"Where do you live?" he asked.
"In a queer sort of place, a tenement house down on——You ought to know who I am. I don't belong here at all," she added.
"So much the better."
"I came at the last minute, as Mrs. Brendon said, because Mr. Paxton couldn't get any one else. I'm just a sort of general housekeeper in the studios around the Square. I take care of artists."
"Studio mother," he smiled. "What else do you do?"
"I read a great deal, and I write."
"Now we come to the gist of the matter. What do you write?"
"I don't know what made me say that. I never told that secret to any one before."
"Thank you. But writing isn't a crime. If it is, half of New York is in the criminal class."
"Please don't tell any one I said such a silly thing. What I do is just nothing."
"It's a secret. I promise. Where do you publish?"
"I don't publish."
"No? You're an author after my own heart. I'm a critic, you see."
"Yes, I know."
"Do you? You read me?"
"Yes, always."
"When may I come and see you?"
"You may not come, please. I—I must go now."
"I have frightened you away."
"No, I only stayed on your account."
"Let me take you home?"
"No, thanks. Good-night."
He took her hand.
"I warn you that I shall find you, Miss Jane Judd. I never lose people who interest me."
She pressed his hand, smiled, and left him. A few minutes later, as he was making his way to the door, previous to his own escape, Jerry came to him.
"Mr. Christiansen, I'm Jerry Paxton. Mrs. Brendon said that you had Miss Judd with you. I'm looking for her."
"She escaped. I tried hard enough to keep her, but she went home."
"Went home?"
"So she said. Who is she?"
"Why, she's a girl who does things around the studios, I don't know her very well. She was good, wasn't she?"
"She was the only thing in the show; a most beautiful creature."
"Funny thing, we've never thought she had any looks."
"It isn't the obvious kind of thing that is fashionable now. Odd, haunting sort of face."
"One thing is obvious. Cinderella did not like the ball," said Jerry.
"Maybe it was the Prince she didn't like. Modern princes are so disappointing," grinned the big man, to the other's discomfiture.
Jane went home in such a stir of excitement that she could not sleep at all. The pageant and her success were merely the background for her conversation with Martin Christiansen. He had understood her, he had admired her, not because she looked well in the costume Jerry had designed, but because she had done her part with distinction, as he said. It delighted her to remember how frankly she had talked to him, even though she knew he was a most distinguished man of letters, critic and essayist. She had been used, in her mind, to set aside the great as a race apart from other humans, like the gods, and yet she, Jane Judd, had talked freely with one of them, told him her secret ambitions. She spent the night in happy waking dreams.
But in the morning she laid them away, with her Salome costume. In her brown dress, with her hair combed straight back, she was plain Jane Judd again. She had promised to go to Miss Roberts in time to get her breakfast, and help her dress. On the way she determined that the part she had played in Jerry's show must make no difference in her relations with any of them. If Bobs or Jerry tried to express their gratitude by any increase of friendliness, she would show them that she did not want it.
She came into Miss Roberts's studio with her costume in a big box.
"Is that you, Jane Judd?"
"Yes. Good-morning."
"Come here, quickly."
Jane hurried into the bedroom, in alarm.
"Sit down and tell me everything that happened last night. Was it a success?"
"Oh, yes. Everybody seemed to like it."
"Was Jerry repaid for his trouble?"
"I think so. I didn't talk to him about it."
"What did you think of Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon?"
"She is important, and has no manners."
"Did she snub you?"
"No. She wasn't aware of me. There was a Miss Morton, too, Miss Althea Morton, who seemed to be a great friend of Mr. Paxton's."
"Beautiful?"
"No, only pretty."
"Why didn't you talk to Jerry afterward?"
"I came home."
"Didn't Jerry look after you?"
"There was no need for him to look after me. He was busy. I just came home."
She began the preparations for breakfast.
"But Jane, did you get through your part all right?"
"Oh, yes."
"Did they like you?"
"I suppose so; they clapped."
"Jane, you clam, I'll wait for Jerry's version."
"Um-m."
When Jane brought in the tray with breakfast, Bobs looked at her closely.
"Jane, how can you let yourself be so plain, when you know now that you're good looking?"
"It's better for me to be plain," she answered simply.
"Better? Why?"
"I like to be inconspicuous."
"Daughters of Eve! Jane, you're not human."
Jane made no answer. She went about her work, as usual, and Bobs's various efforts to draw her out were vain. In the afternoon Jerry arrived.
"Hello, Jerry," Bobs called. "Sorry I'm not up to piping. 'Lo, the conquering hero comes.'"
"How's your health?"
"Hang my health! How was your show? I can't get a word out of Jane Judd."
"Is she here?"
"Yes."
"She was the big hit of the thing. Miss Jane Judd," he shouted.
She appeared at the door.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Paxton. I have the costume in a box and I'll leave it at your studio."
"Why did you run away?"
"I had nothing more to do, so I went home."
"That line might be used as Jane's epitaph," laughed Bobs.
"But everybody wanted to meet you. I rushed aboutlooking for you, until old Christiansen told me you had gone home."
"Martin Christiansen?" inquired Bobs.
"Yes. Mrs. Brendon said he laid the praise on thick. Not often you get him to say a decent thing. He raved about Jane Judd."
"Youwereflying high, Jane," Bobs commented.
"I can never thank you enough. It was bully of you to do it, and you gave a great performance. Would you mind telling me where you studied acting?"
"I haven't studied it. I'm glad I didn't mix things up for you," she replied, and went back to her work.
"I can't get her," Jerry remarked. "She was really immense, Bobs. Got more applause than any of them. Do you suppose she is an actress? Who the deuce is Jane?"
