For a moment Blanche said nothing; her lips quivered, but she controlled herself. Jules looked at her narrowly, and said to himself that she was not half so pretty as she had been; she was growing thinner, and there were little lines in her face that ought not to be in the face of one so young as her mother said she was. How weak, how helpless she seemed! Once the thought of her weakness and ingenuousness had given him pleasure; now it only made him realize his own superiority.
"Perhaps," she suggested hesitatingly,—"perhaps Mr. Marshall might be willing to make a new contract. Perhaps he would let me go on with my performance on the trapeze and the rope—without the dive."
"I've thought of that," Jules replied, rising and going to the closet for his overcoat."But it isn't at all likely. He's been advertising your dive all over London, and it's been his best feature. He'll be pretty mad when I tell him you're going to give it up. He'll probably try to make me pay a forfeit for breach of contract."
"For breach of contract!" she repeated blankly. "I—"
"Oh, don't worry about it," said Jules, with a pang of regret for the pain he had caused her. "I think I can make that all right. I suppose that old Doctor would write a certificate if I asked him."
He drew on the fur-lined coat, and as he took his gloves from his pocket he started for the door, without kissing Blanche. Then, at the door, glancing back, and seeing her standing in the middle of the room with a look of helpless pain in her face, he turned and walked towards her, and bent his face to hers.
"There, there, dear, don't worry," he said. "You'll be all right again in a little while!" At the door he added: "I shall be back in an hour or two, and tell you what Marshall says."
The hour or two proved to be three hours, and these Blanche passed chiefly in walking up and down the apartment. She could not keep still; she felt convinced that something dreadful was going to happen. She hardly dared even to talk to Jeanne, as if she fancied the child might divine her misery. She feared that she would be unable to give up her performance, and she feared she would have to go on with it. If she did give it up, she had a presentiment that she would pay dear for the release; if she did not, she knew it would result in her death.
Ever since coming to London, she had prepared herself for the catastrophe. No one, not even kind-hearted Mrs. Tate, could imagine the agony of mind she had endured. And it was all for Jeanne! Her very sufferings had fed her love for the child. If she and Jules could go away with Jeanne, far away, where they would never hear or think of performances again, how happy they would be! But she must go on with her work; she ought to fight against her weakness. Jules had said she would growstrong again; she had always believed what he said, and perhaps he was right now. Perhaps after a rest she would want to go back to the ring. But she was afraid, she was afraid! Poor little Jeanne! Every few moments she ran into the room where Jeanne was taking her mid-day sleep. She wanted to clasp the child to her breast and walk up and down the room with her. But for several weeks she had not dared to hold her in her arms for fear of dropping her from nervousness.
Instead of going directly to the Hippodrome, Jules turned into Piccadilly, where he had seen the sign of a French physician. He had suddenly decided to seek further medical advice before speaking to Marshall, and he did not propose to trust Blanche's case to another Englishman. He was obliged to wait in Dr. Viaud's outer office for more than an hour. The Doctor received him with what seemed to Jules an almost suspicious courtesy; but this disappeared as soon as he explained that he was French.
Jules was gratified by the interest paid to his repetition of Blanche's confession of thenight before. The Doctor did not interrupt till Jules had mentioned the advice given by the English physician.
"Broughton!" he exclaimed, repeating the name after Jules. "You couldn't have consulted a better man. He's at the head of his profession here in London."
When he had questioned Jules about Blanche's symptoms, he said thoughtfully: "I cannot add anything to the advice Dr. Broughton has given,—that is, of course, with my present knowledge of the case. But I have absolute confidence in his judgment. The pains in the back I do not fear so much as the terrible apprehension that you say haunts your wife. In itself that is, of course, great suffering; and the consequences may be fatal. Your wife's dive requires iron nerve, and that is being constantly weakened by her continual worrying. I agree with Dr. Broughton that she at least needs a rest as soon as possible. There can't be two opinions about that. But I should not like to interfere with Dr. Broughton's—"
Jules understood at once, and rose from his seat.
"I merely wanted to see what you thought. If you had disagreed—"
"Ah, but Dr. Broughton is very reliable!" said the Frenchman, with a smile and a shrug, as if afraid of even a suggestion of professional discourtesy.
Jules left him feeling bitterly disappointed. There was no hope then! He had surmised that the shrewd-eyed Englishman knew his business. There was nothing to do but to go to Marshall and explain the situation.
When he returned from the Hippodrome to the apartment Blanche met him at the door. His face was darkened with a scowl.
"What did he say?" she asked nervously, as he entered and threw his overcoat on a chair. "Was he—was he angry?"
"Angry? No; he was altogether too cool. If he'd been angry I shouldn't have cared. I'd have liked that a good deal better."
"Then we sha'n't have to pay a forfeit?" said Blanche, glancing up into his face.
He turned away and threw himself wearily on the couch. "No, you won't have to paya forfeit, but you'll have to go on with the engagement."
"With the diving?" she said, her face growing white.
"No, with the other work—on the trapeze and the rope. He said you'd have to elaborate that, and he'd pay you half what you're getting now till you were ready to do the diving again. He wants to keep you on account of your name. He's advertised you all over the city, and even out in the country places near London."
"But he—he doesn't object to my giving up the plunge?" Blanche repeated, in a tone which suggested that her professional pride was hurt.
"He didn't when I told him the Doctor had forbidden your going on with it for a while. Besides, he had another reason for not objecting."
"What was that?"
"He showed me a letter he'd just had from that woman who made such a sensation in Bucharest while we were in Vienna. Don't you remember? I showed you some of her notices. She does a swimming act,and dives from a platform into a tank. She's been playing in the English provinces, and now she wants to come to London."
"So he's going to engage her in my place?" Blanche gasped.
"In your place?" Jules repeated irritably. "How can he engage her in your place when he's going to keep you? We've got to live, and it won't hurt you to go on with your work on the trapeze and the rope. He knows your name will be an attraction, and if he engages that Englishwoman, she'll be another card for him—a big one. He says she's been drawing crowds in Manchester for six weeks."
"What's her name?"
"King—Lottie King—or something like that."
"Is she pretty? Did he show you her pictures?"
