"I almost forgot about this. Here's the introduction I promised you to my friends in London. You will like Mrs. Tate, my dear," he said to Blanche, "and she'll make a great pet of the little one. She hasn't any children of her own, poor woman. Be sure to go to see them," he concluded, "and present my compliments to them."
When he was gone, Jules shrugged his shoulders and turned to his wife. "What do we want to meet those people for?" he said. "What will they care about us?"
The next day they left Boulogne, after many farewell injunctions from the Berthiers, and much weeping on the part of Blanche and her sisters. Blanche stood for a long time with Madeleine, who held the little Jeanne in her arms, waving farewell to her kindred on the wharf, and watching the shores of France recede from her gaze. When the last vestige of land disappeared in the wintryfog and she found herself shut in by the shoreless sea, she turned away with a feeling of hopeless weariness. She had a morbid presentiment that she was leaving home forever.
Mrs. Tate ran her eyes over the pile of letters at her plate on the breakfast-table. She was a large, florid woman of forty, verging on stoutness, with an abundance of reddish-brown hair.
"What a lot of mail!" she said to her husband, who was absorbed in reading the "Daily Telegraph,"—a small man, with black hair and moustache tinged with gray, and small black eyes finely wrinkled at the corners. "Here's a letter from Amy dated at Cannes. They must have left Paris sooner than they intended; and here's something from Fanny Mayo,—an invitation to dinner, I suppose. Fanny told me she wanted us to meet the Presbreys next week,—some people she knew in Bournemouth."
"Fanny's always taking up new people," said Tate from behind his paper, "and dropping them in a month."
"And here's something else with a French stamp on it. Let me see. From Boulogne? It must be from Father Dumény. Yes, I recognize the handwriting."
"Another subscription, I suppose," her husband grunted.
"He hasn't written for nearly a year. I wonder what started him this time. What a dear old soul he is! Do you remember the night we took him out to a restaurant in Paris and he was so afraid of being seen? I always laugh when I think of that."
"What's he got to say?"
With her knife, Mrs. Tate cut one end of the letter open, and her eye wandered slowly down the page.
"He's been ill, he says, but he's able to be about now. He came near running over here last summer, but he couldn't get away." For a few moments Mrs. Tate was absorbed in reading; then she exclaimed with a curious little laugh: "How funny! Listen to this, will you? He's left what he really wrote for till the end,—like a woman. He wants us to look after aprotégéeof his, a girl that he baptized, the daughter of anacrobat. Did you ever hear of such a thing? She's in the circus herself, and she's going to appear at the Hippodrome next week. She performs on the trapeze, and then she dives backward from the roof of the building—backward, mind you! Could anything be more terrible?"
"I should think she'd be right in your line," Tate replied without lifting his eyes from his paper. "She'll be something new. You can make a lion of her."
"Don't be impertinent, Percy. This is a very serious matter. It seems the girl's married and had a child about two months ago. She's going to resume her performances. She doesn't know a soul in London; so she'll be all alone."
"I thought you said she had a husband."
"So I did. He's given them a letter to us, but he doesn't think they'll present it. I suppose those theatrical people live in a world of their own. But of course I shall go to see her. Perhaps I can do something for her. Anyway, it'll be interesting to meet an acrobat. I've never known one in my life."
"As I said," her husband remarked, turning to his bacon and eggs, "you can introduce her into society. People must be tired of meeting artists and actors and musicians. She'll be a novelty."
"You're very disagreeable to-day, Percy," Mrs. Tate responded amiably, after sipping the coffee that had been steaming beside her plate. "You are always attributing the meanest motives to everything I do."
He gave a short laugh. "But you must acknowledge that you do some pretty queer things, my dear."
She ignored the remark, and a moment later she went on briskly: "I must go and see this acrobat woman—whoever she is. If I don't—"
"What's her name?" Tate asked, turning to his paper and searching for the theatrical columns.
"Madame Jules Le Baron, Father Dumény calls her. But I suppose she must have a stage name. Most of them have."
"I don't see that name in 'Under the Clock!' The Hippodrome? No, it isn't there. I wonder if this can be the one:'On Monday evening next, Mademoiselle Blanche, the celebrated French acrobat, will give her remarkable performance on the trapeze and her great dive from the top of the Hippodrome.'"
Mrs. Tate sighed.
"Yes, it must be. Mademoiselle Blanche! How stagey it sounds! I wonder what she's like."
"We might go to see her first and then we could tell whether she's possible or not."
"Go to the Hippodrome!"
"Yes, why not? It's perfectly respectable. Only it doesn't happen to be fashionable. In Paris, you know, it's the thing to attend the circus. Don't you remember the La Marches took us one night?"
"Yes, and I remember there was a dreadful creature—she must have weighed three hundred pounds—who walked the tight-rope and nearly frightened me to death. I thought she'd come down on my head."
"Then it's understood that we're to go on Monday? If we go at all we might as well be there the first night. It'll be more interesting."
Mrs. Percy Tate was a personage in London. For several years before her marriage, at the age of twenty-five, she had been known as an heiress and a belle. Even then she had a reputation for independence of character, and for an indefatigable zeal for reforming the world. Her name stood at the head of several charitable societies, and she was also a member of many clubs for the improvement of the physical and spiritual condition of the human race. Since her marriage she had grown somewhat milder; her friends used to say that Percy Tate had "trained" her. They also said that she had "made" him; without her money he would never have become a member of the rich firm of Welling and Company.
Percy Tate's business associates, however, knew the fallacy of this uncharitable opinion. With his dogged determination and his keen insight into the intricacies of finance, Tate was sure of forging ahead in time, with or without backing. His association with Welling and Company gave the house even greater strength than it had had before; for in addition to his reputation as a financier, he hadmade his name a synonym for stanch integrity. He had passed sixteen happy years with his wife, wisely directed her charities, wholesomely ridiculed her enthusiasms, followed her into the Catholic Church, where he was quite as sincere if a much less ardent worshipper; and in all the serious things of life he treated her, not as an inferior to be patronized, but as an equal that he respected, with no display of sentiment, but with sincere devotion. She, on her part, was amused by his humor and guided by his advice, though she often pretended to ignore it; and she never allowed any of her numerous undertakings to interfere with her regard for his comfort or the happiness of her home.
