.”

With this the grandmother had to be content. She guessed that her daughter’s refusal to speak to her denoted something besides fatigue. As a matter of fact Imogen was furious. Mendel had been in the house for three days, and that evening he had, for the first time, shown the smallest sign of sentiment. Probably the wonderful new gown that she was wearing had played its appointed part. But for this interruption he would have succumbed; Imogen felt sure of it. Now the phase had passed; it was unlikely that it would be recaptured that evening--indeed she felt too annoyed to try. And the next day she expected other visitors, in addition to the unobtrusive chaperon already laid in; there would be no more chance for private talks.

And all this was Joan’s fault! It was maddening the ridiculous fuss that everyone made over the child. Imogen’s anger would have driven her to forbid the acting altogether if Mendel had not seemed so shocked. He was quite excited about this pretentious-sounding play. “I only wish I could wait and see Miss Joan act in it,” he had said. Well, Imogen told herself savagely, she wasn’t going to let him go away, thinking the child a martyr. Of course, she might have based her refusal on her husband’s prejudices but that was assigning to John altogether too complimentary a position of authority. No, if John didn’t like it, let him have it out with his daughter himself when he came home. She washed her hands of it, and of Davidovitch as well. If the young pianist did not recognize the inspiration that she might have brought into his life, he could go without. ‘La Princesse Lointaine’--that was what one of her friends had called her, quoting Rostand’s beautiful lines. Imogen’s thoughts turned appreciatively to this admirer, him of the blue and white soul, whom she had quite ignored of late.

Meanwhile Joan was dancing a breakdown of triumph in her grandmother’s drawing-room, after having first sent off the automobile with the note of acceptance to Miss Waring. “Now we’ll start on the Antigone at once,” she announced. “Miss Waring lent me a copy. And I know lots of it already from hearing the girls. It’s fine, Gran, just fine--though some of them do it rather awfully!”

A few minutes later both grandmother and granddaughter were utterly absorbed. Mrs. Lennox knew nothing of this, or indeed of any Greek play, so as a start they decided to read it straight through, Joan taking the Antigone. How extraordinarily well she was doing it, Mrs. Lennox felt with a glow of exultation. A feeling of defiance came over her. After all John Vandeleur was powerless. He would be two thousand miles away. Afterwards he might do or say what he liked. She did not care. For once Joan should show what she could do.

The next ten days were lived, sleeping or waking, in the Antigone. Joan’s school work was almost entirely neglected, but the mistresses excused her. After all it was for the credit of the school that the play should go well. As for Miss Waring, after the second rehearsal, she went about with a mysterious and almost rapt look on her wizened, monkeyish face. It was Mrs. Lennox, however, who had most opportunity of judging Joan’s progress. Again and again the grandmother tried to check and discount her own judgment. She had come to take an amateur, and not a professional standard, she kept telling herself. Yet through all her belittling, the consciousness remained that her little girl was something unusual. A vision came to her of the child becoming a real “star,” whose light would shine and be recognized all over the world. Her own little rushlight of talent grew negligible by comparison. Or were such speculations merely the maunderings of a besotted, doting old grandmother?

At last the day came. As she sat at the performance, poor Mrs. Lennox felt so sick with agitation that she was unable to receive any definite impression. The audience was delighted, but then the audience was composed of fond parents and of the girls themselves; it would have had to be a poor show indeed not to delight them. Certainly a thrill seemed to go through the listeners at some of Joan’s lines, and the applause at the end was unusually prolonged. Again and again the actors were recalled. How much did it really mean?

After the performance the spectators migrated into the dining hall, and there calmed their excitement with the very mild lemonade. As she sipped, Mrs. Lennox suddenly thought she saw the rotund figure of Mr. Hobson near the door. But it must have been a mistake, she told herself, for there was no further sign of him. She was just going to leave when she heard the well-known, cheery voice almost at her elbow. There stood the great, little Manager. “Say, Miss West, why didn’t you tell me your little girl was a genius?”