"I don't know and I can't find out. She is baffling. She will not talk about herself. I think she despises us all, rather. Think of knowing you were a beauty, and going back to looking as she does to-day. She says it's better for her to be plain."
"I don't know how her looks ever got by me. Old Christiansen sweetly suggested that it was because she was not the obvious type. He asked all about her."
"How exciting! Tell me about the whole thing, Jerry, from the very first."
He obeyed, making a good story of it, with thumbnail sketches of characters as he went along. Bobs was hugely amused. When he came to the supper which Mrs. Brendon gave after the performance to a chosen few, she interrupted him.
"Who is Althea Morton, Jerry?"
"She's a great friend of Mrs. Brendon's."
"Are you going to paint her, Jerry?"
"Probably. I begin on Mrs. Brendon's portrait very soon, and several other commissions will follow, I think."
"I told you that they would get you, that crowd."
"Don't worry, Bobs. This is my opportunity and I am going to grab it."
"Good luck, Jerry. Morituri Salutamus."
"Don't be a bally ass, Bobs. I've got to have a tea for the dear ladies next week. Will you and Jinny take charge?"
"Yes, if I can get down the hall to your door. I'm all in bits to-day."
"We'll manage it. Friday is the day."
"Going to have Jane?"
"Of course. How could any one have a party without Jane?"
"Doesn't it complicate it somewhat that she appeared in the pageant as one of them, as it were? Wouldn't it make the dear souls mad to find her acting as waitress at your party? They'd treat her like a dog."
"I hadn't thought of that. Would she understand, though, if I left her out?"
"She'll understand. I'll keep her here for the day, on some pretext."
So it appeared that, whether she would or not, there had come a change over her standing in the artist group. When Friday came, and Jerry's party was in progress,she sat darning in Bobs's room, thinking it over. She was not indignant at the situation; rather, it amused her. A knock came at the door. When she opened it, Martin Christiansen stood there.
"I want to see Miss Roberts," he began. "It is you, Miss Judd," he added delightedly.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Christiansen. Mr. Paxton is having a tea, and Miss Roberts is pouring it."
"I thought she was still invalided."
"She is better."
"But are you not going to the tea of Mr. Paxton?"
"No."
"May I come in?"
"Yes, of course."
She admitted him, and when he was seated, she went on with her darning.
"I did not suppose I should find you so soon. This is my lucky day, Friday."
She smiled at him.
"Do you live here?"
"No."
"What are you doing, may I ask?"
"I am darning the stockings of Miss Katrina Roberts."
"Why does she not darn her own?"
"It is incompatible with the artistic temperament," laughed Jane.
"Humph, I am not so sure. What do you think of the artistic temperament?"
"I think it's a good excuse for egotists."
Christiansen's big laugh boomed forth.
"That's my own idea, too. Selfishness, bad temper, irresponsibility, all piled up at the door, with that label. Do these folk interest you?"
"Yes. They are very lovable. So gay or so sad. Generous when they have money; unconcerned when they have none."
"Do you write about them?"
"Sometimes."
"I'd like to see what you say."
"I do not write well yet. I am still amateur."
"How long have you been writing?"
"Five or six years."
"Were you in earnest when you said that you had not published anything?"
"Yes. I have never even offered anything."
"Why?"
She told him of her talk with the editor, when she came first to New York, of his advice, of his words of inspiration about the art to which she wished to devote herself. He listened with deep interest.
"Ah! that was good. That was sound idealism. And what have you done to prepare yourself?"
"Read much, tried to absorb the best styles; and I have written all the time."
"About what?"
"People."
"People you know, or people you create?"
"Both; but more of the ones I create."
"I wish you would let me see something. It would give me pleasure and it might help you."
"Of course it would, but I wouldn't dare show you my things," she began.
"My child, the time comes when the artist becomes too self-conscious, with no criticism, no audience as corrective. Suppose we make a compact of friendship together; then we can freely give and take from each other."
A sudden mist clouded her eyes. She let him see it, in the direct glance she gave him. It touched him deeply, it suggested so poignantly the woman's loneliness.
"You agree?" he asked gently.
"Oh, yes."
"The World and his Wife are my acquaintances, but of friends I have few. Is it so with you?"
"I have none."
"How can that be? I feel that you would have a talent for friendship."
"I believe I would have. But I am poor. The things I might offer would not interest the people I know."
"But these artists—aren't they congenial?"
"Miss Roberts would be, but you see I occupy an anomalous position here. I'm an upper servant, who is no servant. True to my group, I have my class distinctions," she smiled. "Miss Roberts ignores them. She would be my friend if I would let her. Some of the others would, too, I think."
"Pride is one of the strongest traits in human character, and one of the least desirable; don't you think so? Pride of possession, pride of class, of birth, of accomplishment; why do we build up these barriers between us, whenthe whole process of life should be to break them down, to get closer to one another, to understand and help?"
"You think pride is out of fashion?"
"Just that. We treasure so many outgrown virtues, which have become vices. Patriotism, for instance. The rulers of Europe crash half the world into war by decking out this old scarecrow. My country, right or wrong, better than your country: our citizens, better than your citizens. What nonsense! Europe fights to protect the fatherland. What, in fact, is Europe protecting? The greed of kings for power and territory?"
"I know, and the people who make the war, and who gain by it, are never the ones who fight it."
"Exactly. An Englishman said to me the other day: 'The British Government's idea of the way for a rich Briton to be a patriot is to induce the poor men who work for him to go to war.'"
"It isn't much of a national virtue, if it is confined to a class," Jane agreed.