The manager of the Hippodrome had extensively advertised the appearance of Mademoiselle Blanche, and on Monday night the amphitheatre was crowded. The Tates arrived early in order to see the whole performance; as they had never been at the Hippodrome before, the evening promised to be amusing for them. Tate, however, became so interested in the menagerie through which they passed before entering the portionof the vast building devoted to the exhibitions in the ring that they remained there more than an hour. The interval between their taking seats and the appearance of the acrobat rather bored them.
"I wish they'd hurry up and let her come out," said Mrs. Tate. "And yet I almost dread seeing her make that horrible plunge. This must be the first time she's done it since the birth of her baby. Isn't it really shocking?"
"Oh, I suppose these people are as much entitled to babies as any other people."
She cast a reproachful glance at him, and did not reply for a moment. Then she said: "But what must her feelings be now—just as she's getting ready?"
"I dare say she's glad to get back to her work and earn her salary again. Her husband probably doesn't earn anything. Those fellows never do."
"She must be frightened nearly to death."
Tate laughed softly. "You'll die from worrying about other people."
"What are they doing now?" Mrs. Tate asked, turning her eyes to the ring. "I supposethat rope they're letting down is for her to climb up on, and that's the net she'll fall into. How gracefully that trapeze swings! I feel quite excited. Every one else is too. Can't you see it in their faces? There must be thousands of people here. How strange they look! Such coarse faces."
"It's the great British middle class. This is just the kind of thing they like."
"It reminds me of pictures of the Colosseum. I can almost fancy their turning their thumbs down. Here she comes. How light she is on her feet! And isn't she pretty! But she looks awfully thin and delicate, and she's as pale as a ghost."
"You'll attract all the people round us. Of course she's pale. She's probably powdered up to the eyes, like the women we used to see in Paris."
"How lightly she goes up that rope," Mrs. Tate whispered, "and what wonderful arms she has! Just like a man's. They look as if they didn't belong to her body."
Silently and dexterously Blanche reached the main trapeze, and for a moment she sat there, with her arms crooked against therope on either side, and rubbing her hands. For the first time during her career she was terrified in the ring. She had hoped that as soon as she resumed her work the terror she had felt since Jeanne's birth would pass away. Now, however, it made her so weak that she feared she was going to fall.
She was thinking of the child as she had seen her crowing in the crib. If anything should happen to her she might never see Jeanne again. She was vaguely conscious of the vast mass of people below her, waiting for her to move. She took a long breath and nerved herself for the start, before making her spring to the trapeze below; she must have courage for the sake of the little Jeanne, she said to herself. Mechanically she began to sway forward and backward; then she shot into the air, and with a sensation of surprise and delight she continued her performance.
Mrs. Tate watched her with an expression of mingled fear, interest, and pleasure in her face.
"Isn't she the most wonderful creatureyou ever saw, Percy?" she cried, clutching her husband's arm. "It's horrible, yet I can't help looking. Suppose she should fall!"
"She'd merely drop into the net. There's nothing very dangerous about what she's doing now. Keep still."
"I never saw anything more graceful. Sheisgrace itself, isn't she? See how her hair flies; I should think it would get into her eyes and blind her. I shall speak to her about that when I see her. I shall certainlygoto see her."
In a round of applause, Blanche finished her performance on the trapeze and then began her posing on the rope, whirling slowly, with a rhythmic succession of motions to the net. Then Jules, in evening dress, with a large diamond gleaming in his shirt-front, stepped out on the net, and for an instant they conferred together. Suddenly she clapped her hands, bounded on the rope again, and while Jules held it to steady her motion, she climbed hand over hand to the top of the building. There she sat, looking in the distance like a white bird ready totake flight, her dark hair streaming around her head.
"I feel as if I were going to faint," Mrs. Tate whispered.
Her husband glanced at her quickly. "Yes, you'd better—in this crowd. A fine panic you'd create! Want to go out?"
She seemed to pull herself together. "No, I think I shall be able to bear it. If I can't, I'll look away. What's that he's saying? What horrible English he speaks! I can't understand a word.Oh!" she gasped, clutching her husband by one arm and holding him firmly as Blanche dropped backward and whirled through the air; and this exclamation she repeated in a tone of horrified relief when the girl struck the net, bounded into the air again, and landed on her feet.
They rose with the applauding crowd and started to leave the place. "In my opinion," said Mrs. Tate, clinging to her husband's arm and drawing her wrap closely around her, "in my opinion such exhibitions are outrageous. There ought to be a law against them. Think of that poor little creaturegoing through that every night. Of course she'll be killed sometime. I wonder if she's afraid. I should think she'd expect every night to be her last."
"What nonsense you're talking. Of course those people don't feel like that. If they did they'd never go into the business. It's second nature to them."
"But they'rehumanjust like the rest of us, and that woman is a mother," Mrs. Tate insisted. "Don't you suppose she thinks of her baby before she makes that terrible dive? It's a shame that her husband should allow her to do it."
"There you are, trying to regulate the affairs of the world again. Why don't you let people alone? They'd be a good deal happier, and so would you. Her husband probably likes to have her do it."
"Well, I shall go to see her anyway," Mrs. Tate cried with determination. "Then I can find out all about her for myself."
For the next three weeks Mrs. Tate was absorbed by various duties in connection with her charitable societies. One morning, however, she suddenly realized that she hadneglected to comply with Father Dumény's request, and she resolved to put off her other engagements for the afternoon and call at once on the acrobat; if she didn't go then, there was no knowing when she could go. At four o'clock she found herself stepping into a hansom in front of her house in Cavendish Square.
The address that Father Dumény had sent led her to a little French hotel with a narrow, dark entrance, dimly lighted by an odorous lamp. She poked about in the place for a moment, wondering how she was to find any one; then a door which she had not observed was thrown open, and she was confronted by a little man with a very waxed moustache, who smiled and asked in broken English what Madame wanted. She stammered that she was looking for Madame Le Baron, and the little man at once called agarçonin a greasy apron, who led the way up the narrow stairs. When they had reached the second landing the boy rapped on the door, and Mrs. Tate stood panting behind him. For several moments there was no answer; then heavy steps could beheard approaching, and a moment later Madeleine's broad figure, silhouetted by the light from the windows from behind, stood before them. Mrs. Tate saw at a glance that she was French, and addressed her in her own language.
