by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER X THE ONE WITHIN THE SHADOWS
Having accepted an invitation from a daughter of the rich, Jeanne was atonce thrown into consternation.
"What am I to wear?" she wailed. "As Pierre I can't very well wear pinkchiffon and satin slippers. And of course evening dress does not go withan informal visit to an estate in mid-afternoon. Oh, why did I accept?"
"You accepted," Florence replied quietly, "because you wish to know allabout life. You have been poor as a gypsy. You know all about being poor.You have lived as a successful lady of the stage. You were then anartist. Successful artists are middle class people, I should say. Butyour friend Rosemary is rich. She will show you one more side of life."
"A form of life, that's what he called it."
"Who called it?"
"A man. But what am I to wear?"
"Well," Florence pondered, "you are a youth, a mere boy; that's the waythey think of you. You are to tramp about over the estate."
"And ride horses. She said so. How I love horses!"
"You are a boy. And you have no mother to guide you." Florence chantedthis. "What would a boy wear? Knickers, a waist, heavy shoes, a cap. Youhave all these, left from our summer in the northern woods."
Why not, indeed? This was agreed upon at once. So it happened that whenthe great car, all a-glitter with gold and platinum trimmings, met herbefore the opera at the appointed hour, it was as a boy, perhaps inmiddle teens, garbed for an outing, that the little French girl sank deepinto the broadcloth cushions.
"Florence said it would do," she told herself. "She is usually right. Ido hope that she may be right this time."
Rosemary Robinson had been well trained, very well trained indeed. Theladies who managed and taught the private school which she attended wereladies of the first magnitude. As everyone knows, the first lesson to belearned in the school of proper training is the art of deception. Onemust learn to conceal one's feelings. Rosemary had learned this lessonwell. It had been a costly lesson. To any person endowed with a frank andgenerous nature, such a lesson comes only by diligence and suffering. Ifshe had expected to find the youthful Pierre dressed in other garmentsthan white waist, knickers and green cap, she did not say so, either byword, look or gesture.
This put Jeanne at her ease at once; at least as much at ease as any girlmasquerading as a boy might be expected to achieve.
"She's a dear," she thought to herself as Rosemary, leading her into thehouse, introduced her in the most nonchalant manner to the greatestearthly paradise she had ever known.
As she felt her feet sink deep in rich Oriental rugs, as her eyes feastedthemselves upon oil paintings, tapestries and rare bits of statuary thathad been gathered from every corner of the globe, she could not so muchas regret the deception that had gained her entrance to this world ofrare treasures.
"But would I wish to live here?" she asked herself. "It is like living ina museum."
When she had entered Rosemary's own little personal study, when she hadfeasted her eyes upon all the small objects of rare charm that wereRosemary's own, upon the furniture done by master craftsmen and theinterior decorated by a real artist, when she had touched the softcreations of silk that were curtains, drapes and pillows, she murmured:
"Yes. Here is that which would bring happiness to any soul who lovesbeauty and knows it when he sees it."
"But we must not remain indoors on a day such as this!" Rosemaryexclaimed. "Come!" She seized her new friend's hand. "We will go out intothe sunshine. You are a sun worshipper, are you not?"
"Perhaps," said Jeanne who, you must not forget, was for the day PierreAndrews. "I truly do not know."
"There are many sun worshippers these days." Rosemary laughed a merrylaugh. "And why not? Does not the sun give us life? And if we restbeneath his rays much of the time, does he not give us a more abundantlife?"
"See!" Pierre, catching the spirit of the hour, held out a bare arm asbrown as the dead leaves of October. "I _am_ a sun worshipper!"
At this they went dancing down the hall.
"But, see!" Rosemary exclaimed. "Here is the organ!" She threw open adoor, sprang to a bench, touched a switch here, a stop there, then begansending out peals of sweet, low, melodious music.
"A pipe organ!" Jeanne exclaimed. "In your home!"
"Why not?" Rosemary laughed. "Father likes the organ. Why should he nothear it when he chooses? It is a very fine one. Many of the great mastershave been here to play it. I am taking lessons. In half an hour I mustcome here for a lesson. Then you must become a sun worshipper. You maywander where you please or just lie by the lily pond and dream in thesun."
"I am fond of dreaming."
"Then you shall dream."
The grounds surrounding the great house were to the little French girl aland of enchantment. The formal garden where even in late autumn the richcolors of bright red, green and gold vied with the glory of the IndianSummer sunshine, the rock garden, the pool where gold-fish swam, therustic bridge across the brook, and back of all this the primeval forestof oak, walnut and maple; all this, as they wandered over leaf-strewnpaths, reminded her of the forests and hedges, the grounds and gardens ofher own beloved France.
"Truly," she whispered to herself, "all this is worth being rich for.
"But what a pity--" Her mood changed. "What a pity that it may not belongto all--to the middle class, the poor.
"And yet," she concluded philosophically, "they have the parks. Trulythey are beautiful always."