"It won't do. If I thought that nationalism would go on to the scrap heap, at the end of the war, along with the power of kings, I'd believe that the whole holocaust was purposeful, not accident."
"But what are you going to do with patriotism, Mr. Christiansen?"
"Make it over. You can't psychologize it out of us, even if we admit that it is bad. It is an instinct, woven of many other instincts—pugnacity, group loyalty, egoism. But we can substitute the bigger group for the smaller; we can grow up to an international patriotismthat shall be as fierce as that we know now, one that will conserve instead of destroy."
"But how can we educate people to your new sort?"
"They are educating themselves now. The capitalists and the workers begin to see that war does not pay. Women have always known it. When peace is declared we will organize that sentiment of intelligent selfishness into altruism."
"Can we make a new world, with only old human nature to build it with, do you think?"
"After all, old human nature is God-stuff, isn't it? We can do anything with it, if we can sweep out the old traditional beliefs, the bogus virtues, the Victorian moralities, and get a good twentieth-century fresh start."
"It frightens one, doesn't it? It's such a big job."
"So it is, and we can't more than start this afternoon," he laughed. "To come back to us, when may I have some manuscript?"
"I will choose some things to-night, thanks."
"Good. Here is a card with the address. Will you tell Miss Roberts that the man who picked her up after the accident came to inquire for her health?"
"She will be disappointed."
"As for me, I am well satisfied with the call I have made. I shall see you soon, my friend. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Jane.
Martin Christiansen startled pedestrians on the way uptown by the big boom of his humming, but in the shadowy studio Jane Judd sobbed her heart out for joy, because she had found a friend.
The week after the pageant proved far from the rest time Jerry had planned. Every day brought him invitations. All sorts of new demands were made upon his time. In his hurried calls upon Bobs he tried to explain that this was a part of his job. He was playing the fish now; when he had them hooked and landed, he would be free.
"If they don't pull the fisherman in after them, into the golden, dead sea," she gibed bitterly.
"They won't get me, Bobsie," he boasted.
Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon continued to act as his social sponsor. She wanted him in tow every minute. Jerry noticed that wherever she took him, by some strange chance, they came upon Althea Morton. He sat next her at dinner, at the opera; he danced with her, paid her compliments; but it began to dawn upon him that he was not doing the one thing Mrs. Brendon desired, making love to her.
Althea Morton was the most perfect type, physically, which American aristocracy produces. She came of good, old New York stock, somewhat emasculated from too much wealth, but still pure. She had been born into luxury. She grew up in it, without thinking about it. To have every taste in life gratified was as natural as breathing air.
She had the usual so-called education of girls of her class. Fashionable school was followed by a year abroad, for French and music. She was protected always from any contact with the rude world; she was always spared the necessity of thinking for herself. It was perhaps not her fault that her advantages were such a handicap. The two main tenants of her creed, were, naturally enough, making the best of her beauty, and acquiring a proper husband.
It was her second season when she met Jerry Paxton. His good looks and his charm attracted her, as they did all women, so that little by little he came to hold a very special place in her thoughts. His sudden success with the people of her world set the final seal of approval upon him.
To be sure he had no money; he boasted himself an impoverished artist, but that only added to his attractions. She had plenty of money for them both, and to do her justice, money was so much a matter of course with her, that it never occurred to her that Jerry could really be poor.
She, too, was not unaware of Mrs. Brendon's intentions in regard to Jerry and herself, but she supposed that their constant meetings were prompted by his desires, rather than by Mrs. Brendon's passion for vicarious romance. Althea was happy, and willing to let events shape themselves as they would. This period of focussing Jerry's attention upon herself was exciting.
It was the second week after the pageant that Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon had an inspiration. It flashed upon her at a dinner party in her own house, when Jerry,Althea, a Mr. and Mrs. Wally Bryce, and the Brendons were present.
"We're all tired to death from that pageant. Let's take theEmpressoff to Palm Beach, Crom, and have a few weeks' rest. Will you all come?" she asked.
"I'll come," said Mrs. Bryce promptly, "and so will Wally, if I have to drag him aboard in chains."
"Good enough, old girl, but what about the Stock Exchange?"
"It will be here when we get back."
"One of your partners said that Wally's week-ends began on Thursday and ended the following Tuesday. They'll never miss you, Wally," laughed Mr. Brendon.
"How about you, Althea?" his wife asked.
"I should love it."
"And you, Jerry Paxton?"
"I'm afraid you must count me out. You see——"
"I'll do nothing of the kind. You shall make studies for my portrait aboard the yacht and we'll stay out till you're ready to put on paint," the hostess remarked. "When can we start, Crom?"
"Day after to-morrow, if you like."
"What will you do with our chee-ild?" Wally asked his wife.
"Oh, bother! I forgot her. Isabelle is coming home to-morrow for three weeks. She got into a scrape and she's suspended."
"Bring her along," said Mrs. Brendon promptly.
"Bless you, I will. What a way to keep Isabelle quiet," said her mother.
"What a way to spoil the quiet for the rest of us!" groaned her father.
"We'll troll her along behind the yacht, if she's a nuisance," Mrs. Wally consoled him.
So it was settled, so it happened. Bobs and Jinny Chatfield made satiric comments on the "Cinderella Man." Jinny laid a bet on Miss Morton's capture of him. He took up her wager, kissed them both good-bye, and left in high good humour for a holiday to his liking.
The yacht was a marvel of luxury. They were housed like princes, fed like kings. Two days out of New York they slid into sunshine and warm winds. Life was one long, delicious playtime. To Jerry it was perfect, until he began to realize the limitations of a ship, and one man's ability, when pitted against that of two women of decision.