"Mais oui," Madeleine replied. "Madame is at home. Will Madame have the goodness to enter?"
"Say that I'm Father Dumény's friend, please," said Mrs. Tate as she gave Madeleine a card. Then she glanced at one corner of the room, where a large cradle, covered with a lace canopy, had caught her eye. "Is the baby here?" she asked quickly, going toward it.
"Ah, no—not now. She sometimes sleeps here in the morning; but she is with her mother in the other room now."
Madeleine disappeared, and Mrs. Tate's eyes roved around the room. She recognized it at once as the typical English lodging-house drawing-room; she had seen many rooms just like it before, when she had called on American friends living for a time in London. It was large and oblong, facingthe tall houses on the opposite side of the street that cut off much of the light; the wall paper was ugly and sombre, and the carpet, with its large flowery pattern, together with the lounge and chairs, completed an effect of utter dreariness.
Mrs. Tate wondered how people could live in such places; she should simply go mad if she had to stay in a room like this. Then she wondered why Madame Le Baron hadn't brightened up the apartment a bit; the photographs on the mantel, in front of the large French mirror, together with the cradle in the corner, were the only signs it gave of being really inhabited. How vulgar those prints on the wall were! They and the mirror were the only French touches visible, and they contrasted oddly with their surroundings. While Mrs. Tate was comfortably meditating on the vast superiority of England to France, the door leading to the next room opened and Blanche entered the room. She looked so domestic in her simple dress of blue serge that for an instant her caller did not recognize her.
She held out her hand timidly. "FatherDumény has spoken to me about you," she said.
"Father Dumény must think I am an extremely rude person. I meant to come weeks ago," Mrs. Tate replied, clasping the hand and looking down steadily into the pale face. "But I've been busy—so busy, I've had hardly a minute to myself. However, I did go to see you perform."
"Ah, at the Hippodrome?"
"Yes, the very first night. Mr. Tate and I went together. We were both—er—wonderfully impressed. I don't think I ever saw anything more wonderful in my life than that plunge of yours."
Mrs. Tate adjusted herself in the chair near the window, and Blanche took the opposite seat. "I'm glad you liked it," she said with a sigh.
"Liked it. I can't really say I did like it. I must confess it rather horrified me."
"It does some people. My mother never likes to see me do it—though I've done it for a great many years now."
"But doesn't it—doesn't it make you nervous sometimes?"
"I never used to think of it—before my baby was born."
"Ah, the baby! May I see her? Just a peep."
"She was asleep when I left," Blanche replied, unconsciously lowering her voice as if the child in the next room might know she was being talked about; "but she will wake up soon. She always wakes about this time. Madeleine is with her now, and she'll dress her and bring her in."
For a quarter of an hour they talked about the little Jeanne, and Blanche, inspired by Mrs. Tate's vivid interest and sympathy, grew animated in describing the baby's qualities; when she was born she weighed nearly nine pounds, and she had not been sick a day. Then she had grown so! You could hardly believe it was the same child. She very rarely cried,—almost never at night. Mrs. Tate had heard mothers talk like that before, but Blanche'snaïvetélent a new charm to the narration; she kept in mind, however, their first topic, and at the next opportunity she returned to it.
"Then what do you do with the child atnight?" she asked. "I suppose your servant goes to the circus with you, doesn't she? Of course you can't leave the baby alone."
"Ah, no," Blanche replied. "We have a little girl to stay with her."
Mrs. Tate was surprised. So these circus people lived as other people did, with servants to wait on them, with a nurse for the child. She had instinctively thought of them as vagabonds. On discovering that they were well cared for, she had a sensation very like disappointment; they seemed to be in no need of help of any sort. She was curious to know more of the life of this girl, who seemed sonaïveand had such a curious look of sadness in her eyes. Mrs. Tate deftly led Blanche to talk about her husband, and in a few minutes, by her questions and her quick intelligence, she fancied that she understood the condition of this extraordinaryménage.
Percy had been right; the wife supported the family and the husband was a mere hanger-on; but it was evident from the way he was mentioned that the romance stilllasted. Then Blanche made a reference to Jules which led her visitor to make inquiries with regard to him, and these changed her view of the situation. So, before marriage, Monsieur had been in business, and he had probably given it up to follow his wife in her wanderings. She surmised that they were not absolutely dependent on the circus for their daily bread; perhaps this accounted for their comfortable way of living.
While apparently absorbed in conversation Mrs. Tate continued this train of thought. She had never known any one connected with the circus before, she explained with a smile; people who lived in London all the time were apt to be so very narrow and ignorant; but she wanted to hear all about it, and Madame must tell her. Blanche was able to tell very little, for she was not used to discussing her work. By adroit questioning, however, Mrs. Tate led her on to an account of her early career from her first appearance as a child with her father to her development into a "star" performer.
The narrative seemed to her wildly interesting. How fascinating it would be if shecould persuade the girl to relate her story in a drawing-room! It would be the sensation of the winter. But this poor child never could talk in public, even in her own tongue.
"But do tell me," said Mrs. Tate, when Blanche had described the months her father had spent in teaching her to make the great plunge. "Doesn't it hurt your back? I should think that striking with full force day after day on that padded net would destroy the nervous system of a giant."
Blanche smiled and shook her head. "It never used to hurt. I've only felt it lately, since the baby was born," she said.
"Then it does hurt now?" Mrs. Tate cried eagerly.
"Sometimes. I feel so tired in the morning now. I never used to; and sometimes when I wake up my back aches very much. But I try not to think of it."
"But, my dear child, you ought to think of it. You mustn't allow yourself to be injured—perhaps for life."
Blanche turned pale. "Do you think it can be serious?" she asked timidly.
Mrs. Tate saw that she had made a falsestep. "Of course not—notserious. It's probably nothing at all. I haven't a doubt a physician could stop it easily. Have you spoken to any one about it?"
"No; not even to my husband. I shouldn't like to tell him. It would make him unhappy."
Mrs. Tate became thoughtful. "I wonder if Dr. Broughton couldn't do something for you. He's our physician, and he's the kindest soul in the world. I'm always sending him to people. Suppose I should ask him to come and call on you some day. Perhaps he'll tell you there's nothing the matter, and then you won't be worried any more." She glanced into the pale face and was startled by the look she saw there. "Oh, you needn't be afraid," she laughed. "He won't hurt you. But, of course, if you don't want him to come, I won't send him."