It was beside a broad pool where lily pads lay upon placid waters thatJeanne at last found a place of repose beneath the mellow autumn sun, tosettle down to the business of doing her bit of sun worship.
It was truly delightful, this spot, and very dreamy. There were broadstretches of water between the clusters of lily pads. In these, threestately swans, seeming royal floats of some enchanted midget city,floated. Some late flowers bloomed at her feet. Here bees hummeddrowsily. A dragon fly, last of his race, a great green ship with bulgingeyes, darted here and there. Yet in his movements there were suggestionsof rest and dreamy repose. The sun was warm. From the distance came thedrone of a pipe organ. It, too, spoke of rest. Jeanne, as always, hadretired at a late hour on the previous night. Her head nodded. Shestretched herself out upon the turf. She would close her eyes for threewinks.
"Just three winks."
But the drowsy warmth, the distant melody, the darting dragon fly, seeneven in her dreams, held her eyes tight closed.
As she dreamed, the bushes not five yards away parted and a face peeredforth. It was not an inviting face. It was a dark, evil-eyed face with atrembling leer about the mouth. Jeanne had seen this man. He had calledto her. She had run away. That was long ago, before the door of theopera. She did not see him now. She slept.
A little bird scolding in a tree seemed eager to wake her. She did notwake.
The man moved forward a step. Someone unseen appeared to move behind him.With a wolf-like eye he glanced to right and left. He moved another step.He was like a cat creeping upon his prey.
"Wake up, Jeanne! Wake up! Wake! Wake! Wake up!" the little bird scoldedon. Jeanne did not stir. Still the sun gleamed warm, the music droned,the dragon fly darted in her dreams.
But what is this? The evil-eyed one shrinks back into his place ofhiding. No footsteps are heard; the grass is like a green carpet, as themaster of the estate and his wife approach.
They would have passed close to the sleeping one had not a glancearrested them.
"What a beautiful boy!" whispered the lady. "And see how peacefully hesleeps! He is a friend of Rosemary, a mere child of the opera. She hastaken a fancy to him."
"Who would not?" the man rumbled low. "I have seen him at our box. Therewas the affair of the pearls. He--"
"Could a guilty person sleep so?"
"No."
"Not upon the estate of one he has robbed."
"Surely not. Do you know," the lady's tone became deeply
serious, "I haveoften thought of adopting such a child, a boy to be a companion andbrother to Rosemary."
Could Jeanne have heard this she might well have blushed. She did nothear, for the sun shone on, the music still droned and the dragon flydarted in her dreams.
The lady looked in the great man's eyes. She read an answer there.
"Shall we wake him and suggest it now?" she whispered.
Ah, Jeanne! What shall the answer be? You are Pierre. You are Jeanne.
But the great man shakes his head. "The thing needs talking over. In amatter of so grave importance one must look carefully before one moves.We must consider."
So the two pass on. And once again Jeanne has escaped.
And now Rosemary comes racing down the slope to discover her and to wakenher by tickling her nose with a swan's feather.
"Come!" she exclaims, before Jeanne is half conscious of hersurroundings. "We are off for a canter over the bridle path!" SeizingJeanne's hand, she drags her to her feet. Then together they go racingaway toward the stables.
The remainder of that day was one joyous interlude in Petite Jeanne's notuneventful life. Save for the thought that Rosemary believed her a boy,played with her and entertained her as a boy and was, perhaps, just alittle interested in her as a boy, no flaw could be found in thisglorious occasion.
A great lover of horses since her days in horse-drawn gypsy vans, shegloried in the spirited brown steed she rode. The day was perfect. Blueskies with fleecy clouds drifting like sheep in a field, autumn leavesfluttering down, cobwebs floating lazily across the fields; this wasautumn at its best.
They rode, those two, across green meadows, down shady lanes, throughforests where shadows were deep. Now and again Rosemary turned anadmiring glance upon her companion sitting in her saddle with ease andriding with such grace.
"If she knew!" Jeanne thought with a bitter-sweet smile. "If she onlyknew!"
"Where did you learn to ride so well?" Rosemary asked, as they alightedand went in to tea.
"In France, to be sure."
"And who taught you?"
"Who but the gypsies?"
"Gypsies! How romantic!"
"Romantic? Yes, perhaps." Jeanne was quick to change the subject. She wasgetting into deep water. Should she begin telling of her early life shemust surely, sooner or later, betray her secret.
"Rich people," she thought, as she journeyed homeward in the great carwhen the day was done, "they are very much like others, except when theychoose to show off. And I wonder how much they enjoy that, after all.
"But Rosemary! Does she suspect? I wonder! She's such a peach! It's ashame to deceive her. Yet, what sport! And besides, I'm getting a littleof what I want, a whole big lot, I guess." She was thinking once more ofMarjory Dean's half-promise.
"Will she truly allow me to be her understudy, to go on in her place whenthe 'Juggler' is done again?" She was fairly smothered by the thought;yet she dared to hope--a little.