"Yes; her manager sent him a whole box of them. She'spetite, with wicked little eyes."
"Dark?"
"No, blonde."
"And what is her dive?"
"What?"
"How high is it?"
"Fifty feet, Marshall said; but one of the circus hands told me it wasn't much more, than forty."
"Oh!" There was a suggestion of a sneer in her tone, and Jules looked up in surprise.
"Of course, it's nothing compared with yours," he said, to console her.
"When is she going to begin?" she asked, after a moment.
"Going to begin? Do you mean here in London? Marshall hasn't signed with her yet. She's engaged in Manchester for three weeks longer."
"Then I shall have to go on with my dive till she comes?"
"I suppose so," Jules replied coldly.
She saw that he did not wish to continue the conversation; so she went into the nursery, leaving him lying on the couch, where he often took an afternoon nap; since coming to London he had grown very lazy, and had gained flesh. Blanche found Jeanne wide awake and crowing in Madeleine's arms. She sat beside the cradle,and taking the child in her lap, sent Madeleine out of the room. Jeanne snatched at the brooch she wore at her throat, and laughed into her face. Blanche tried to smile in reply, but the tears welled into her eyes again, and fell in big drops on her cheeks.
Three days after Jules' talk with Marshall, the forthcoming engagement at the Hippodrome of Miss Lottie King was announced in the London newspapers. Blanche signed a new contract, by which she agreed to perform for several weeks longer on the trapeze and on the rope at half the salary she had been receiving. Marshall said that no mention of the plunge would be made in the papers; her name would continue to "draw," and the public would be satisfied with Miss King's great dive into the tank. This remark made Jules very angry, and it also depressed Blanche, who felt as if she had already been deposed from her supremacy as the chief attraction at the Hippodrome. Indeed, as the time drew near when she was to cease making the plunge, instead of feeling happier, she grew more despondent; she had already elaborated her performance on the trapezeby introducing several new feats that she and Jules had planned together, but with these she was not satisfied; she felt like an actor obliged to play small parts after winning success in leading characters.
As for Jules, he did not try to hide his discontent at the change in his wife's work. In the first place, it made his brief but dramatic public appearance unnecessary; in future he would be obliged to conduct Blanche to the circus, and live again like any mere hanger-on to the skirts of a public performer. Therôlewas ignoble, unworthy of him. Then, too, he chafed at the thought of his wife's decline in importance at the Hippodrome; he fancied that when her inability to go on with the plunge had become known to the other performers they would lose respect for her and for himself.
He secretly doubted if the public would accept Blanche merely for her performance on the trapeze and on the rope. Almost any one could do that; but in the plunge she was without a rival. He hoped that, as a compensation for his vexation, the performance of Miss King would be a failure.Forty feet! What did that amount to in comparison with the magnificent plunge of more than ninety feet that Blanche had made at Vienna?
Already Jules had begun to think of his wife in the past tense chiefly, as if she lived in the triumphs she had made by her nightly flight through the air. Indeed, she seemed to him almost another person now. Instead of looking on her almost with reverence, as he had done, he felt sorry for her, as if she were his inferior; and though he continued to treat her with kindness, there was a suggestion of pity, almost of contempt, in his manner toward her. She sought consolation in her child, who, she thought, grew stronger and more beautiful every day. For Jeanne's sake she tried to be glad the time was so near when she should give up risking her life; but the nearer it grew, the more depressed she became, and the more she thought about that woman who was to take her place.
Mrs. Tate, who had definitely taken Blanche under her protection, and called at the little hotel several times each week,had been delighted at what she considered the fortunate solution of a shocking difficulty. Now that Blanche was to stop making that horrible dive, there was no reason why she shouldn't be the happiest woman in the world. With her keen instinct, however, she observed that Blanche was not happy; she wondered, too, at the frequent absence of the husband from thisménage. Jules couldn't be very devoted, she thought, for a man who had been married little more than a year. Perhaps, however, he avoided her; for, in spite of his French politeness, he had not been able to conceal his dislike for her. For this reason she did not ask him to dinner again. She often took Blanche and Jeanne to drive in the afternoon, and pointed out the celebrities that they passed in the Park.
"My husband says I take you to drive just to show you off," she said jokingly one day. "He thinks I have a mania for celebrities."
"Ah, but I'm not a celebrity!" Blanche replied, with a smile that was almost sad.
"Not a celebrity? Of course you are. Ihaven't a doubt that half the people we meet recognize you. You know, it's been quite the fashion to go to the Hippodrome this year."
"But I sha'n't be a celebrity much longer," said Blanche, glancing at the bare boughs of the trees, and wondering if any other place could be as desolate as London in winter.
"Why not? You don't think of retiring into private life altogether, do you?" Mrs. Tate laughed.
"No, but I shall only be an ordinary performer after this week."
"But I'd rather be an ordinary performer and keep my neck whole than be anextraordinary one and risk my life every night," Mrs. Tate retorted sharply. She was vexed with Blanche for not appreciating her emancipation.
They rode on in silence for a few moments. Then Blanche said,—
"There's some one going to take my place, you know."
"Some one that's going to make that dreadful plunge?" Mrs. Tate cried in horror.
"No, not that. She jumps into a tank ofwater—from a platform—only about forty feet. My jump is more than seventy-five feet," Blanche added with a touch of pride.
Mrs. Tate rested her hands in her lap and burst out laughing. "What a ridiculous thing! I beg your pardon, dear, but I can't help being amused. Of course it doesn't seem funny to you. You're used to it; but it does to me."
Then she questioned Blanche about the new performer, and Blanche repeated what Jules had told her and what she had since heard of the woman at the Hippodrome. Mrs. Tate was greatly interested, and laughed immoderately; afterward, however, when she had returned home and thought over the conversation, she regarded it more seriously.
"What do you think, Percy?" she said at the dinner table that night. "Those Hippodrome people have engaged a creature to dive into a tank of water from a platform. Of course, that's to take the place of Madame Le Baron's plunge. Could anything be more absurd? The worst of it is that the poor little woman is frightfully jealous already. I could see that from the way she talked.What a dreadful world it is, isn't it? They're all like that, aren't they, even the best of them? Do you remember that poor Madame Gardini who sang here one night? She told me if she had her life to live over again she'd never dream of going on the stage. She said opera-singers were the unhappiest people in the world,—just poisoned with jealousy. And these circus people are exactly like them!"
