The Magic Curtain Part 8

Turning about, with sober face, she stood before the monastery door.

And then, like some bird discovered in a garden, she wanted to run away.

For there, in very life, a little way back upon the vast stage, stood all the peasants of the opera. And in their midst, garbed in street attire, was Marjory Dean!

"Who are you? How do you dare tamper with my property, to put on my costume?" Marjory Dean advanced alone.

There was sternness in her tone. But there was another quality besides.

Had it not been for this, Jeanne might have crumpled in a helpless heap upon the stage. As it was, she could only murmur in her humblest manner:

"I--I am only an usher. See!" She stripped off the juggler's garb, and stood there in black attire. "Please do not be too hard. I have harmed nothing. See! I will put it all back." This, with trembling fingers, she proceeded to do. Then in the midst of profound silence, she retreated into the shadows.

She had barely escaped from the stage into the darkness of the opera pit when a figure came soft-footedly after her.

She wished to flee, but a voice seemed to whisper, "Stay!"

The word that came ten seconds after was, "Wait! You can't deceive me.

You are Pet.i.te Jeanne!"

It was the great one, Marjory Dean, who spoke.

"Why, how--how could you know?" Jeanne was thrown into consternation.

"Who could not know? If one has seen you upon the stage before, he could not be mistaken.

"But, little girl," the great one's tone was deep and low like the mellow chimes of a great clock, "I will not betray you.

"You did that divinely, Pet.i.te Jeanne. I could not have done it better.

And you, Jeanne, are much like me. A little make-up, and there you are, Pet.i.te Jeanne, who is Marjory Dean. Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you to take my place, to do this first act for me, before all this." She spread her arms wide as if to take in a vast audience.

"No!" Jeanne protested. "I could never do that. Never! Marjory Dean, I--no! No!"

She broke off to stare into the darkness. No one was there!

"I could almost believe I imagined it," she told herself.

"And yet--no! It was true. She said it. Marjory Dean said that!"

Little wonder, then, that all the remaining hours of that day found on her fair face a radiance born, one might say, in Heaven.

Many saw that face and were charmed by it. The little rich girl saw it as Jeanne performed her humble duties as Pierre. She was so taken by it that, with her father's consent, she invited Pierre to visit her at her father's estate next day. And Pierre accepted. And that, as you well may guess, leads to quite another story.

CHAPTER X THE ONE WITHIN THE SHADOWS

Having accepted an invitation from a daughter of the rich, Jeanne was at once thrown into consternation.

"What am I to wear?" she wailed. "As Pierre I can't very well wear pink chiffon and satin slippers. And of course evening dress does not go with an informal visit to an estate in mid-afternoon. Oh, why did I accept?"

"You accepted," Florence replied quietly, "because you wish to know all about 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 an artist. Successful artists are middle cla.s.s people, I should say. But your 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 way they 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 chanted this. "What would a boy wear? Knickers, a waist, heavy shoes, a cap. You have all these, left from our summer in the northern woods."

Why not, indeed? This was agreed upon at once. So it happened that when the great car, all a-glitter with gold and platinum tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, met her before the opera at the appointed hour, it was as a boy, perhaps in middle teens, garbed for an outing, that the little French girl sank deep into the broadcloth cus.h.i.+ons.

"Florence said it would do," she told herself. "She is usually right. I do hope that she may be right this time."

Rosemary Robinson had been well trained, very well trained indeed. The ladies who managed and taught the private school which she attended were ladies of the first magnitude. As everyone knows, the first lesson to be learned in the school of proper training is the art of deception. One must learn to conceal one's feelings. Rosemary had learned this lesson well. It had been a costly lesson. To any person endowed with a frank and generous nature, such a lesson comes only by diligence and suffering. If she had expected to find the youthful Pierre dressed in other garments than white waist, knickers and green cap, she did not say so, either by word, look or gesture.

This put Jeanne at her ease at once; at least as much at ease as any girl masquerading as a boy might be expected to achieve.

"She's a dear," she thought to herself as Rosemary, leading her into the house, introduced her in the most nonchalant manner to the greatest earthly paradise she had ever known.

As she felt her feet sink deep in rich Oriental rugs, as her eyes feasted themselves upon oil paintings, tapestries and rare bits of statuary that had been gathered from every corner of the globe, she could not so much as regret the deception that had gained her entrance to this world of rare treasures.

"But would I wish to live here?" she asked herself. "It is like living in a museum."

When she had entered Rosemary's own little personal study, when she had feasted her eyes upon all the small objects of rare charm that were Rosemary's own, upon the furniture done by master craftsmen and the interior decorated by a real artist, when she had touched the soft creations of silk that were curtains, drapes and pillows, she murmured:

"Yes. Here is that which would bring happiness to any soul who loves beauty and knows it when he sees it."

"But we must not remain indoors on a day such as this!" Rosemary exclaimed. "Come!" She seized her new friend's hand. "We will go out into the suns.h.i.+ne. You are a sun wors.h.i.+pper, are you not?"

"Perhaps," said Jeanne who, you must not forget, was for the day Pierre Andrews. "I truly do not know."

"There are many sun wors.h.i.+ppers these days." Rosemary laughed a merry laugh. "And why not? Does not the sun give us life? And if we rest beneath his rays much of the time, does he not give us a more abundant life?"

"See!" Pierre, catching the spirit of the hour, held out a bare arm as brown as the dead leaves of October. "I _am_ a sun wors.h.i.+pper!"

At this they went dancing down the hall.

"But, see!" Rosemary exclaimed. "Here is the organ!" She threw open a door, sprang to a bench, touched a switch here, a stop there, then began sending 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 not hear it when he chooses? It is a very fine one. Many of the great masters have been here to play it. I am taking lessons. In half an hour I must come here for a lesson. Then you must become a sun wors.h.i.+pper. You may wander where you please or just lie by the lily pond and dream in the sun."