Mrs. Brendon made good her promise to sit for studies for the portrait, but a few days out at sea were enough to convince Jerry that the price of his freedom was not the completed portrait of Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, but a completed romance. It looked as if Mrs. Brendon would keep him at sea until he proposed to Althea.
Man-like, the thing began to get on his nerves. Man-like, he looked about for some feminine outlet for his feelings, and, as if for the first time, his eye fell upon Isabelle Bryce, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the Wallys. She was a queer, thin, brown little creature, with huge brown eyes. For the first few days he had scarcely seen her. She read, or stayed with the captain, or talked to the sailors. He found her squatted on deck,one windy morning, when the others were inside playing bridge.
"Hello! Aren't you afraid you'll blow overboard?" he inquired.
"No, I'm not. You've waked up, have you?"
"Have I been asleep?"
"You haven't seenmebefore," she retorted.
"Well, I see you now. Do you know what you look like?" He smiled down at her.
"Yes. I look like a ripe olive."
"No. You look like a cricket. Are you always so silent? Don't you ever chirp?"
"Me, silent? I've given the Wallys the blow of their lives. They think I'm sick, I've been so good on this rotten cruise."
"What caused the reform—good company?"
"No. I'm getting ready to break it to them that I may not be taken back at that school. I got into the devil of a row."
"Did you? And they expelled you?"
"Suspended me until they decide. That's why I had to come on this jolly party."
"You don't like it?"
"Of course I don't like it. How'd I know whether you ever would wake up or not?"
"Did you want me to wake up?" he asked curiously.
"But, oui, aye, yah, yes, of course! You don't suppose I want to play with fat old Brendon, do you? Wally is a fearful bore, so there's only you."
"Poor little Cricket, she wanted a playmate," he teased.
"She did! I can't rub my knees together and make a 'crick,' you know, so I had to wait till you came to. I'd have pushed you overboard, if it hadn't happened to-day. I'm so full of unused pep, I'm ready to pop!"
"Well, come on. I'm awake. Now what?"
"Let's warm up," she said, and was up and off down the deck in one spring. Jerry pursued. She raced around the whole deck twice, then waited for him to catch up with her.
"Puffing, Jerry? You're getting fat!" she jeered.
"You impudent little beggar. I'd like to shake you."
"Try it."
This was the opening mistake in what proved to be a perfect succession of diplomatic errors on the part of Jerry Paxton. It was as if the lid had popped off the cricket. She followed at Jerry's heels every minute. She sang, she talked, she whistled, she played tricks. She was the great, original pest, which no one could subdue, and Jerry laughed at her. Mrs. Brendon ordered her off when Jerry was working at the studies, but for the rest of the time she preyed upon them all.
Her father rowed her in public, one day, and lost his temper.
"Don't be a brat!" said he.
"It amuses me to be a brat," she retorted. "It amuses Jerry, too."
"It amuses nobody," said her mother.
"Jerry,à moi;au secours! Take your dying pet away before she's stepped on. The Wallys are hungry forcricket blood!" she cried, dragging Jerry up from a seat where Althea had him safely cornered.
"Look here, kid, you've got to behave or they'll send you home," he said, marching her off forward.
"You're handsome when you're cross, Jerry. I adore you cross."
"Do youwantto go home?"
"You're only cross because I made you ridiculous by dragging you away. You ought to be glad I saved you from Althea, the beautiful wax doll. Has she any works, Jerry? When I punch her she says 'Papa! Mama!' just like the other dolls."
"That will do. We will not discuss the other guests in this party," sternly.
"Don't expect me to have manners. I hate them."
"You rather bore me this morning," he remarked, and left her. She sulked the rest of the day, and waited her chance. The night was perfect, warm, with a full moon. Mrs. Brendon managed to get Althea and Jerry on the upper deck alone, while she guarded the others elsewhere. Isabelle had gone to bed with a headache, to every one's delight.
"Isn't this wonderful?" said Jerry.
"Yes," with a sigh.
"Why the sigh? Aren't you happy?"
"No. Everything seems so difficult here. We had such good times together in New York, but here it is so forced. Besides, that dreadful child seems to interest you more than any of the rest of us."
"I only keep her off the rest of you."
"But you laugh at her; you like her."
"She's an oddity. I confess she amuses me."
"She makes outrageous love to you."
"That baby? Good Lord! She's a little schoolgirl."
Althea laughed harshly.
"Surely you aren't jealous of her?"
"Why shouldn't I be? You spend all your time with her."
He leaned over and laid his hand on hers. She was really distressed, and Jerry could not bear to have people unhappy.
"My dear girl," he began. Then, at an expression which dawned on her face, he turned to look behind him. Isabelle, her hair flying, her robe floating behind her, her bare feet stuck into little mules, flew across the deck to them, and, as Jerry rose, fled to his arms, sobbing.
"Oh, Jerry, Jerry. I can't bear it!"
"Look here, Cricket, what's the matter?" he said, embarrassed at the scene.
"You hate me! I'll kill myself, if you hate me."
"Rubbish! I don't hate you except when you make yourself a pest."
The sobbing increased.
"Don't cry like that, child."
She clung to him, her head against his neck, as he bent over to hold her.
"Jerry, I'm s-sorry. P-please s-say you l-like me."
"Of course, I like you. Now, go to bed, like a nice girl."
"Not till you say you love me."
"All right; I say it. Now trot."
"Say it so I can remember, Jerry."
"Cricket, I love you madly. Now hop."
"I came to save you, Jerry," she whispered in his ear, so Althea could not hear.
"What's that?" he said, loosening her arms.