"What makes you think she's jealous? What was it she said?"
"It wasn'twhatshe said, it was thewayshe talked about the woman. Her husband says she's a great beauty."
"Ah, the husband says so, does he?" Tate remarked dryly. A moment later he added: "I wish you hadn't had anything to do with those people!"
"You've said that a dozen times, Percy, and I wish you'd stop. For my part, I'm very glad I've met them. If I hadn't, that poor little creature would be in her grave before the end of a year."
"Perhaps she'll wish that shewerein her grave before the end of the year."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing, dear, nothing. Don't catch at everything I say. How is she now—any better? I suppose she's easier in mind now that she's going to stop that diving?"
"That's the strangest thing about it," Mrs. Tate answered, with a change of tone. "I thought she would be, too, but she isn't. I really believe she's sorry she's giving it up. But perhaps that's because she's been doing it all her life. She'll miss it at first—even if it did worry her nearly to death!"
"Has Dr. Broughton been to see her lately?"
"No; he said it wouldn't be necessary. He's going to wait to see what effect the rest from the diving will have on her."
For a few moments Tate looked thoughtfully at his wife. "Upon my word," he said, "I half suspect that youwantsomething to happen to that little woman. It would just be romantic enough to suit you."
"Percy, how can you talk so? You're simply brutal."
"She might at least break a leg to please you," her husband laughed, "before giving up that plunge."
Blanche made her last dive without the accident that Tate had regarded as indispensable to dramatic effect. Indeed, since knowing that she was to give it up, she seemed to have lost much of her terror of the plunge; she thought of it now chiefly with regret. That night, as she rode home with Jules and Madeleine, she seemed depressed; Jules, too, was even more sullen than he had been for the past two weeks. When they had entered the lodgings and were eating their midnight meal, she said:—
"If to-morrow is pleasant we might take Jeanne for a drive in the country. The air would do her good."
"I can't go," he replied indifferently. "I have something else to do. Besides, it would cost too much. We shall have to be economical now that you're going to be on half-salary."
The next morning Jules left the hotel at eleven o'clock, saying that he shouldn't be back for luncheon. He did not explain wherehe was going, and Blanche did not question him. She busied herself with Jeanne, and this distracted her till Jeanne fell sound asleep. Then she became a prey to her old melancholy, and for an hour she walked up and down the room, to the bewilderment of Madeleine, who could not understand what the matter was.
"Is Madame suffering with the pain in her back?" Madeleine asked at last.
No, Madame was not suffering. She had not been troubled by the pain for several days; she hoped it would leave her for good now that she had stopped taking the plunge.
"Ah, God be praised that you do that no longer!" Madeleine cried, lifting her withered hands to heaven and rolling her eyes. "It was too terrible. Since that first night in Paris, when I went with you and Monsieur Jules, I never dared to look. It wasaffreux!"
"But Jules loved it," said Blanche, throwing herself into a chair beside the old woman.
Ah, yes, Madeleine acknowledged. He used to rave about it in the little flat in therue de Lisbonne. Once Madeleine heard him talking in his sleep about the circus and the wonderful dive; he always slept with his door wide-open, and she often heard him talking away like one wide-awake. He had told her that it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and no other woman in the world would have dared to do it. Madeleine was always delighted to have a chance to talk about Jules, and she babbled on, never suspecting that her words were making Blanche suffer.
"Do you think," Blanche said at last, "do you think he would have loved me if I hadn't done that—if I hadn't done that plunge, I mean—in the Circus?"
Madeleine glanced at her quickly; she was unable to grasp the significance of the question. "But he did see you in the Circus," she replied. "If he hadn't seen you there,chérie, he wouldn't have seen you at all."
"Yes, yes, that's true." Blanche realized that it would be useless to try to explain what she meant. Then, after a moment, she added, "And now that I've given up thedive,—perhaps I shall never be able to do it again; the Doctor said I might not,—now that I've given it up, do you think he'll love me just the same?"
Madeleine's faded eyes turned to Blanche and examined her closely. "If he'll love you just the same?" she repeated. "What has put such a strange idea into your head, child? Of course he'll love you just the same."
Then Madeleine was launched on a flood of eulogy. Jules was so good, so faithful, so affectionate. There was not another like him. He had always been so tender with his mother; and oh, how his poor mother had worshipped him! Madeleine's praises had the effect of soothing Blanche for a time; they also made her ashamed of the half-conscious suspicion which had arisen in her mind, and which she would not have dared to formulate even to herself. She only permitted herself to acknowledge that his present manner toward her was different from his old one. She was also disturbed by his refusal for the past three Sundays to go to church with her.
The next afternoon Jules came home in a rage. "I've been down to see Marshall," he said. "What do you suppose the old fool's gone and done? He had the door of your dressing-room opened this morning and all your things turned out into Miss Van Pelt's old room,—the little hole next door, you know. It's hardly big enough to breathe in. He said you weren't the star any longer, and he must give the room to Miss King. It seems she's a kicker and he's afraid of a row."
Blanche had nothing to say in reply; this seemed to her only another indignity added to those she had already suffered. The worst was to come in the evening, when her rival would share the applause that used to be hers. A few moments later she asked,—
"Was she there—that woman?"
"No; she hasn't appeared yet, and Marshall was a little nervous. She was to come up from Manchester in a train that got in during the afternoon."
"But suppose she doesn't come."
"Oh, she'll come fast enough. Marshall had a telegram saying she'd started. Herbig iron tub arrived this morning. They were putting it in the ground and laying the pipes for the water when I was there. They keep it covered till her act begins."
"What does she do besides her jump?"
"Oh, Marshall says she goes through a lot of antics, stays under the water till she nearly dies of suffocation, and cooks a meal, and—"
"Under water?" Blanche gasped.
"No, of course not, you ninny," Jules cried impatiently. His wife's simplicity had long before ceased to amuse him. "She does it while she's floating. Then one of the circus boys falls into the tank, and she shows how she used to rescue people out in California."