Blanche clasped her hands and dropped her eyes. "I think I should like to have him come if—if—my husband——"
"But he needn't know anything about it," said Mrs. Tate, with feminine delight at the prospect of secrecy. "We won't tellhim anything. If he meets Monsieur Le Baron here you can just say I sent him to call on you. Besides, he can come some time when your husband isn't here," she added with a smile.
"Jules generally goes out in the afternoon," Blanche replied, feeling guilty at the thought of concealing anything from him. "He likes to read the French papers in acaféin the Strand."
"Then I'll tell Dr. Broughton to come some afternoon. He'll be delighted. I don't believehe'sever known an acrobat either," she laughed.
They talked more of Blanche's symptoms, and Mrs. Tate speedily discovered that since the birth of the baby Blanche had not been free from terror of her work; every night she feared might be her last. She did not confess this directly, but Mrs. Tate gathered it from several intimations and from her own observations. She felt elated. What an interesting case! She had never heard of anything like it before. This poor child was haunted with a horrible terror! This accounted for the pitiful look of distress inher eyes. Then Mrs. Tate's generous heart fairly yearned with sympathy; but this she was careful to conceal. She saw that by displaying it she would do far more harm than good; so she pretended to be amused at the possibility of Blanche's injuring herself in making the plunge.
"It must have become second nature to you," she said, "after all these years. You're probably a little tired and nervous. Dr. Broughton will give you a tonic that will restore your old confidence. Meantime," she added enthusiastically, "I'm going to take care of you. I'm coming to see you very often, and I shall expect you to come to see me. Let me think; this is Thursday. On Sunday night you and Monsieur Le Baron must come and dine with us at seven o'clock. We'll be all alone. I sha'n't ask any one. But wait a minute. Why wouldn't that be a good way for your husband to meet Dr. Broughton? I'll ask him to come, too. He often looks in on Sundays. That will be delightful."
She rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. "I suppose I must go without seeingthe baby. But I shall——" She looked quickly around at the clicking sound that seemed to come from the door. Then the door opened, and Jules, in a heavy fur-trimmed coat and silk hat, stood before her. She recognized him at once, and as he bowed hesitatingly, she extended her hand and relieved the awkwardness of the situation. "I won't wait for Madame to introduce me," she said, just as Blanche was murmuring her name.
"Then you are the lady Father Dumény spoke to us about!" Jules said with a smile.
"Yes; and your wife and I have become the best of friends already."
"And you've made friends with the baby too, I hope," Jules replied, removing his coat and throwing it over a chair. She liked his face more than she had done at the Hippodrome; he had a good eye, and, for a Frenchman, a remarkably clear complexion.
"No; she's asleep," Blanche replied. "I asked Madeleine to bring her in if she woke up."
"But you must see her," Jules insisted. "I'll go and take a peep at her."
He went to the door leading to the next room, opened it softly, and glanced in. Then he made a sign that the others were to follow, and he tiptoed toward the bed where Jeanne lay sleeping, her face rosy with health, and her little hands tightly closed. Madeleine, who had been sitting beside the bed, rose as they approached and showed her mouthful of teeth.
For a few moments they stood around the child, smiling at one another and without speaking. Then they tiptoed out of the room, and closed the door behind them.
"I shall come again soon some morning," Mrs. Tate whispered, as if still afraid of disturbing the child, "when the baby's awake." Then she went on in a louder tone: "She's a dear. I know I shall become very fond of her. And you're coming to us next Sunday night," she added, as she bade Jules good-bye. "Your wife has promised. I shall expect you both. Perhaps I shall come before then; I want to get acquainted with Jeanne."
She kissed Blanche on both cheeks, after the French fashion. "I sha'n't forget, you know. We have great secrets together already," she laughed, turning to Jules as she passed out of the door.
As soon as Percy Tate confronted his wife at the table that night he saw that something was on her mind.
"You've been to see those circus people," he said.
"How did you know that?"
"Oh, clairvoyance,—my subtle insight into the workings of your brain!"
"I suppose Hawkins told you. Well, Ihavebeen to see them."
Tate began to pick at the bread beside his plate. He often became preoccupied when he knew his wife wanted him to ask questions; this was his favorite way of teasing her.
"It's the strangestménageI ever saw in my life," Mrs. Tate exclaimed at last, unable to keep back the news any longer. "And it's just as I thought it would be. Thatpoor little creature simply lives in terror of being killed."
Tate rolled his eyes. "'In the midst of life we are in death,'" he said solemnly.
"It's altogether too serious a matter to be made a joke of, Percy. If you could have heard—"
"Now, my dear, you know what I told you. You went to see that woman with the deliberate expectation of finding her a person to be sympathized with, and I can see that you've imagined a lot of nonsense about her. Why in the world don't you let such people alone? You belong in your place and she belongs in hers, and the world is big enough to hold you both without obliging you to come together. You can't understand her feelings any more than she can understand yours. You wonder how you'd feel if you were in her place; you can't realize that if youwerein her place you'd be an altogether different person. If you had to go through her performances, of course you'd be scared to death; but you forget she's been brought up to do those things; it's her business, her life. I knewyou'd go there and work up a lot of ridiculous sympathy, and badger that woman for nothing!"
At the beginning of this speech Mrs. Tate had sat back in her chair with an expression of patient resignation in her face. When her husband finished she breathed a long sigh. "I hope you've said it all, Percy. You're so tiresome when you make those long harangues. Besides, you've only succeeded in showing that you don't understand the case at all."
Then, as they finished their soup, Mrs. Tate gave an account of her call of the afternoon, ending with a graphic repetition of the talk with Blanche about the pains in her back.
"I shall certainly tell Dr. Broughton about it," she cried. "That poor child—she reallyisnothingbuta child—she's just killing herself by inches, and her husband is worse than a brute to let the thing go on."
"So you want to stop it and take away their only means of support."
"It isn't their only means of support. Itseems the husband has money. That makes it all the worse."
"Now, let me say right here, my dear, I wash my hands of this affair. If you want to rush in and upset those people's lives, go ahead, but I'll have nothing to do with it."
"I wish you wouldn't scold me so, Percy. It seems to me I usually bear the consequences of what I do. And I don't see what harm there can be in consulting Dr. Broughton. You're always cracking him up yourself."