"Carry me down, Jerry?"
"Nothing of the kind; you'll walk," he said sternly, and led her toward the steps.
"Jerry, they'll send you home if you don't propose to Althea pretty soon. Then we can go together," said the imp, as she left him.
When he went back to Althea she rose, and he saw how angry she was.
"How can you let that creature make you so ridiculous, Jerry?"
"I'm sorry she annoys you. She is a spoiled, neglected kid, but there's no harm in her."
"She's a disgusting little beast, and I think it is a perfect outrage that the Bryces have shut us up on a ship with her. I shall land the first minute possible, and go home. I don't intend that a miss in her teens shall insult me as she does the rest of you."
She went to her stateroom in high dudgeon, and from that moment Jerry was like a man in a nightmare. When he thought he was on solid land, he stepped off precipices. When he knew he was walking properly, he found himself skimming the earth two feet above terra firma.
When they finally put in at Palm Beach he improvised: a telegram calling him north at once. It was now a caseof marry Althea or run, so, like "Georgie, Porgie, Puddin', Pie," he made a hasty exit.
It was with a feeling of pleasant relaxation that he took the night train north. He went to bed early, and slept like an escaped prisoner. When the porter went through the car calling: "Telegram for Mr. Jerome Paxton," he came to, and sat up as if he had been struck by a mallet. He put his head out and called for the yellow envelope. Half awake, he read:
"Is Isabelle with you?—Wallace Bryce."
He called for a blank and wired: "Certainly not." Then, as his indignation at Wally had thoroughly wakened him, he began to dress. What did Bryce mean by that ridiculous wire? Why in the name of mercy should that limb of Satan be with him? He supposed she was up to some of her tricks. He opened the curtains of his berth to make for the dressing room, when the curtains of the lower opposite were parted.
"What did you tell Wally, Jerry?" asked the Cricket, grinning.
Jerry stood a second in the aisle, speechless, and stared at the Cricket.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded finally.
"I'm going north with you. I told you I would."
"Get up and get your clothes on this minute," he ordered peremptorily.
"Not on your life, Jerry dear. I always lie abed late," she retorted, closing the curtains.
His first impulse was to jerk them apart, and set the rebellious imp upon her feet, but second thought convinced him that public opinion would be against that move. He hurried off to send another wire to Wally, phrased thus:
"Just discovered Isabelle on train. What shall I do with her?"
Then he made an agitated toilet and went back to his seat. The car was in that unspeakable state of vile air and half-dressed strangers which makes Pullman cars such a horror in the early morning. Jerry decided he could not bear it.
"Isabelle," he said, addressing the curtains, "get up and come to breakfast."
"I don't care for any breakfast, thank you, Jerry," she answered sweetly.
He went to the diner with a sigh of relief. He tried to contemplate his situation calmly. The Bryce child had certainly scored. No amount of protesting would ever convince Althea Morton of his innocence, because she had warned him against Isabelle's wiles. He could count on Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon's championing. Certainly he had disappointed her, but she could not believe him such a cad as to have run off with the Bryce girl. He did not worry about the distracted parents. He expected them to be prepared for anything from their undisciplined offspring. He pictured them, sighing with relief, that she was off their hands and upon his!
The next thing was what to do about the predicament? Would he better take her off at Jacksonville and wait for her father to claim her, or should he continue his journey with her to New York? What could he do with her then? He decided to leave it to the Bryces; they would have to arrange the details. His belief was that Wally would follow to Jacksonville, on receipt of the second telegram, so that would mean only the delay of a day for Jerry.
On his return to the other car, Isabelle's berth was still occupied. He read his paper, spent an hour in the smoking-room. Still she did not appear. All the other berths were made up, and the usual curiosity centred in the one late riser. Jerry decided not to be present at her entrance so he betook himself again to the smoker and stayed until noon.
When he returned this time, she was up and properly ensconced among her belongings. She smiled exuberantly, as Jerry came toward her, the focus of all eyes.
"Good-morning, Jerry dear. Isn't this jolly?"
"You ought to be spanked!"
"Oh, come off! Don't use that stage-father tone. I hoped you would be glad to see your little Cricket, Jerry."
"Well, I'm not."
"You may as well cheer up, because, glad or mad, you've got to see me."
"What on earth made you do such a crazy thing?"
"I couldn't stand it to be left alone with that dull bunch. I told you I'd come north with you, and I always do what I say I will."
"It must be comfortable to be so unhampered by consideration of others!"
"What others?"
"Your parents."
"Oh—them!"
"And me."
She considered that.
"You mean you don't want me."
"Certainly I don't want you. You have put me in a very uncomfortable position."
"I wanted to."
"What have I done to you, to make you displease me this way?"
"You've done enough," sullenly.
"What, for instance?"
"You've put a crimp in everything for me."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I thought we were good chums."
"I don't want to be your chum."
He looked at her, puzzled.
"Look here, kid——"
"Don't you call me kid," she blazed.
"Let's talk this over calmly, just as if I were your big brother. Maybe there is something I don't understand about it. In the first place, how did you manage it? How did you get on the train without being seen?"
"I came aboard as soon as the car was opened, and went to bed. I tried to get your upper, but you had bought the whole section. I wanted to pop my head down and say 'boo' at you this morning. But I must have gone to sleep because I didn't know when we started."
"Did you have some money?"
"I touched Wally for some yesterday."
"Is your ticket for New York?"
"Yes."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"That depends on you."
"On me?"
"Yes, of course. Don't you see that it does? I left a note for mother, saying I had run away with you, so I think you'll have to marry me, Jerry."
He laughed outright, but one look at her face silenced him.