"Then she's an American."
"She's lived in America all her life, but her father was an Englishman, and she was born in England. Her father kept a swimming school out in San Francisco; that's how she got into the business. They say she's got a lot of medals for saving lives."
As Jules walked into the next room to change his clothes for the evening, he saidto himself that his wife was growing very stupid and tiresome.
Blanche sat alone for a few moments, feeling cold and forlorn. She could not keep from thinking and wondering about that woman; she was anxious and yet afraid to see her. She could not account for the dislike and terror with which the mere thought of the woman inspired her. She had never before regarded the other performers in the circus as her rivals; so, for the first time in her life, she knew the bitterness of jealousy.
Before preparing for the evening she went into the nursery, and for several moments sat beside the cradle where Jeanne was peacefully sleeping, her little face rosy with health. The poor child, she thought, could never know the sacrifice she had made for her. She was glad she had made it; she had done her duty; but it was hard, it was so hard! Then she bent over and kissed Jeanne on the cheek; the child drew her head away, and buried her face impatiently in the pillow. Blanche turned her gently in the crib, adjusted the lace covering, and stole out of the room.
Jules met her as she was closing the door softly behind her. "What have you been doing in there?" he cried petulantly. "Why can't you let Jeanne alone when she's asleep? Every time she takes a nap you go in and wake her up. No wonder—"
"I haven't waked her," Blanche replied apologetically. "I only went in to see if she needed anything, and I sat beside her a moment."
"Well, you'll spoil her if you keep on. From the way you act one would imagine that Jeanne was the only creature in the world worth thinking about!"
They both took their places at the table which Madeleine had prepared, and proceeded silently with their dinner. Madeleine, who hovered about them, wondered what the matter was; she had never seen Monsieur Jules like this before; he usually had a great deal to say. When she had left the room for a few minutes, Jules looked up from his plate.
"I've been wondering whether we ought to keep Madeleine or not. She's a great expense. We could get along just as wellwithout her. Thegarçoncould serve our meals. We have to pay for the service whether we get it or not."
When he had spoken he was startled by the look in his wife's face. Not keep Madeleine! The mere thought of parting with the old woman, whom she had come to regard almost as a second mother, shocked her so much that for a moment she could not formulate a reply.
"But we couldn't get along without her!" she said. "Think of all she does for me and for Jeanne!"
"Oh, Jeanne! It's always Jeanne, Jeanne. I'm sick of hearing her name. If Jeanne hadn't been born we shouldn't be in the pretty box we're in now, and you'd be going on with your work like a sensible woman. I tell you we must economize. We're under heavy expenses here, and we're going to lose a lot of money by this imaginary sickness of yours."
"I can't let Madeleine go," Blanche replied. "I should die without her. I should die of loneliness. And she loves you so, as much as if you were her son, and she lovedyour mother. She has often talked to me about her. I can't, I can't let her go. I'd rather—"
"Very well, then. Don't say anything more about it. We'll have to economize in some other way. Here she comes now. So keep quiet, or she'll want to find out what we've been talking about."
The Hippodrome was crowded on the night of Miss King's first appearance. Jules, in evening dress as usual, leaned against the railing behind the highest tier of seats. At this moment he felt that he had been duped by fate, and he wanted to revenge himself on the crowd that had come to rejoice over his disappointment; for their presence seemed like a personal insult to him. But for the machinations of that crazy Englishwoman, Blanche would now be going on with her work; by this time they might have made arrangements for her visit to America in the early summer. However, the mischief was done, and there was no knowing when it would be undone. Blanche might have recovered in a few weeks from her terror of the plunge; but after once yielding to it, she would probably never get over it.
Jules believed in presentiments, and he had a strong presentiment that Blanche hadtaken her plunge for the last time. He tried to console himself, however, with the hope that Lottie King would make a failure. The extensive advertising that Marshall had given her made Jules hate the girl; her name had been posted in places all over London where his wife's alone had been. To Jules this was the most cruel evidence of his own decadence.
Half an hour before it was time for Blanche to appear Jules sauntered toward her dressing-room. When he reached the door, he stopped in surprise; he could hear an unfamiliar voice speaking English. Some one must be in there with Blanche and Madeleine. When he entered, he saw a plump, pretty young woman, with a shock of yellow hair and big blue eyes, dressed in a tight-fitting bathing-suit of blue flannel and in blue silk stockings. He recognized her at once from her photographs.
"Hello!" she cried, glancing at Jules familiarly. "Is this him? Introduce me, won't you?"
For a moment Blanche, whose face had been made up and whose figure, dressed inwhite silk tights, was covered with the cloak she threw off as she entered the ring, looked confused. Then she presented Jules to Miss King, who beamed upon him with extravagant pleasure.
"Your wife's been telling me about you," she said. "I've been making friends with her. I wanted to see what she was like, and I supposed she'd want to see what I was like. So we've agreed not to scratch each other's eyes out. You speak English too, don't you?"
This gave Jules an opportunity to reiterate his story about having learned English in America.
"So you've been to America!" Miss King cried, her eyes bigger than ever, and her open mouth showing her white, square teeth. "Were you with a troupe there?"
Jules shook his head. "I wasn't married then."
"Ah!" The diver glanced sharply at Blanche, and then back at Jules, as if making a rapid calculation of their ages. "Been married long?" she asked.
"A little over a year," Blanche replied.
"Too bad your wife had to give her dive up, ain't it?" the girl said to Jules. "I hear it was great. But I suppose you'll do it again, won't you, when you're better?"
Blanche flushed. "I don't know," she said, with a half-frightened look at Jules.
"Well, I would if I was you. It's sensational things like that that ketches 'em. My act's kind of sensational, but it ain't in it with yours for cold nerve an' grit. When you do it again you'd oughter go to America. You can make a good deal more there than you do here. I came over just for the reputation. It helps you a lot over there if you've made a hit in Europe."
"But you are English, aren't you?" Jules asked.
"Oh, yes, I s'pose I am, in a sort of way. I was born over here, but my father took me to America when I was about six, an' I'm American to the backbone."