“Oh, do you really think so?” Mrs. Lennox’s lemonade wavered perilously. “I didn’t dare to believe it--But what brought you here this afternoon?”

“Why, the young lady herself. She sent me a card--didn’t you know? I thought you’d told her to. ‘Miss Joan Vandeleur presents and very much hopes that for this once Mr. Hobson will accept,’ she’d written on it. I thought it was pretty smart.”

“Joan asked you!” Mrs. Lennox could hardly believe her ears. Her granddaughter was not exactly shy, but she certainly had never in any way put herself forward before. “Why how did she know your address even?”

“I guess that wasn’t so mighty hard. But she’s got the makings of a star all right, tracking down managers and all! I’ve just been round to the back and told her so. If she wants a part at any time, she’s to come right along to me.”

“A part!” The words filled Mrs. Lennox with dismay. To think of such an idea having been put into the child’s head! What would John Vandeleur say? “Of course my granddaughter is far too young even to consider the question of going on the stage,” she said stiffly. Fifteen unprofessional years had considerably altered Mrs. Lennox’s tone towards the managerial demi-god.

“Oh, I didn’t mean right away. I reckoned she’d have to finish up with the regulation school stunts first. But when she’s through, you send her right along to me; I ain’t going to have the Schumanns grab her. Of course I don’t know how much of the Antigone business is your work; maybe you’ve just stuffed it into her, though that wasn’t the impression it gave. How old is she anyway--seventeen? Not quite fifteen yet! My word, she’s a great little actress!”

“But you seem to have forgotten Mr. Vandeleur’s objection to the stage.”

“No, Ma’am! I guess I’ve got good reason for knowing ‘old John Van’s’ attitude.” This was the name with which the press had recently labelled the “copper king,” to his intense irritation. “But that young lady looks to have a will of her own. Poppa’ll have to climb down I reckon.” Mr. Hobson gave his cheery laugh. “Well, so long,” he said and bustled off.

Mrs. Lennox had known that her son-in-law would be angry when he heard of Joan’s escapade into the drama, but even she did not realize how angry he would be. The passing of years, instead of enlarging Mr. Vandeleur’s sympathies, had merely stiffened his prejudices, for it is not only physical tissues that ossify with age. Possibly also the unsatisfactory character of his marriage was to some extent responsible. Because his wife had not developed as he desired, he was all the more determined that his daughter should do so. Joan must be a graceful, retiring, feminine creature, with her mother’s refinement, but without her mother’s selfish idiocy--for so in the privacy of his own mind John Vandeleur thought of his wife.

Perhaps had Joan confessed to the incident herself, her father might have been less incensed. That she did not do so, was due to no desire for concealment on her part, but merely to the lack of opportunity. Mr. Vandeleur’s stay in Europe was so brief that there was no time after the performance to write and tell him about it. When he returned to America, Joan was at Firenze with her mother. Two days passed before he joined them, days of nerve-racking pressure at Wall Street which were not conducive to an amiable or forgiving frame of mind. On the second of these days, he unfortunately chanced upon an acquaintance who had a daughter at the same school. “I hear your little girl had a regular triumph at that Graduation Day play, Mr. Vandeleur,” the man observed pleasantly over lunch. “I wasn’t there myself, but my wife raves about her--says she was quite wonderful, and that there’s no better actress on the real stage.”

Mr. Vandeleur made no comment on this amazing news. It did, however, slightly change his plans. Instead of going down to Long Branch by the five-fifty train, he told his secretary to ’phone to the Dorset. If Mrs. Lennox had not yet left New York, he was to ask whether she could see Mr. Vandeleur that afternoon at six o’clock.

Mrs. Lennox had not yet gone away despite the heat. Indeed holidays were always rather a problem. She did not care for hotels, perhaps because she had had a surfeit of them in early life; also, even after all these years, she had never quite adapted herself to her social environment. Every summer Imogen formally asked her to Firenze, and every summer she declined, despite Joan’s enthusiastic urging. The only time the experiment had been tried, it had proved an utter failure. Mrs. Lennox disliked her daughter’s mode of life and disbelieved in her invalidism. Although she had tried to conceal these feelings, Imogen had guessed and resented them. Moreover, the bond between herself and Joan was a constant irritation to the child’s mother.