"I beg your pardon, but that strikes me as a little high-handed, your running off with me, like this, and then demanding that I marry you. Modern, but extreme, I should say. How old are you?"
"I am sixteen and a half," with dignity.
"Well, even at that advanced age we do make mistakes, and this is one of yours, Isabelle. I expect a wirefrom your father saying that he will follow us to Jacksonville, and take charge of you."
"I'm not going back on that damned yacht!"
"My child, the decision as to your destination lies with your respected father. In the meantime, you must be starving, so we'll go to lunch."
Just then the porter came through with Wally's wire. It read: "Sorry. She's a devil. Take her to New York. Wiring head mistress of school to meet her there. Wally." The extreme concern in Jerry's face prompted Isabelle to read over his shoulder. Then she laughed gaily and defiantly. Jerry controlled himself, put the telegram into his pocket, and rose.
"Will you come to luncheon with me, Miss Bryce?"
She glanced at him speculatively.
"Delighted, Mr. Paxton."
For the rest of the journey, Jerry treated his companion with the most careful consideration. She tried in every way to break down this wall of formality. She sparkled at him, she teased him, she raged at him, she wept, but in vain.
"Jerry,pleasedon't treat me like a lady," she begged.
"You've done nothing to deserve such treatment."
"You used to be so nice to me on the yacht."
"Because you behaved yourself like a kid, and knew your place."
"Did you like my behaviour on the yacht?" in surprise.
"No, but it was an improvement on this dime-novel, moving-picture heroine you're trying out now."
"You're a fine movie villain, Jerry. You look as if you would pass me the poisoned bean."
Silence.
"Jerry, if you don't like any of my behaviours, why were you nice to me?"
"Because I thought you were a lonely little girl with no one to play with."
"I am that now, Jerry."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Yours."
He laughed shortly.
"You could play with me, very nicely, with no interruptions from the Wax Doll, if you'd only thaw. Couldn't you thaw a tiny bit, Jerry?"
He rose and departed to the smoking-room. When an hour had passed and he did not come back, she marched down the car and into the smoking compartment.
"Jerry, I'm going to sit in here with you men. I'm lonesome. I've always wanted to sit in here; it looks so cozy and smells so smelly."
The men laughed and rose to make room for her, but Jerry took her by the arm and piloted her swiftly forth.
"You'll have to smell it from afar," he said, and felt the grin of the men behind him. He was thoroughly irritated now.
"Execute me, Jerry, but don't look like that."
"Haven't you any instincts of breeding at all?" he inquired. "No nice girl does that sort of cheap, fresh thing. What do you suppose those men think of you? They do not consider you the least cute or clever, if thatis what you intended them to think. Their main idea is that, if I am your guardian, I ought to lock you up until you learn some manners."
"I wish youweremy guardian, Jerry."
Jerry was actually worn out with annoyance, with weariness, with fury at Wally Bryce for not taking her off his hands. He looked toward his escape with anticipation, and he devoutly hoped that his farewell with Isabelle would be forever. They were due in New York at ten o'clock at night. As they sat, ready to disembark, Isabelle leaned toward him.
"Jerry, do you hate me?"
"Oh, no," casually.
"Will you ever forgive me?"
"You are quite forgiven."
"Have I spoiled the trip for you?"
"Oh, no. You have been most sprightly."
"Oh, Jerry!" she groaned, and relapsed into large-eyed, tragic silence.
In the station, on arrival, the most careful search failed to find the head mistress. Isabelle was perfectly unconcerned about it, but Jerry was far from it.
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.
"Come along," he replied ungraciously, bundling her into a cab.
Arrived at the studio building, he hurried to Bobs's door and rapped. No answer. He tried again and again. He went to the Chatfields'; there was nobody there. Isabelle yawned. Jerry unlocked his own door and lit the light.
"This is your place, Jerry?" she cried, and began a swift tour of inspection.
"You can turn in here for the night, and in the morning I will take you to the school."
"Where will you sleep?"
"At a club."
"And leave me in this spooky place alone? I won't stay."
"Don't you see that I cannot take you around town at this hour of the night looking for lodgings?"
"I'll go in the bedroom, and you can sleep on the couch. I won't stay here alone."
He went to the telephone and called a number. He sent a request to Jane Judd to come to the 'phone, on important business. Then he waited a long time.
"Who is this Jane Judd?" demanded Isabelle.
"She is somebody to stay the night with you."
"I don't want her. I hate her name."
Finally he heard Jane's voice.
"Miss Judd, this is Jerome Paxton. I hope you had not gone to bed. Oh, that is good. I am just back from Florida and I have to ask a very great favour of you. If I come to your house in ten minutes, will you see me, so that I may explain? Thanks."
He hung up the receiver.
"Now, you get to bed. I'll be back here in twenty minutes with Miss Judd, who will spend the night with you."
"Can't you stay, too, Jerry?"
"Don't be ridiculous!"
He found Jane waiting in the lower hall for him. She was as calm and impersonal as if this were a usual occasion. He explained the situation.
"It's an outrage to ask you to do it, but will you come?"
"Certainly. Wait until I get some things, and a hat."
Presently they were on the way in a taxi. He inquired the news of the quarter. Bobs and the Chatfields had gone to Philadelphia for a month, possibly longer.
"I hope this girl will not prove a nuisance," he said, as they came to their destination.
"How old is she?"
"Sixteen."
They found her curled up on a couch, half dead for sleep.
"I thought you'd never come, Jerry," she cried.
"This is Miss Judd, who is good enough to stay with you. This is Isabelle Bryce, Miss Judd."
Jane nodded, and the girl stared rudely.