"Have you been in the ring long?" Blanche asked.
"No, I only took to giving performances about five years ago; but I've been in the swimming business all my life. My Dadhad a swimming school out in 'Frisco; but there's more money in this business. But I guess I'm keeping you folks. It must be most time for your act. Good-bye. P'raps I'll see you later. I'm mighty glad you can speak English," she laughed, with a glance at Jules. "I travelled with a troupe once with a lot of Italians in it, and my, what a time I had tryin' to talk with 'em!"
She hurried out, leaving Jules with a vision of tousled yellow hair, a roguish smile, and gleaming white teeth, and with the sound of a rich contralto voice in his ears. As soon as the door closed, he turned to Blanche.
"How did she happen to come in here?"
"She wanted me to help her with one of her slippers that was torn. Madeleine sewed it up for her."
"Hasn't she got any maid?"
"She left her behind in Manchester. She was sick. She's coming on when she gets better."
Jules merely grunted and walked out of the room. The sound of the contralto voice was still in his ears. What a sweet voice it was! She seemed to him just like an Americanin spite of her birth, and Jules preferred the Americans to the English. He wondered what her performance was like, and he waited impatiently for Blanche to finish her act on the trapeze and the rope. As his eyes followed Blanche, he kept seeing the tousled hair and the broad smile revealing the white teeth.
It took several moments for the tank to be arranged for the crowning performance. The audience waited in good-natured patience, however, and when finally the plump little figure in blue flannel ran out, there was a round of applause. Lottie King had added a touch of rouge to either cheek, and she looked very pretty as she ran up the flight of steps leading to the edge of the tank, poised there for a moment with the fingers of both hands touching high in the air, and then dived in a graceful curve into the water. She speedily reappeared, shaking her head and laughing, and struck out for the rope that hung from the platform. This she climbed hand over hand, the water dripping from her figure, and glistening on her face.
Jules, whose eyes had been eagerly following her, was surprised to see that she was going to begin her act with the dive, instead of keeping it for the climax. She seemed to take it very coolly, he thought, as she stood on the swaying platform, rubbing her face with a handkerchief and rearranging one of the sleeves of her costume. Then she steadied the platform, and, an instant later, she was cutting, feet foremost, through the air, her arms by her side and her body rigid. When she reached the water, there was very little splashing, and she speedily reappeared, shaking her head again and displaying her white teeth.
Jules had watched the dive breathlessly, Just as he had watched Blanche's on the night when he first saw her in theCirque Parisien, and now he followed her feats of skill and strength with wonder and fascination. When she remained beneath the surface for more than three minutes he felt as if he himself were stifling, and when she reappeared, calm and smiling, he took a long breath.
He supposed that the rescue of one of the circus hands who fell opportunely into thetank would end the performance; but instead of leaving the ring, Lottie King climbed again to the platform. Surely, Jules thought, she would make a mistake if she repeated that plunge. Instead, however, she swung on the edge, leaped backward into the air, and after several swift turns, fell with a crash into the water. As she swam to the ladder, the band burst into triumphant music, and the audience cheered, and began to climb down from the circular seats and to rush to the spot where she was to make her exit.
Then Jules roused himself. He felt as if he had been in a dream. He had difficulty in reaching Blanche's dressing-room, for the crowd had gathered at the entrance to the ring in order to catch another glimpse of the dripping figure of the diver. When finally he succeeded in making his way there, he found Blanche sitting motionless, her arms resting on the table. He at once divined the cause of her dejection.
"You see what you've brought on yourself," he said. "A lot you'll amount to now! You might as well give up the business."
Madeleine looked at him with mild reproach in her eyes. He paid no attention to her, however. He walked back to the door, and turning, he added: "But you can't stay here all night. I thought you'd be dressed by this time. I'll wait out here for you."
Jules looked anxiously up and down the corridor, but he saw no one. He could hear the noise of the crowd slowly wending out of the Hippodrome, and from the dressing-rooms on either side the buzz of voices. Miss King must have succeeded in making her escape to her room.
If Jules had tried, he would have been unable to explain the fascination that Lottie King's performance had for him. In daring it was greatly inferior to his wife's plunge; but the fact that Blanche had lost courage lent her rival's serene indifference to danger an added attractiveness for him.
Every night he watched her with more delight. Besides being plucky and skilful, she was so pretty and so amusing! Jules liked to talk with her in the evening before she made her appearance, and she used to convulse him with laughter by her sallies. She soon fell into the habit of running into Blanche's room to ask Madeleine to do services for her, and toward Blanche she adopted a manner of half-amused patronage. By the end of the first week, Blanche had conceived a great dislike for her. This might have been at least partly due to herdiscovery of the pleasure which Jules took in the diver's society.
Mrs. Tate had expected that, after ceasing to make her plunge, Blanche would improve in health; but she speedily saw that she was mistaken. One afternoon she called at the hotel in Albemarle Street and found Blanche alone with the little Jeanne; Madeleine had just gone out to do some errands. They had a long talk, during which Blanche was obliged to confess that the pain in her back troubled her just as much as ever, and that she was very unhappy. When Mrs. Tate tried to find out why she was unhappy, she could elicit no satisfactory explanation. As soon as she arrived home that night, she repeated the conversation to her husband.
"Do you suppose the little creature can be mercenary, Percy?" she said. "Do you think she can be sorry she isn't risking her neck every day? I wanted to tell her this morning she ought to be ashamed of herself—she ought to think of her child. Suppose she had been killed! What would have become of the child,I'dlike to know!"
"That other person has made a hit, I see.They're booming her in the papers. Did she speak of her?"
"Not a word!"
"H'm!"
"What do you mean by that, Percy?"
"Oh, nothing."
"I suppose you think she's jealous of her."
"Jealous?" Tate repeated, lifting his eyes. "You told me yourself that she was jealous before she even saw the other performer."
"Yes, and now she's jealous of her success."
"Oh,professionaljealousy," he said, throwing back his head. A moment later he added: "There are worse kinds of jealousy than that in the world."
