The Magic Curtain Part 9

"I am fond of dreaming."

"Then you shall dream."

The grounds surrounding the great house were to the little French girl a land of enchantment. The formal garden where even in late autumn the rich colors of bright red, green and gold vied with the glory of the Indian Summer sunshine, the rock garden, the pool where gold-fish swam, the rustic bridge across the brook, and back of all this the primeval forest of oak, walnut and maple; all this, as they wandered over leaf-strewn paths, reminded her of the forests and hedges, the grounds and gardens of her 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 belong to all--to the middle cla.s.s, the poor.

"And yet," she concluded philosophically, "they have the parks. Truly they are beautiful always."

It was beside a broad pool where lily pads lay upon placid waters that Jeanne at last found a place of repose beneath the mellow autumn sun, to settle down to the business of doing her bit of sun worship.

It was truly delightful, this spot, and very dreamy. There were broad stretches of water between the cl.u.s.ters of lily pads. In these, three stately swans, seeming royal floats of some enchanted midget city, floated. Some late flowers bloomed at her feet. Here bees hummed drowsily. A dragon fly, last of his race, a great green ship with bulging eyes, darted here and there. Yet in his movements there were suggestions of rest and dreamy repose. The sun was warm. From the distance came the drone of a pipe organ. It, too, spoke of rest. Jeanne, as always, had retired at a late hour on the previous night. Her head nodded. She stretched herself out upon the turf. She would close her eyes for three winks.

"Just three winks."

But the drowsy warmth, the distant melody, the darting dragon fly, seen even in her dreams, held her eyes tight closed.

As she dreamed, the bushes not five yards away parted and a face peered forth. It was not an inviting face. It was a dark, evil-eyed face with a trembling leer about the mouth. Jeanne had seen this man. He had called to her. She had run away. That was long ago, before the door of the opera. She did not see him now. She slept.

A little bird scolding in a tree seemed eager to wake her. She did not wake.

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 scolded on. 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 of hiding. No footsteps are heard; the gra.s.s is like a green carpet, as the master of the estate and his wife approach.

They would have pa.s.sed close to the sleeping one had not a glance arrested them.

"What a beautiful boy!" whispered the lady. "And see how peacefully he sleeps! He is a friend of Rosemary, a mere child of the opera. She has taken a fancy to him."

"Who would not?" the man rumbled low. "I have seen him at our box. There was 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 have often thought of adopting such a child, a boy to be a companion and brother to Rosemary."

Could Jeanne have heard this she might well have blushed. She did not hear, for the sun shone on, the music still droned and the dragon fly darted 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 a matter of so grave importance one must look carefully before one moves.

We must consider."

So the two pa.s.s on. And once again Jeanne has escaped.

And now Rosemary comes racing down the slope to discover her and to waken her by tickling her nose with a swan's feather.

"Come!" she exclaims, before Jeanne is half conscious of her surroundings. "We are off for a canter over the bridle path!" Seizing Jeanne's hand, she drags her to her feet. Then together they go racing away toward the stables.

The remainder of that day was one joyous interlude in Pet.i.te Jeanne's not uneventful life. Save for the thought that Rosemary believed her a boy, played with her and entertained her as a boy and was, perhaps, just a little interested in her as a boy, no flaw could be found in this glorious occasion.

A great lover of horses since her days in horse-drawn gypsy vans, she gloried in the spirited brown steed she rode. The day was perfect. Blue skies with fleecy clouds drifting like sheep in a field, autumn leaves fluttering down, cobwebs floating lazily across the fields; this was autumn at its best.

They rode, those two, across green meadows, down shady lanes, through forests where shadows were deep. Now and again Rosemary turned an admiring glance upon her companion sitting in her saddle with ease and riding with such grace.

"If she knew!" Jeanne thought with a bitter-sweet smile. "If she only knew!"

"Where did you learn to ride so well?" Rosemary asked, as they alighted and 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 was getting into deep water. Should she begin telling of her early life she must surely, sooner or later, betray her secret.

"Rich people," she thought, as she journeyed homeward in the great car when the day was done, "they are very much like others, except when they choose 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 a shame to deceive her. Yet, what sport! And besides, I'm getting a little of what I want, a whole big lot, I guess." She was thinking once more of Marjory Dean's half-promise.

"Will she truly allow me to be her understudy, to go on in her place when the 'Juggler' is done again?" She was fairly smothered by the thought; yet she dared to hope--a little.

CHAPTER XI A DANCE FOR THE SPIRITS

When Jeanne arrived at the rooms late that night, after her evening among the opera boxes, she found a half burned out fire in the grate and a rather amusing note from Florence on the table:

"I am asleep. Do not disturb me." This is how the note ran.