Thus the telephone found Mrs. Lennox an easy prey. She had, indeed, been expecting this message, for she had seen in the papers the news of her son-in-law’s return. But previous expectation of the interview only served to increase, rather than diminish, her nervousness. It was with difficulty that the poor lady kept herself from replying that she would be out all day or that she was ill in bed; indeed, she was withheld rather by a sense of the futility of the excuse than by its mendacity. Even when at Long Branch John Vandeleur usually came up to his business every day. A respite of twenty-four hours was therefore the most that could be gained. Even this was problematic, for her son-in-law’s requests always bore an uncomfortable resemblance to commands. So poor Mrs. Lennox telephoned back--with no less mendacity--that she would be delighted to receive Mr. Vandeleur at any hour.

Punctually at six o’clock her son-in-law was announced. He looked rather tired. Mrs. Lennox realized suddenly that John was getting on in life. He must be at least sixty-five, although no one would think it. Perhaps the heat had tried him. At any rate it would serve as a topic of conversation. “It must be mighty warm down town,” she observed sympathetically.

The remark was unfortunate. Mr. Vandeleur had always hated Americanisms, and in deference to his susceptibility Mrs. Lennox had largely purged her conversation of them, to the great detriment of its vitality. Now, her embarrassment had caused her to relapse. “Yes, it is an exceedingly warm day,” John Vandeleur acquiesced with a frigidity of manner that was almost sufficient to cool it. “But I am not here to discuss the weather. I have just learnt from a trustworthy informant, that, while my daughter was under your charge, she took part in some theatricals. You were aware that I had definitely prohibited her even attending any such form of entertainment.”

Mrs. Lennox was disconcerted by the direct attack. The awe she had always felt of her son-in-law had not decreased with fifteen years of complete and enervating dependence on him. The grandmother had, indeed, nobly volunteered to break the news of the escapade to Joan’s father on his return, but her relief had been great when her granddaughter had indignantly declined the offer. “It’s up to me to tell Father myself,” the girl had said. But evidently Joan had not had the chance. “The dear child wanted to act so much,” Mrs. Lennox began, almost stammering with fear. Then she pulled herself up. Whatever happened she must shield her granddaughter. “As it was only a school performance, I thought you would not seriously object. In any case Joan is not to blame, for I gave her permission.”

The verdict was short and sharp. After the vacation Joan would be sent to boarding school. Although Mrs. Lennox regretted this on her own account, she felt that it was probably the best thing for Joan. The child’s home-life was so unsatisfactory that she might really be happier at school. And then there would be the holidays; they would be together then. “Joan will not see you at all during the next year,” Mr. Vandeleur’s cold voice went on. “If, at the expiration of that period, you will give me an undertaking that there will be no mention between you of the drama or of its exponents, I shall be prepared to reconsider the position.”

The poor grandmother stared in blank dismay. “I am not to see Joan for a year?” she gasped.

“A year was what I said. I also do not wish you to correspond with her. My dear Mrs. Lennox, you were perfectly aware of my attitude with regard to the stage. If you encourage my daughter flagrantly to disobey my wishes, you cannot be surprised at my removing her from your influence.”

“Oh you are cruel, cruel,” Mrs. Lennox wept despairingly.

John Vandeleur was not the man to do things by halves. In one detail only he was thwarted. When he reached Firenze, intending to have an interview with his daughter, he found that she had already gone to bed. The fact was that the long evenings with the governess, or with her mother and her mother’s admirers bored Joan so unutterably that she always took the earliest opportunity to escape. She longed to go out, to wander alone in the warm, sweet-smelling darkness, but that was considered out of the question. Her hot bedroom was her only refuge.