Mrs. Tate looked at him closely, but his eyes were fixed on his plate. For a few moments they did not speak; she was pondering his last remark. They understood each other so well that they often divined each other's thoughts. Now she saw that he did not care to discuss the subject, and she let it drop. She continued to think about it so much, however, that she determined togo to the Hippodrome alone some day, to amatinée, and see for herself what Blanche's successor as a star performer was like.
She returned home with a sickly feeling of regret and torturing anticipation; she had not only seen Lottie King, but she had also studied the face of Jules Le Baron, who, unconscious of her gaze, stood within a few yards of her seat. What she had observed in his expression, however, she did not communicate to her husband.
Her visit at the Hippodrome made her resolve to be even kinder to Blanche than she had been; she would take her and the child to drive in the Park two or three times a week,—oftener if she could. Mrs. Tate tried to shake off her forebodings, but for the rest of the day they clung to her, and the next morning she woke with them fresh in mind. So she resolved to drive at once to Albemarle Street. The weather was too dull to take the child out, and she would pass the morning with Blanche and try to cheer her up.
When she reached the hotel she felt relieved to find Blanche in a much betterframe of mind than she had been on the occasion of her last call. The pain had left her for a few days, Blanche explained, and she had been greatly encouraged; even Jules had spoken of her improvement; he had been so patient with her, and now she felt ashamed of having been so dispirited. Mrs. Tate went away with a feeling that she had been a fool, that her forebodings were ridiculous.
One night at the end of the week, Tate returned home with the announcement that he was to start for Berlin the next day, to confer with the heads of a banking-house there with regard to the floating of a great loan. He gave her the choice of staying at home or of starting with him after only a few hours of preparation. She chose to start, and for two months she did not see London again; for, once away from the routine of his work, Tate took advantage of the opportunity to run for a holiday from Berlin down to Dresden, and thence over to Paris. During this time Mrs. Tate forgot her self-imposed cares, and gave herself up to the pleasures of travelling.
When she returned home, she was surprised to hear that Madame Le Baron had called several times, and had left word that she was anxious to see her as soon as she came back. This news sent her with a throbbing heart to Albemarle Street; she felt sure that something terrible had happened, something she might have prevented by staying in London. She was always assuming responsibilities and then dropping them! How often her husband had told her that! She had been more than culpable, she kept saying to herself, in going away without even bidding Blanche good-bye, without even leaving an address.
When she arrived at the hotel, at the close of a cold, foggy afternoon, she was surprised to be told by thegarçonthat Madame Le Baron had left, and had gone to an apartment in Upper Bedford Place. "It was too expensive for them here," thegarçonexplained with a contemptuous grin. "So they went to a private house."
Mrs. Tate drove at once to the number the boy gave her, and a few moments later she was climbing the stairs to Blanche'sapartment. She was out of breath when she rapped on the door, and still breathing hard when Madeleine admitted her into the shabby drawing-room. A moment later, as Blanche appeared from the next room, she uttered an exclamation.
"Good Heavens, child, what has happened to you! You're whiter than ever, and sothin! What have you been doing to yourself? Have you had an illness?"
Blanche shook her head. "No, I haven't been ill," she replied, but her looks and her manner seemed to belie her words. The gray cloth dress which had once fitted her tightly now hung loosely about her; her face was drawn and of a chalklike pallor, and under the eyes were two black lines betraying weeks of suffering and sleeplessness.
"You were thin enough before I went away," said Mrs. Tate, "but now you're a perfect spectre."
Then she went on to explain how she had happened to desert her friends for so long a time. "I know you have something to tell me," she said, starting from her seat, "butbefore you begin I want to see Jeanne. How is she? But first tell me how you happened to come way up here. Isn't it a long distance for you to climb after your performance every night?"
"Jules chose these rooms because they were so much cheaper than the hotel," Blanche replied simply. "We prepare our own meals, too, and we save in that way. You know my salary is so much smaller than it used to be."
Mrs. Tate made no comment, and they went into the other room, where Jeanne was sleeping in the crib.
"She sleeps nearly all the time," said Blanche, with a faint smile that seemed to exaggerate the expression of pain and weariness in her face.
"How big she's growing!" Mrs. Tate whispered. "There's certainly nothing the matter withher, the dear little thing, with her fat rosy cheeks. I'd just like to take her in my arms and hug her."
For several minutes they stood talking about the child; then they left her with Madeleine and went back to the drawing-room,which Mrs. Tate's keen eyes discovered was used also as a bedroom. "They must be economizing with a vengeance," she thought. Blanche closed the door, and took a seat behind her visitor on the couch.
"Now I want to hear all about it," Mrs. Tate cried. "Something has happened. What is it?" She took both of Blanche's hands and looked into her eyes. "What is it?" she repeated.
For a moment they sat looking at each other. Then Blanche bent forward, buried her head on Mrs. Tate's lap, and burst into tears. Mrs. Tate said nothing, and allowed the paroxysm to spend itself. Then, gradually, the story came out.
Jules didn't love her any more, Blanche moaned. He had been cruel to her, oh, so cruel; he had said such dreadful things! And then there had been days and days when he scarcely spoke to her or to the little Jeanne or to Madeleine, and he had grown so strict with them all; he hardly allowed Madeleine enough to buy the things they needed. And once, he had said such dreadful things about Jeanne. He didn'tlove even Jeanne any more,—poor little Jeanne! He said they would have been better off if she had never been born. Oh, that had nearly killed her, that he should have spoken so about Jeanne. She didn't care so much about herself, though sometimes she wanted to die. One night she had prayed that God would take her and Jeanne together. Jules had always been so good to her until—until that woman came, that woman who had taken her place in the circus. It was that woman who had come between them, with her white teeth and her mocking laugh. She was making a fool of Jules; she did not care for him, but she pretended that she did, just to amuse herself. Jules followed her about everywhere; he even talked of going to America, because she was to go in a few weeks, when her engagement at the Hippodrome was over. But Blanche would die; she would throw herself into the river with Jeanne in her arms rather than go there now. Ah, it had been so hard for her, alone in a strange country, with no one but Madeleine to confide in. Madeleine had been so good; but she, too, had grownafraid of Jules in these last weeks. They scarcely dared to speak when he was at home, now.