Tate burst into a loud laugh. "If that isn't just like a woman! Turning it onto poor old Broughton."
"Oh, sometimes you're soaggravating, Percy!"
Two days later, in spite of her husband's opposition, Mrs. Tate consulted Dr. Broughton, and he promised, as soon as he could, to call some morning at the little hotel in Albemarle Street. Before he appeared there Mrs. Tate ingratiated herself into the affections of the family. As Blanche grew more familiar with her, she confided to her many details of her life, and Mrs. Tate speedilypossessed the chief facts in connection with it. These facts did not increase her esteem for Jules, whose days, in spite of his duties as his wife's manager, were spent in what she regarded as wholly unpardonable idleness. She also suspected that Jules disliked her; it must have been he who sent word that they would be unable to accept her invitation for dinner on Sunday evening. This, however, did not prevent their being invited for the following Sunday. Mrs. Tate was determined to secure her husband's opinion of her newprotégés.
Before Sunday came Dr. Broughton unexpectedly made his appearance in the Tates' drawing-room one evening.
"I've seen your acrobat," he said to the figure in yellow silk and lace, reading beside the lamp. "Don't get up. Been out? I hardly thought I'd find you in; you're such a pair of worldlings."
"We came away early. I had a headache," said Tate, shading his eyes with one hand and offering the other to the visitor. "Or, rather, I pretended I had."
The Doctor, a short, stout man of fifty, withgrayish brown hair, and little red whiskers jutting out from either side of his face, and with enormous eyebrows shading his keen eyes, gathered his coat-tails in his hand, and took a seat on the couch.
"It's late for a call—must be after ten. But I knew this lady of yours would want to hear about her acrobat. Nice little creature, isn't she? Seems ridiculous she should belong to a circus."
"She doesn't belong there," Mrs. Tate replied, briskly inserting a paper-knife in her book and laying the book on the little table beside her. "I've never seen any one so utterly misplaced. Did you have a talk with her?"
"Yes—a talk. That was all; but that was enough. Her husband was out."
"O, you conspirators!" Tate exclaimed.
"Then you've satisfied yourself about her?" said his wife, ignoring him.
"Yes. She has a very common complaint, a form of meningitis; slumbering meningitis, it's often called. Many people have it without knowing it; and she might have had it even if she hadn't taken to thumping herspine half a dozen times a week. The trouble's located in the spine."
"There, I told you so!" exclaimed Mrs. Tate; and "What a lovely habit women have of never gloating over anything!" her husband added amiably.
"Percy, I wish you'd keep quiet! Do you really think it's serious, Doctor?"
The Doctor held up his hands meditatively, the ends of the fingers touching, and slowly lifted his shoulders. "In itself it may be serious or it may not. Sometimes trouble of that sort is quiescent for years, and the patient dies of something else. Sometimes it resists treatment, and leads to very serious complications,—physical and mental. I've had cases where it has affected the brain and others where it has led to paralysis. In this case it is likely to be aggravated."
"By the diving, you mean?" said Mrs. Tate.
"Exactly. That has probably been the cause of the trouble lately—if it wasn't the first cause. It may go on getting worse, or it may remain as it is for years, or it may disappear for a time, or possibly, altogether."
Mrs. Tate breathed what sounded like a sigh of disappointment. "Then it isn't so bad as I thought," she said.
For a moment the Doctor hesitated. Then he replied: "Yes, it's worse. The mere physical pain that it causes Madame Le Baron is of comparatively little account. I think we may be able to stop that. The peculiarity of the case is the nervousness, the curious fear that seems to haunt her."
In her excitement Mrs. Tate almost bounced from her seat. "That isexactlywhat I said. The poor child hasn't a moment's peace. It's the most terrible thing I ever heard of. And to think that that man—her husband——"
"It's always the husband," Tate laughed. "Broughton, why don't you stand up for your sex?"
"Percy wants to turn the whole thing into ridicule. I think it's a shame. I can't tell you how it has worried me. I feel so——"
"For Heaven's sake, Broughton, I wish you'd give my wife something to keep her from feeling for other people. If you don't, she'll go mad, and I shall too. She wantsto regulate the whole universe. I have a horrible fear that she's going to get round to me soon."
The Doctor smiled, and bent his bushy eyes on the husband and then on the wife.
"It's a peculiar case," he repeated thoughtfully, when they had sat in silence for several moments. "It couldn't be treated in the ordinary way."
"How in the world did you get so much out of her?" Mrs. Tate asked. "She's the shyest little creature."
"I had to work on her sympathies. I got her to crying,—and then, of course, the whole story came out. As you said, she's haunted by the fear of being killed."
"But that's the baby," said Mrs. Tate quickly. "She told me she never had the least fear till her baby was born."
The Doctor lifted his eyebrows. "It's several things," he replied dryly, refusing to take any but the professional view.
Then they discussed the case in all its aspects. The haunting fear Dr. Broughton regarded as the worst feature. "She says whenshe goes into the ring, that usually leaves her; but if it came back just before she took her plunge it would kill her. The least miscalculation would be likely to make her land on her head in the net, and that would mean a broken neck. It's terrible work,—that. The law ought to put a stop to it."
"The law ought to put a stop to a good many things that it doesn't," Mrs. Tate snapped. "To think that in this age of civilization——"
"There she goes, reforming the world again!" her husband interrupted.
"But if the law doesn't stop it in this case," she went on, "Iwill."
For a time they turned from the subject of Blanche and her ills to other themes; but when, about midnight, Dr. Broughton rose to leave, Mrs. Tate went back to it. "We're going to have the Le Barons here for dinner next Sunday," she said. "I wish you'd come in if you can. I want Percy to see what they're like."
"She relies on my judgment after all," said Tate, following the guest to the door. As they stood together in the hall, "Youthink the case is serious then?" he asked quietly.
The Doctor whispered something in his ear, and Tate nodded thoughtfully. "And how do you think it'll end if she doesn't stop it?"
Dr. Broughton tapped his forehead with his hand. "This is what I'm most afraid of." He seized his stick and thrust it under his arm. "But giving up her performance, I'm afraid, would be like giving up her life. She was practically born in the circus, you know, and I suspect from what your wife has told me that her husband fell in love with her in the circus. Outside of that she seems to have no interest in anything,—except, of course, her family and her baby. But to take her out of the circus would be like pulling up a tree by the roots."