"I'll fix the bed for you. You must be very tired," said Jane kindly.
"You're all right now. Get a good sleep," said Jerry, picking up his bag to go.
"Oh, Jerry, don't leave me," cried Isabelle, clinging to him. "I don't want to stay with this strange woman. I want to go with you always, Jerry, because I love you so. Won't you take me, Jerry?"
"Don't be a little goose, Isabelle."
"Please don't hate me, Jerry," she sobbed.
"I don't hate you, when you're sensible."
"Won't you call me Cr-cricket, just once, Jerry?"
"If you'll be a good girl, and go to bed."
"Kiss me good-night."
"I'll do nothing of the kind."
He loosed her clinging arms determinedly. He had a miserable feeling of Jane's amusement over this absurd scene, which she was overhearing. When he released her, Isabelle sank in a sobbing heap upon the couch.
"Miss Judd," called Jerry.
She came to the door, and only for an instant was there a flicker of amusement in her eyes.
"Come and take charge of this crazy kid," he said desperately. "I'll come over early in the morning."
He seized his bag and hurried to the door.
"Oh, Jerry!" wailed the heroine.
But the hero, red, furious, embarrassed, plunged down the stairs, three at a time, and pined for the sight of Wally, so that he might adequately record his feelings upon some member of the Bryce family!
Jane's emotions, as she turned her attention to Isabelle, were compounded of amusement and sympathy for Jerry. She sensed how he, of all men, would hate being made ridiculous. She was destined to hear the whole story before she went to sleep, for Isabelle's pent passion had reached a climax where a confidante was a necessity.
She described the yachting party most cleverly. She enlarged on Mrs. Brendon's attempts to isolate Althea and Jerry, with her own introduction into the picture. She described her growing love for the hero, her determination to join him when he came north. She even admitted that she had wired the head mistress of the school not to meet them, because she thought that Jerry would then have to marry her to "protect her good name."
Jane struggled not to laugh; it was so poignant to the girl, and so absurd to her. She tried to soothe her, to change the subject, but in vain.
"Do you think he will marry me?" she demanded.
"I doubt it."
"Don't you think he loves me?"
"I'm afraid you're too young for this kind of thing."
"I'm not young. I'm nearly seventeen, and lots of girls love and marry before that."
"Lots of other women are in love with Mr. Paxton, too," said Jane.
"You just say that to scare me!" cried Isabelle, and followed it up with much weeping.
Poor Jane endured a bad night, but as is the way with afflictions, it was finally over. Jerry arrived at nine, full of thanks to her, and carried theenfant terribleoff to her school.
Jane hurried home, for this was to be a momentous day to her. Martin Christiansen had written that he was coming to see her at three o'clock in the afternoon, to talk over her work.
"Let me come to you in your own quarters, where you write and live, will you, my friend?" he had written her.
She had sent for him to come, and this was the day. She was not ashamed of the little room in the tenement house, where she had spent so many hours. She looked about it as she let herself in, trying to see it with his eyes—eyes used to beauty and comfort.
It was a square room, on the corner with two windows, west and south, hung with white curtains. It was small, but not cramped. The walls were calcimined white. The bed and dresser were white, as were the few chairs. A table, by one window, had on it a student lamp and neat piles of manuscript, while a dozen books were supported by book ends, against the wall. The rug was inexpensive, but dull in colour. It was scrupulously clean, and its bareness suggested deliberate asceticism rather than poverty.
"We aren't ashamed of it, Milly," she said to the cat. "It certainly is not beautiful, but it's clean, and sort of self-respecting, and those are the virtues of our class. He will understand that. I do hope you will like him, Milly," she added.
She hurried with her luncheon, gave Milly a bath, made a careful toilet herself. The same dark dress to be sure, but little fine collars and cuffs were added, to take away its austerity. She let her hair coil itself loosely instead of screwing it back as she usually did. She made these preparations, not at the dictation of vanity, for she was singularly free from it, but from an instinct to make herself fit for what she felt to be a crisis in her life. Whether Martin Christiansen said good or bad really did not matter so much as the fact that she had come to this point of testing—this day of judgment.
While she waited for his coming she let her mind return to Jerry and his latest difficulty. She laughed aloud at the memory of the girl's passionate absurdity. She thought back to her own first romance, a mad infatuation for the little town beau, to whom she never spoke. Yet how he had filled her dreams, how she had planned her marriage to him, under romantic circumstances, just as Isabelle had planned hers with Jerry. Artist-like, she appraised this self-revelation of youth, in its pitiful, lovable folly, and made it her own. As for poor Jerry, he was evidently doomed to stumble from one love affair to another, until death withered his charms. Too much love; too little love; so life goes grinding on, like an endless film of the sated and the hungry.
Milly jumped into her lap, purring.
"Milly, you're one of the Jerrys; you get nothing but affection. Is it because you demand it, or just because you are beautiful and people give it to you?"
She heard voices on the stairs, and opened the door wide, the big cat in her arms. Billy Biggs came first.
"Gen'l'mum to see yu, Miss Judd," he announced.
"Thank you, Billy. Welcome," she added simply to her guest. He took her hand in his cordial clasp, and looked his pleasure. He gave Billy a small tribute.
"You're a most excellent guide, my son," he remarked.
"I seen right away he didn't know this neighbourhood, Miss Judd, so I sez to him: 'What ye lookin' fer?'"
"Thank you much, Billy," she smiled, closing the door on his monologue.
"Is this your family?" he asked, laying his hand on Milly's head.
"Yes. Her name is Militant, but we call her Milly, as a sort of tactful evasion. Protects her with the neighbours, who are, on the whole, conservatives."