From broken utterances, Mrs. Tate pieced together the whole miserable story. For the moment, her pity was lost in admiration for her husband's perspicacity. He had foreseen this! Now, for the first time, she realized what she had vaguely surmised before, the full meaning of his mysterious remark about Blanche and Jules. Then she turned her attention to the prostrate figure before her, offering sympathy and counsel. She knew that she was speaking in platitudes, but they were all she could offer then; and, after all, it was Blanche's own outburst that would do the poor pent-up creature the most good, the consciousness that she had some one to confide in.
Mrs. Tate stayed in the little apartment a long time, and when she went away, Blanche seemed to feel more hopeful. "Act as if he were just as kind to you as ever," was her parting injunction, "and I know everything will come out all right. He'll find out that that dreadful woman is only makinga fool of him, and then he'll care more for you than ever."
In her heart, however, Mrs. Tate knew that what she said was not true. Jules had probably grown tired of his wife. The more she thought of the case, the more she pitied Blanche,—the more she realized what a tragedy in the poor little woman's life it meant. And she really had been to blame, she kept saying to herself. But for her interference, Blanche would have gone on with her diving, that other performer would not have come to the Hippodrome, and all of Blanche's agony of jealousy and neglect would have been avoided.
Oh, what a lesson it taught her! Never,neverwould she interfere in a family again! She would have done much better to let Blanche go to her death, rather than to drive her to despair, perhaps to a worse form of death by her meddling.
On reaching home, she was in a fever of remorse and sympathy, and she passed a miserable hour waiting for her husband to return. When at last he did appear, she met him in the hall.
"Percy," she cried dramatically, "you're a prophet!"
"Am I, indeed?" he said, putting his umbrella in the rack. "Do you mean to say this is the first time you've found it out?"
"I'll never doubt your word again, Percy," she went on, stifling a sob. Her appeal to her husband for sympathy threatened to make her hysterical, but she controlled herself and gasped out: "Don't you remember what you said about that man, Le Baron,—you know, the night he dined here, about his falling in love with his wife's performance! Well, that's just what he did do. He didn't fall in love withher; he's neverbeenin love with her, poor thing. Fortunately she doesn't know that. It's only herperformance, that horrible plunge she used to make, that he's been in love with all along."
"I don't see anything very prophetic about that," he said, walking into the drawing-room, where she followed him, clutching at the lace handkerchief in her hand. "It was as plain as daylight to any one thatheard him talk and saw what kind of man he was."
"I don't mean your seeing merely that. I could tell from what you said that you saw a great deal more. Don't you remember what you said aboutprofessionaljealousy not being the worst kind of jealousy in the world? That was the first thing that opened my eyes. I went to the nextmatinéeto see for myself if it could be true, and if I hadn't been an idiot I should have realized it all then. But the next day, just before we left for Berlin, I called on that poor woman, and she seemed so much easier in mind, I thought I must have misunderstood what you meant and been mistaken about that look."
"My dear, I don't quite follow you. Aren't you just a little bit illogical?"
"No, I'm not. I'm perfectly logical. I never was more logical in my life."
"I suppose you mean that the fellow has got tired of his wife, now that she's given up her dive, and he's fallen in love with the other woman."
Mrs. Tate rose tragically from her chair and made a sweeping gesture with herright hand. "With the other woman'sperformance."
Tate looked at her for a moment, with smiling incredulity. "How ridiculous!" he said.
"That's exactly what I said when you told me he had fallen in love with hiswife'sperformance. I said it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard in mylife. I couldn't have believed it if I hadn't observed it with my own eyes. But that afternoon I saw him—he stood near me, leaning against the railing—and I wish you could have seen the expression in his face while that woman was exhibiting herself, especially when she made her horrible dives."
For a moment Tate stood without speaking. Then he said:—
"I'm afraid you're putting a romantic interpretation on a very simple sequence of events. That fellow probably did fall in love with his wife's performance, and incidentally he liked the money that went with it. When she stopped her diving and became an ordinary performer, like thousands of others, she ceased to interest him. Thenhe looked around for some one else to be interested in, and when the other acrobatic person appeared he was just in the condition to be caught."
"I don't believe it. It's a——"
"There's one way, of course, of proving whether you're right or not," Tate interrupted, with a quizzical smile.
"What's that?"
"If your theory is correct, the only thing for Madame Le Baron to do is to go back to her performance. Then she'll meet her rival on her own ground. From what I've read about that other performer, Madame Le Baron's dive must be twice as difficult and twice as thrilling as hers."
Mrs. Tate turned to her husband with a look of admiration, her breath coming and going in quick gasps. "Percy, that's the wisest thing you've ever said in your life." A moment later she added, with a change of tone: "But isn't the whole thingtooabsurd?"
He started to go upstairs. "You know we're due at the Bigelows in an hour?"
"Wait a minute," said Mrs. Tate. "Iwant to think over what you said. You can't imagine how this thing has worried me. It's all due to my meddling. Oh, I know that; you needn't say anything to me about it. But I'm determined to help that poor woman if I can. Oh, if I had only followed your advice, and let them alone!" she moaned.
"There's no use worrying now. The mischief's done. He would probably have got tired of her anyway."
"If something isn't done to bring him back to her," she went on without heeding his remark, "it will kill her. I'm sure of that. If you could only see her. She looks like a ghost, and her hands tremble so! I don't believe she's slept a wink for weeks. I don't see how she gets through her performances. A clinging creature like her justliveson affection. Before she was married she always had her mother to take care of her. To think that that man should treat her so! Oh, it's a shame, it's a shame!"
Tate was standing at the door. "If she's going to kill herself over that fellow, she might as well have gone on with her divingand killed herself that way. You ask her if she doesn't want to go back to it," he added, with the quizzical smile, "and see if she won't jump at the chance."
"Do you suppose that she can suspect for an instant that her husband fell in love with her performance?" she said, her eyes following her husband up the stairs.
"She probably hasn't reasoned it out, but I haven't a doubt she feels it intuitively," he replied, continuing his ascent. "You just ask her if she doesn't want to make the plunge again and see what she'll say," he concluded, smiling down at her from the floor above.