Dr. Broughton was so used to making hurried exits from patients' houses that he lost no time in getting away from Tate. As he went down the steps his host stood with one hand on the knob of the front door, thinking. The Doctor had unconsciouslygiven him a most fascinating suggestion. Around this his mind played as he walked back to the drawing-room, where his wife was yawning, and gathering, some books to take upstairs. He said nothing to her about it; before expressing his fancy, he decided to wait until he saw those curious people.
Mrs. Tate was right in surmising that Jules had conceived a dislike for her. The first day he saw her he decided that she was a tiresome, interfering Englishwoman, and he watched with annoyance her growing intimacy with Blanche, whom he wished to keep wholly to himself. Of his wife's success at the Hippodrome he felt as proud as if it were his own; he loved to read the notices of it in the papers, and while Blanche was performing, to walk about in the audience and hear her praises. He had come to look upon her as part of himself, as his property; and this sense of proprietorship added to the fascination that her performance had for him.
Though his first ardor of devotion had passed, he was still tender with her; but his tenderness always had reference more to her work than to herself. He watched her as the owner of a performing animal might havewatched his precious charge. Sometimes he used to lose patience with her for her devotion to the little Jeanne; if Jeanne cried at night she would want to leave the bed to soothe her. In order to prevent this, Jules had the child's crib moved into Madeleine's room, to the secret grief of the mother, who, however, did not think of resisting his commands. In his way Jules was fond of Jeanne; but he could not help thinking that before she came Blanche had given all her love to him. However, there was some excuse for that; but there was no reason why a stranger like Mrs. Tate should come in and take possession of them, act like a member of the family, and put a lot of silly ideas into his wife's head.
The mere fact that Mrs. Tate was English would have been enough to prejudice Jules against her even if he had not objected to her personal qualities. He hated the English, and he hated England, especially London. Even Blanche, who was blind to his faults, speedily discovered that his boast of being a born traveller had no foundation in fact. On arriving in London he had gonestraight to a French hotel, where he was served to French cooking by agarçontrained in thecafésof theBoulevards. Since then he had associated only with the few French people he could find in the city; if he hadn't been eager to read everything printed about Blanche, he would never have looked at any but French papers. At home he spent a large part of his time in ridiculing the English, just as on his return from America he had ridiculed the Americans. Now, at the thought of being obliged to dine with a lot of thosebêtes d'Anglaishe felt enraged. He had already refused one invitation. Why wasn't that enough for them? The second he would have refused too, if Blanche had not insisted that another refusal would be a discourtesy to Father Dumény's friends. Ah, Father Dumény, a fine box he had got them into, the tiresome old woman that he was, with his foolish jokes and his rheumatism!
Jules never forgot that dinner. In the first place, he was awed by the magnificence of the Tates' house; it surpassed anything of the kind he had ever seen in France orin America; it had never occurred to him that the English could have such good taste. Then, too, in spite of the efforts of his hosts to make him comfortable, he felt awkward, ill at ease, out of place. As soon as he entered the drawing-room, Blanche was taken upstairs by Mrs. Tate, and Jules was left with the husband and with Dr. Broughton.
A moment later the Doctor disappeared, and for the next half-hour Jules tried to maintain a conversation in English. Tate turned the conversation to life in Paris as compared with the life of London, but Jules had so much difficulty in speaking English that they fell at last into French.
Meanwhile, Blanche sat in the library with Mrs. Tate and Dr. Broughton, whom she had not seen since the day of his call upon her. The Doctor had at once won her confidence, and since her talk with him she had felt better, and she fancied that the tonic he gave her had already benefited her. But she still had that pain in her back, she said, and that terrible fear; every night when she kissed the little Jeanne before going to theHippodrome, she felt as if she should never see the child again. If she didn't stop feeling like that, she didn't know what would happen.
"If you could give up the plunge for a while," the Doctor suggested, "you'd be very much better for the rest. Then you might go back to it, you know."
"But I'm engaged for the season," Blanche replied in French, which the Doctor readily understood, but refused to speak. "I can't break my contract."
"Perhaps you could make a compromise," Mrs. Tate suggested. "You could go on with your trapeze performance,—with everything except the dive."
"I was really engaged for that," said Blanche, a look of dismay appearing in her face. "There are many others that perform on the trapeze."
"But you might try to make some arrangement," Mrs. Tate insisted. "Your husband could talk it over with the managers."
"Ah, but he would not like it," Blanche replied with evident distress. "It would make him so unhappy if he—if he knew."
"If he knew you were being made ill by your work!" Mrs. Tate interrupted. "Of course it would make him unhappy, and it would be very strange if it didn't. But it's much better to have him know it than for you to go on risking your life every night."
Dr. Broughton gave his hostess a glance that made her quail. A moment later, however, she gathered herself together.
"I didn't mean to say that, dear, but now that Ihavesaid it, there's no use mincing matters. The Doctor has told me plainly that if you go on making that plunge every night in your present state of nervousness it will certainly result in your death—in one way or another. So the only thing for you to do, for the sake of your baby, and your husband, and for your own sake too,—the only thing for you to do is to stop it, at least for a time. If you were to break your neck it would simply be murder,—yes, murder," she repeated, glancing at the Doctor, who was looking at her with an expression that showed he thought she was going too far.
Tears had begun to trickle down Blanche's cheeks, and now they turned to sobs. For a few moments she lost control of herself, and her frail figure was shaken with grief. Dr. Broughton said nothing, and he looked angry. Mrs. Tate paid no attention to him; she went over to Blanche, took her in her arms, and began to soothe her. In a few moments the sobbing ceased, and Mrs. Tate went on:—
"It's best that you should know this, dear, though perhaps I've been cruel in telling it to you so bluntly. We must tell your husband about it, too. I'm sure he'll be distressed to hear how much you've suffered, and he'll be glad to do anything that will help you. So now we'll send the Doctor away, and bathe your face with hot water, and go down to dinner and try to forget about our troubles for a while."