He smiled, laid his coat aside, and turned to look at her closely. She met his glance, flushing slightly.
"I have to get used to you at home."
He looked about him frankly.
"Yes, this is you—virginal, cloistered. Where did you get that Salome?" he inquired.
"I don't know. I understand Salome."
She sat by the window, where the afternoon sun came in, the big cat asleep in her lap. He drew a chair near her.
"I'm enormously curious about you. Where did you come from? Who were your people? How did you get here?"
"It isn't a bit interesting. I was born in a little town named Warburton, in New Jersey. My father was John Judd. He had a grocery store and was a leading citizen. My mother was an actress."
"Ah!" said Christiansen.
"The company she was with went broke in our town, and she stayed on as cashier in Judd's store. He married her and I was the only child. She died when I was twenty; my father followed when I was twenty-two. I sold the grocery, paid the debts, and came to New York to be an author."
She paused and turned her slow, rare smile on him. She had the ability to sit perfectly still, her hands quiet in her lap. Christiansen marked the trait; valued it.
"What made you want to write?"
"I had always been a reader. I read everything in the Warburton Public Library, I think. When I was in High School I wrote some stories which the local editor published, under an assumed name. My mother thought I had great talent, and I was tempted to agree with her," she smiled.
"How long did your funds last, in New York?"
"Not long. I did not have much in the first place. I realized before the money was gone that I must take any job I could find. I was not prepared to do anything."
"Same old story. How did you get work in the studios?"
"Answered Mr. Paxton's advertisement. I've beenthere ever since. I didn't care what I did, just so I made a living. My real life is here, with my true work."
"Just what do you do in the studios?"
"Anything—everything. Mend their clothes, clean palettes, sweep the studios, make curtains, look after them when they're sick, cook for them when they're busy."
"No wonder you know them so well."
It was his first reference to her work. She waited breathlessly, but he returned to her past again.
"Were you never tempted to take up your mother's profession?"
"No. You see, I had always been told how hard that life was, and I suppose I rather shared my father's belief that it wasn't respectable. Warburton found my mother its most interesting citizen, while it disapproved of her entirely. She was just a simple, frail woman, but to Warburton she was a brand plucked from the burning, and her past was never to be forgotten."
"Was your father in love with her, or was it the romance of her profession which attracted him?"
"Father was very religious. I think he married her to save her soul. He was as kind to her as he knew how to be, but he never understood her."
"And you?"
"I loved her and took care of her. She was my child from the time I was a baby. I acted as interpreter to my father, whom I understood, too, in a way. He was a dour, silent man, but just."
"I get the picture of both of them," he nodded.
"Can I write?" she demanded bluntly.
"How long have you been working at that desk?"
"Five years."
She drew a big packing box from under the bed. It was full of manuscripts. He looked at it with deep interest.
"You've told nobody, offered nothing for sale in those years?"
"Not since my first editor, who gave me such good advice."
"It is incredible."
"Is the time wasted?" she asked.
"No. Work is never wasted, and of course you are destined to write."
"Am I?" she cried. The quality in her voice, of rapture and strain, made him look at her.
"My child, how you care!" he said, laying his hand on hers.
She nodded, with wet eyes.
"I have been profoundly interested in the things you gave me to read. I want more, much more. There are certain undoubted qualities—an astonishing vocabulary, a fine sense of words. You are agourmetfor choice words, rich words, words fat with meaning. You've a pretty good sense of form. I can fairly analyze your literary diet. 'Ha, now she's devouring Molière,' I would say to myself, or, 'she's overeating the Russians.'"
Jane laughed happily.
"As a specialist, I must say that you are overfed and undernourished. You read too much and live too little. You look out on life from this white cell. Do you see what I mean?"
"Yes, yes; but what can I do?"
"We must do something. The true artist speaks for the age in which he lives. There is no room for the ascetic point of view in our world to-day—this is a world of the senses. Like it or not, it's true. We measure all pleasure, all experience, by their æsthetic or emotional value. We go back to the very sources of art to find a fiercer reaction. We have Piccabia, Matisse crudity gone stark; we have dissonance in harmony—DeBussey and Strauss; the Russians with their barbaric dances. We have the Irish renaissance in drama, going back to the peasant for primitive emotions. We have the bloodiest war in all times; we are primitive savages in our greed for lust and power, just as we are supermen in devising ways of exquisite, torturing death for our enemies. We are the age of the senses, my friend; we brook no denial of the flesh and its appetites."
"I understand what you mean; I know it to be true; but how can I have a part in life, when perforce, I am just an onlooker?" she asked earnestly.
"We will find a way. We must open the door of the nunnery, and lead Sister Jane into the world of deeds, of fight and lose, heartache and some rare joys. Do you want to come, Sister Jane?"
She turned her head and looked into space beyond her window before she answered.
"I shall miss the sanctuary, the quiet, and my holy saints," she said, her hand sweeping the books, "but I want to come out; for a long time, Mr. Christiansen, I've wanted so to come out."
"Good. We will begin with your worldly education to-night, dear saint. We'll go to Polly's for dinner, and thence to a meeting at Cooper Union, where I am to speak. Will you come?"
"Oh, yes," she cried excitedly. "It is so wonderful to have a friend and go off for dinner and talk. You're the first friend I've ever had," she added shyly.
"That's a responsibility," he answered, "but I like it. I must set you a high standard."
"You have. I wish I could give you something to make you happy, in exchange."
"I am agourmetof people, as you are of words, Jane Judd. You give me a rare treat, a new flavour. Come, get your hat, child, and let's be about your living!"