Mrs. Tate tried, by an almost impassioned kindness, to atone for her neglect of Blanche during her absence from London. She sent her flowers from her conservatory, she bought gifts for the little Jeanne, she called at the apartment in Upper Bedford Place nearly every morning. During these visits she did not once meet Jules; Blanche told her that he always went away soon after breakfast, and seldom returned before dinner. Sometimes he did not accompany her to the Hippodrome, but he never failed to appear there during the evening. The management had offered to reëngage Miss King as soon as her contract expired, and the diver thought of postponing her return to America; but they had not as yet come to terms, as the girl wanted a much larger salary than she had been receiving.
It was this information that reminded Mrs. Tate to ask Blanche if she were sorry she had given up her plunge and if she ever wished to resume it. Though she had at first been impressed by the solution of Blanche's troubles suggested by her husband, she had on sober second thought dismissed it as ridiculously romantic; such things might happen in novels, but they never could occur in real life. Her belief was shaken, however, when she saw the pale face light up at her question.
"Oh, yes," Blanche cried, "I have thought of it. Sometimes—sometimes I think it would be better if I hadn't given it up. Then—then that woman wouldn't have come." Her eyes filled with tears, but she controlled herself and, a moment later, she went on:—
"But I—I thought it was wrong for me to risk my life, and it made me so unhappy for Jeanne's sake. But sometimes I think I might have stopped being afraid. Before Jeanne was born I never had the least thought of fear, even after father was killed, because I knew that was becausethe trapeze was weak. Oh, I'm sure," she went on piteously,—"I'msureI shouldn't be afraid any more!"
"But Dr. Broughton, you remember what he said, don't you?"
"He said that when I stopped making the plunge I should be better," Blanche replied simply. "But I'm not better; I feel worse,—oh, so much worse! I know I should be better if I tried it again. And I sha'n't be afraid any more," she repeated,—"even for Jeanne. It would be so much better for us all!"
This speech made Mrs. Tate wonder if, as her husband had suggested, Blanche had divined that Jules had cared for her performance rather than for herself, and fancied she could win him back by resuming it. Her interest increased when she learned that Jules and Miss King had not spoken to each other for two evenings. Miss King's maid, who had at last come from Manchester, and who knew a little Canadian French, had told Madeleine about it. Jules had urged Miss King to accept Marshall's terms, and was vexed with her because she refused andthreatened to go back to America. This had made him even more disagreeable at home than he had been before; for the past few days he had not spoken one pleasant word to them, and he had not even noticed Jeanne.
It was this information that rang in Mrs. Tate's consciousness when she had left the apartment. Jules and that woman had quarrelled! Of course, they would make it up again,—perhaps in a few days, perhaps that very day; but if they did not, the quarrel might be one of the means of winning him back to his wife. At any rate, she would speak to her husband about it. When, on her return home, she did speak, he burst out laughing.
"I don't see how you can find anything funny in that!" she said resentfully. "It's a very serious matter."
"But it threatens to spoil my beautiful little romance!"
"Your beautiful romance? What do you mean?"
"If you had persuaded her to go back to her diving, and if she drove the other womanout of the field in that way, it would be a proof of my theory that he's fallen in love with theperformanceand not with theperformer. But if his wife gets him back again now, it will be merely because the other woman has broken with him. There's nothing for him to doexceptto go back to his wife and be forgiven."
"Well, I don't care what the reason is—if she onlygetshim back. She'll certainly die of jealousy and misery if she doesn't,—that's plain enough. In my opinion, Dr. Broughton was entirely wrong in his diagnosis of the case. She says herself that she misses her diving and she wants to take it up again. Her rest hasn't done her a particle of good. Anyway, I'll speak to the Doctor about it to-morrow. I'll write a note, and ask him to come in for tea if he can."
"And hold another council of war," her husband suggested.
"A council ofpeace," she retorted smartly. "Oh, I know what you're thinking of! But I'm determined to undo the harm I've done. There's no time to be lost. If I can get that poor little woman to resume herplunge while the husband's still quarrelling with the other performer, I feel sure everything will come out all right. He'll be interested in her again. Don't you remember how he used to brag about her? I suppose you don't, but he did; and I could tell that he was as proud of her as if she were the most wonderful creature in the world."
"I don't see what she wants him for," Tate said carelessly.
"Well, you're not a woman, and you can't understand how women feel about men. I sometimes think the worse men are, the more their wives adore them."
Tate smiled, but he made no reply; he was much more interested in the case than he would allow himself to appear to be. Indeed, he was so interested that he left his office the next day earlier than usual, in order to take part in the conference. He found his wife in earnest talk with the Doctor. Before coming to the house, Dr. Broughton, at Mrs. Tate's suggestion, had made a call on Madame Le Baron, and he expressed his alarm at having found her so thin and weak.
"Do you remember what I said the night we had our first talk about her?" he asked, glancing at Tate. "I was afraid then that if she gave up her work it might upset her, though I didn't see how she could go on with the diving and keep whatever health she had. Now she's a great deal worse off than she was when I last saw her."
Then they discussed the case in all its aspects. The Doctor laughed when Mrs. Tate declared she believed the poor woman's happiness depended on her resuming her plunge. "Oh, it may seem absurd to you!" she cried, growing more earnest under ridicule; "but Percy believes it, though he may pretend to you that he doesn't. He was the one who first suggested it to me."
"I really think the diving wouldn't hurt her health so much as her worrying about her husband does," the Doctor admitted. "Besides, she believes she won't be afraid of it any more. She says her rest from it has taken all her fear away."
"Then you think the best thing for her to do would be to resume the plunge?" said Mrs. Tate.
For a moment the Doctor stroked his chin. "Under the circumstances I should say it might," he replied slowly. "At any rate, it would be worth trying. Of course, if that haunting fear returned she'd have to stop it again."
A look of triumph flashed from the face of Mrs. Tate; and when she glanced at her husband she saw that he was trying to dissemble his interest in the decision. "I shall tell her that to-morrow!" she cried. "It'll be the best news the poor thing has had for a long time. She's crazy to begin that plunge again."
"I hope you are ready to take the consequences of your interference in this business," said Tate, dryly.