If Jules had not been absorbed in his own embarrassment at the dinner-table he might have discovered traces of agitation in his wife's face. He was secretly execrating the luck that had brought him among these people, and he resolved when he returned home totell Blanche that he would have nothing more to do with them. If she was willing to have that prying Englishwoman about her all the time, she could, but she mustn't expect him to be more than civil to her. The conversation had turned on English politics, and as Jules had nothing to offer on the subject, his enforced silence increased his discomfort. Mrs. Tate was devoting herself to Blanche, who sat beside her, relating in French stories of her life in Paris. Jules felt resentful; no one paid attention to him; when he dined out in Paris he was always one of the leaders in the talk. He wanted to justify himself, to show these people that he was no fool, that he was worthy of being the husband of a celebrity.
By a fortunate chance, the talk drifted to American politics, and Jules, seeing his opportunity, seized it. A few moments later he was launched on an account of his travels in the United States. Tate, relieved at having at last found a topic his guest could discuss, gave Jules full play, and listened to him with a light in his eyes that showed his wife he was secretly amused. Indeed, Jules' criticismsof America and his descriptions of the peculiarities of Americans greatly entertained them.
The dinner closed in animated talk, much to the relief of Mrs. Tate, who feared it would be a great failure; it made her realize, however, that as show people the Le Barons were quite useless. She was afraid Blanche had been bored; she had been sitting almost speechless during the meal, sighing heavily now and then, as if thinking that in a few hours her respite would be over, and she would have to return to her horrible work.
Mrs. Tate was quite ready to make any sacrifice to rescue Blanche from the terrors of her circus life; in the enthusiasm of the moment she said to herself, that rather than let her continue making that plunge, she would offer topayher husband what she earned, in order to take his wife out of the ring altogether. At the thought of persuading him to do this, Mrs. Tate felt that at last she had a definite task to perform; it was almost like a mission, and the harder it proved to be, the more exalted she would feel.
After their return to the drawing-room, Mrs. Tate, with a delightful feeling that she was engaged in a conspiracy, made a mysterious sign to Dr. Broughton to come to her.
"I suppose Percy's been whispering to you not to have anything to do with this scheme of mine, but don't pay any attention to him. Do you know, I think the best way would be to take the husband into the library and have it out there. He mustbetold, you know. He hasn't a suspicion of it,—not a suspicion. You wait a few minutes, and as soon as I get a chance, I'll ask him to follow me out."
The Doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"You must take the responsibility," he said carelessly. "I shall merely do my professional duty. Mr. Tate has just been telling me about a curious idea——"
"Don't pay any attention to his ideas. Percy thinks everything ought to be left to regulate itself. A fine world it would be if every one thought as he does. Now you go back to him, and follow me when I tell you. No, I have a better plan. You go into thelibrary with Percy. I'll come in there in a few minutes."
A quarter of an hour later, when Mrs. Tate entered the library with Jules, she found her husband and the Doctor there, half-hidden in a cloud of smoke.
"This poor man, too, has been dying for another cigar," she said; "but he's too polite to say so. So while he's smoking we can have our talk. We'll take our coffee in here, too. Percy, you go and see that Madame Le Baron is properly served. I've had to leave her there alone for a minute, but I said I'd send you in. Dr. Broughton and I are going to have a secret conference with Monsieur Le Baron."
"Secret conferences are always dangerous," Tate replied, rising to leave the room. "Look out for them!" he added with a smile to Jules, as he hesitated at the door. When he had closed the door behind him, he stood in the hall a moment, thinking.
Tate was a man of sense, of "horse-sense," one of his friends used to say of him, and not given to forebodings. Now, however, he had a distinct regret that his wife wasinterfering in this matter, and fear of the consequences. She often did things that he disapproved, and he made no objection, for he believed that she had as much right to independence as himself; but in this case he would have liked to interfere. He had spoken to Dr. Broughton about his feeling in the matter, and the Doctor had merely laughed. Well, the Doctor knew better than he did; perhaps, after all, his own theory was absurd. At any rate, he could not be held accountable for any trouble that might result from his wife's meddling. This thought, however, gave him little consolation. He usually suffered for her mistakes much more than she did herself.
When he went back to the drawing-room, he had difficulty in sustaining a conversation with Blanche; he kept thinking of the conference in the next room, wondering what the result would be. He was prepared to see Jules enter with a pale face and set lips and with wrath in his eyes.
When Jules finally entered between his hostess and the Doctor, Tate scanned his face narrowly; it was not white, and the lipswere not set, but the whole expression had changed to a look of dogged determination and ill-concealed rage. He sat near his wife, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.
For a few moments the conversation was resumed, but the atmosphere seemed chilled. Then the Doctor rose to say good-night, explaining that he had promised to call on a patient in Curzon Street before going home. This seemed to be the signal for the breaking-up, and all of the guests left at the same moment, Mrs. Tate calling out to Blanche at the door of the drawing-room that she would look in on her the next day if she were not too busy.
When the front door had closed, Tate turned to his wife.
"Well, you had a stormy time of it, didn't you?"
She walked toward the centre of the drawing-room and stood under the chandelier, keeping her eyes fixed on her husband's face, which seemed to be much more serious than usual.
"What makes you think so?" she asked,removing a bracelet from her arm and nervously twirling it.
"I could tell from the expression in his eyes, and from the way you and the Doctor acted. He was furious, wasn't he?"
"Furious? Le Baron? Hardly; though I could see he didn't believe a word we said. He was almost too startled to understand it at first. The little goose hadn't said a word to him about it."
"And what did he say when you told him she ought to give up her performance? How did he like that?"
"He didn't like it at all, apparently. But I didn't expect him to like it. It means money out of his pocket."
"No, it means more than that, if I'm not mistaken."
"What else can it mean?" she said, lifting her eyebrows questioningly.
"It means the end of whatever affection he has for his wife. Of course he never had much. A man of his sort doesn't."
She looked at him with curiosity in her face. "What difference does her performing make in his affection for her?"
"Can't you see that he didn't fall in love withher? He fell in love with her performance."
Mrs. Tate put one finger to her lips and hesitated for a moment. Then she said slowly:—
"How ridiculous you are, Percy! As if any one ever heard of such a thing!"
On the way home in the hansom that he had called, Jules scarcely spoke. Blanche kept glancing at him covertly; she had never before seen that look in his face, and it alarmed her; he seemed to be trying to keep back the anger that showed itself in his half-closed eyes and his firm-set chin. When they reached the lodgings, Blanche found Madeleine sound asleep by the fireplace, and without waking her, she started to go into the next room to see if Jeanne were comfortable. When she reached the door, Jules said in a low voice:—
"Wait here a minute. I have something to say to you."