Although Mr. Vandeleur could not see his daughter, his wife was in the drawing-room, and, for once, in anticipation of his coming, she was there alone. She looked exquisite, reclining on her couch, but her husband hardly noticed it. Directly he had greeted her, he asked whether she had been aware of Joan taking part in a play.

Imogen raised her eyebrows. Really John was becoming a perfect boor. His lack of consideration for her new “Vesta” gown affronted her even more than his lack of consideration for herself. For the future she would reserve the dress for a more appreciative audience. “Joan taking part in what?” she drawled, with wilful misunderstanding.

“A play that was produced at her school--Antigone. Did you, or did you not know about it?”

“Oh, I think Mother did send a message over the ’phone a day or two after you had sailed about some school theatricals. I imagined that she had arranged it with you. As you and Mother have taken my child completely out of my charge, I now make it a rule never to interfere.”

“Well, you ought to have interfered. You knew perfectly well that I should never allow my daughter to appear on a stage.” In his annoyance Mr. Vandeleur slightly raised his voice.

Imogen fanned herself wearily. “How curious it is,” she observed with pensive sweetness, “that you have been in this house exactly two minutes and you are already raising a brawl. It is so demoralizing for the servants. I wish we had had doors put to the rooms in the English fashion instead of portières. I wonder if Englishmen have very bad tempers.”

Joan was still at breakfast the next morning when the summons came that Mr. Vandeleur wished to see her. Of course her father might merely desire to greet her after his absence, she told herself, but he had never sent for her before. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably as she went into the study, although she managed to conceal any outward sign of it. “How do you do, Father?” she said calmly.

“How do you do?” Mr. Vandeleur did not attempt to kiss her. “I have already seen your grandmother. I understand that she gave you permission to act in a play at school?”

“Granny didn’t exactly give me permission. It was more that I worried it out of her. Besides Mother said she didn’t mind.”

Mr. Vandeleur’s anger increased. So the question _had_ been submitted to Imogen. He was certainly glad that he had decided on the boarding school. “You knew, I suppose, yourself, that I have an extreme objection to dramatic performances?” he suggested.

“Yes, but I thought as this was the translation of a Greek play you might feel differently about it, and the whole school wanted it; they would have been dreadfully upset. At least that wasn’t my real reason, and I knew really that you would not like it. But it seemed as if I just _must_ do it.”

His daughter’s honesty left Mr. Vandeleur unmoved. Indeed he was further irritated by her defiance and lack of contrition. “I hardly think it was a question of ‘must,’” he corrected coldly. “However, I will find another school for you, a boarding school, where theatricals do not form part of the curriculum, and then the question will not recur. I have already told your grandmother that as your being under her influence has resulted in this disobedience, I must take steps to prevent its being exerted upon you in the future.”

“What do you mean?” Joan had suddenly turned white. “What do you mean?” she repeated slowly. “You do not mean that I am not to be with Granny--not to see her? You can’t mean that?” Her father’s silence showed her that this was meant. “No, no, no!” she almost screamed. “I must see Granny. I will see her. I can’t live without her.”

The violence of his daughter’s words only increased Mr. Vandeleur’s anger, and at the same time made him feel his decree justified. It was obviously necessary to keep the girl away from her grandmother’s pernicious theatrical aura. “Kindly remember that you are not play-acting now,” he told her.

“If you don’t let me see Granny, I shall hate you. I shall hate you for ever!” She was trembling all over.

“You had better retire to your own room until you have recovered your senses.” Mr. Vandeleur took up his newspaper and began to read in order to mark the conclusion of the interview.

Joan might have said more, but she was stopped by a sudden lump in her throat. Father should not know that she was crying. She turned and rushed upstairs, furious with him and furious with herself. Why couldn’t she have remained calm? She ought to have discussed the whole matter with Father. Perhaps even he could have been made to see the unreasonableness of his position, although it was like arguing with a stone wall. But now she had lost her chance; she had behaved like a baby. She flung herself down on her own bed, stuffing the coverlet in her mouth as in her old, childish rages. “I wish I were dead,” she sobbed.