At the sound of the words, Madeleine's eyes opened slowly, and she blinked at Jules, who was glancing angrily at her.
"This is a pretty way you take care of Jeanne. She might have had a dozen convulsionswithout your knowing anything about them."
In spite of Jules' command, the reference to the convulsions, which had nearly cost Jeanne her life a few weeks after birth, sent Blanche agitatedly into the nursery. Madeleine lumbered behind her, and both were relieved to find the child sleeping contentedly in her cradle, her cheeks flushed, and her chubby hands clenched at her breast. Blanche would have liked to pass several moments there in rapt adoration, but Jules appeared at the door and made a sign to her to come to him.
"Madeleine will look out for her," he said, pointing to the cradle. "Go to bed, Madeleine."
Blanche tiptoed out of the room, removed her wraps, and, with the overcoat Jules had thrown on the couch, hung them in the little closet beside the big mirror. Jules, who had taken a seat in front of the fire-place, watched her impatiently, and then motioned her to sit in the chair opposite him.
"Now perhaps you'll be kind enough totell me what all this means. I knew that Englishwoman would be up to some mischief. What does it mean?" he said sternly.
Blanche looked timidly into his face; the expression of anger that she had noticed on their way home was still there. She did not know what to say, and tears of misery filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Then weakened by her previous outburst, she covered her face with her hands, and began to sob, giving expression to all the torture that had come from the horror of her performance, from her incessant terror of being killed and separated from Jeanne. Jules was at first touched, and then alarmed, by the unexpected display of grief.
He waited, thinking that it would soon expend itself; then when the sobs continued, he went over to her, and taking her gently in his arms, tried to soothe her by stroking her hair and calling her by the endearing names he had used during the first weeks of their marriage, and begging her to control herself for his sake, it hurt him so. After this last appeal, Blanche put her arms round his neck, and buried her head on his breast,and for a few moments they sat together without speaking, her body shaken now and then from the violence of her grief. Then Jules began to question her quietly, and the whole story of her sufferings since Jeanne's birth came out so pathetically that, in spite of his anger, he was touched, and convinced that, after all, the Englishwoman had been right.
In his remorse that Blanche had suffered in silence, and he had not found it out, had done nothing to help her, he declared he would have the diving stopped at once, no matter what the cost might be. Rather than see her unhappy, he would make her give up performing altogether, if that were necessary. At any rate, he would go to Marshall the next day and see what could be done about taking her name off the bills. They would leave this disgusting London, perhaps for the south of France, where Blanche could have a long rest, and gather strength for her visit to America the next year. For a long time they talked over the plan, and then Jules made Blanche go to bed.
"You'll not be able to do your work tomorrow,"he said, "if you sit up much longer. Of course, you can't stop it at once. Marshall wouldn't listen to that. You're his best attraction, and he'll have to advertise your last appearances."
For more than an hour after Blanche left him, Jules walked up and down the little drawing-room, smoking cigarettes. The revelation of his wife's trouble had so upset him that he felt unable to sleep. But it was of himself, not of her, that he was chiefly thinking. Dr. Broughton had told him that a long rest might cure Blanche of her nervous terror and relieve her of the pains in the back, but it was probable that she would be affected again as soon as she resumed her performance.
If this proved true, his own career would be ruined; there would be no more travelling, no more triumphs! Blanche would sink into obscurity, would become a mere nonentity, devoted to her child and house-keeping, like scores of other wives and mothers that he knew and despised in Paris. Out of the circus, she was utterly commonplace, Jules said to himself, and the fact came to himwith the force of a revelation! But for that he would never have married her; the brilliancy of her talent had dazzled him! And now, if she had to leave the circus, how beautifully he would have been tricked! He would be tied down to her and her child! The expense of maintaining them would oblige him to live meanly, in a way that he had never been used to, that he loathed.
What a fine trap he had got himself into! There was absolutely no escape, unless Blanche recovered from her ridiculous cowardice. And all on account of that infant, who had come into the world without being wanted, and had spoiled his life! For the moment Jules hated Jeanne. He wished she had never been born, or had died at birth; then all this trouble wouldn't have occurred. But for Jeanne, Blanche might have accepted that offer for a summer season at Trouville. Then he wouldn't have been bored at Boulogne, and Father Dumény wouldn't have given him that letter to those beasts of English.
Then Jules' wrath turned from Jeanne to Father Dumény, and on him he poured allhis old bitterness against priests. They were always interfering, those black-coated, oily-tongued hypocrites. Oh, if he had Father Dumény there! He would have liked to choke him!
The more Jules thought, the more convinced he became that his wife's nervousness was due to imagination rather than to any physical cause. Then, too, Blanche had been homesick after her long stay in Boulogne, where she saw her mother and her sisters every day. What a fool he had been to allow her to go there! He hated the whole pack of them—Father Dumény, Madame Berthier, her tiresome old husband, all! What right did they have to interfere with Blanche? She was his wife, she belonged to him alone. When he reached this point Jules had worked himself into a fine indignation; but he had exhausted his cigarettes, and it was now nearly twelve o'clock. Instead of going to bed, however, he threw himself on the couch in the corner of the room, where a few hours later Blanche found him, sleeping soundly.
Jules woke in an irritable mood, crosswith Madeleine, indifferent to Jeanne, with whom he usually liked to gambol after breakfast, and silent with his wife. For a time he said nothing to Blanche about their talk of the night before, and the expression of his face prevented her from touching upon it. Till eleven o'clock he was busily engaged in writing letters; when he had finished these, he turned to Blanche, who was sitting alone by the table, making a dress for Jeanne.
"I've just written to Hicks in New York," he said, "the man who made me that fine offer for next September. I told him we couldn't sign the contract yet. That'll probably make him offer us more money, and it'll give you time to find out whether you can go on with your work again."
"But I shall surely go on with it," said Blanche, hardly daring to look into his face. "I shall be well again after a rest. I know I shall. The Doctor said—"
"Never mind what the Doctor said. I don't believe he knows anything about it. You're just a little nervous, that's all. You worry about little things too much, aboutJeanne especially. Why can't you let Madeleine take care of Jeanne? She knows a good deal more about children than you do. That's what we pay her for. The child costs us enough, Heaven knows, and if your salary's going to be cut off, we'll have to be pretty economical."