CHAPTER VI
JOAN AND PROSPER
The situation was no doubt an extraordinary, an unimaginable one, butit had to be met. When he returned to the box, Prosper had himself inhand, and, sitting a little farther back than before, he watched thesecond act with a sufficiency of outward calm.
This part was the most severe test of his composure, for he hadfashioned it almost in detail upon that idyll in a canyon. There wereeven speeches of Joan's that he had used. To sit here and watch Joanherself go through it, while he looked on, was an exciting form oftorment. The setting was different, tropical instead of Northern, andthe half-native heroine was more passionate, more emotional, moreanimal than Joan. Nevertheless, the drama was a repetition. As Prosperhad laid his trap for Joan, silently, subtly undermining her wholemental structure, using her loneliness, playing upon the artist soulof her, so did this Englishman lay his trap for Zona. He was morecruel than Prosper, rougher, necessarily more dramatic, but there wasall the essence of the original drama, the ensnarement of a simple,direct mind by a complex and skillful one. Joan's surrender, Prosper'svictory, were there. He wondered how Joan could act it, play the partin cold blood. Now he was condemned to live in his own imaginationthrough Joan's tragedy. There was that first pitifulness of a tamedand broken spirit; then later, in London, the agony of loneliness, ofseparation, of gradual awakening to the change in her master's heart.Prosper had written the words, but it was Joan who, with her voice,the music of memory-shaken heart-strings, made the words alive andmeaningful. Others in the audience might wonder over the girl'sability to interpret this unusual experience, to make it natural,human, inevitable. But Prosper did not wonder. He knew that simply sheforced herself to re-live this most painful part of her own life andto re-live it articulately. What, in God's name, had induced her to doit? Necessity? Poverty? Morena? All at once he remembered Betty'sbelief, that Joan was the manager's mistress--his wild, beautifulJoan, Joan the creation of his own wizardry. This thought gave himsuch pain that he whitened.
"Prosper," murmured Betty, "you must tell me what is wrong. Evidentlyyour nerves are in bad shape. Is the excitement too much for you?"
"I believe it is," he said, avoiding her eyes and moving stiff, whitelips; "I've never seen such acting. I--I--Morena says he'll let me seeher in her dressing-room afterwards. You see, Betty, I'm badly shakenup."
"Ye-es," drawled Betty, and looked at him through narrowed lids, andshe sat with this look on her face and with her fingers locked, whenProsper, not giving her further notice, followed Morena out.
"Jasper,"--Prosper held his friend back in the middle of a passagethat led to the dressing-rooms,--"I want very particularly to see MissWest alone. I am very much moved by her performance and I want to tellher so. Also, I want her to express herself naturally with no idea ofmy being the author of the play and without the presence of hermanager. Will you just ask if she will see a friend of yours--alone?"
Jasper smiled his subtle smile. "Of course, Prosper. It's all as clearas daylight."
Prosper did not notice the Jew's intelligent expression. He was toomuch absorbed in his own excitement. In a moment he would be withJoan--Joan, his love of winter nights!
Morena tapped upon a door. A maid half-opened it.
"Ask Miss West, please, if she will see a friend of Mr. Morena's. Tellher I particularly wish her to give him a private interview." Hescribbled a line on a card and the maid took it in.
In five minutes, during which the two men waited silently, she cameback.
"Miss West will see your friend, sir."
"Ah! Then I'll take myself off. Prosper, will you join Betty and me atsupper?"
"No, thanks. I'll have my brief interview with Miss West and then gohome, if you'll forgive me. I'm about all in. New York's too much fora man just home from the front."
Jasper laid his hand for a moment on Prosper's shoulder, smiled,shrugged, and turned away. Prosper waited till his friend was out ofsight and hearing, then knocked and was admitted to the dressing-roomof Miss Jane West.
She had not changed from the evening dress she had worn in the lastscene nor had she yet got rid of her make-up. She was sitting in anarrow-backed chair that had been turned away from the dressing-table.The maid was putting away some costumes.
Prosper walked half across the room and stopped.
"Miss West," he said quietly.
She stood up. The natural color left her face ghastly with patches ofpaint and daubs of black. She threw back her head and said, "Prosper!"just above her breath.
"Go out, Henrietta." This was spoken to the maid in the voice of Janethe virago and Henrietta fled.
At sight of Joan, Prosper had won back instantly his old poise, hisold feeling of ascendancy.
"Joan, Joan," he said gently; "was ever anything so strange? Whydidn't you let me know? Why didn't you answer my letters? Why didn'tyou take my money? I have suffered greatly on your account."
Joan laughed. Four years ago she would not have been capable of thislaugh, and Prosper started.
"I wrote again and again," he said passionately. "Wen Ho told me thatyou had gone, that he didn't know anything about your plans. I wentout to Wyoming, to our house. I scoured the country for you. Did youknow that?"
"No," said Joan slowly, "I didn't know that But it makes no differenceto me."
They were still standing a few paces apart, too intent upon theirinner tumult to heed any outward situation. She lowered her head inthat dangerous way of hers, looking up at him from under her brows.Her color had returned and the make-up had a more natural look.
"Maybe you did write, maybe you did send money, maybe you did comeback--I don't care anything for all that." She made a gesture as if tosweep something away. "The day after you left me in that house,Pierre, my husband, came up the trail. He was taking after me. Hemeant to fetch me home. You told me"--she began to tremble soviolently that the jewels on her neck clicked softly--"you told me hewas _dead_."
Prosper came closer, she moving back, till, striking the chair, shesat down on it and looked up at him with her changed and embitteredeyes.
"Would you have gone back to him, Joan Landis, after he had tied youup and branded your shoulder with his cattlebrand?"
"What has that got to do with it?" she asked, her voice lifting on awave of anger. "That was between my man and me. That was not for youto judge. He loved me. It was through loving me too much, tooignorantly, that he hurt me so." She choked. "But you--"
"Joan," said Prosper, and he laid his hand on her cold and rigidfingers, "I loved you too."
She was still and stiff. After a long silence she seemed to select onequestion from a tide of them.
"Why did you leave me?"
"I wrote you a full explanation. The letter came back to me unread."
Again Joan gave the laugh and the gesture of disdain.
"That doesn't matter ... your loving or not loving. You made use of mefor your own ends, and when you saw fit, you left me. But that's notmy complaint. I don't say I didn't deserve that. I was easy to use.But it was all based on what wasn't true. I was married, my man wasliving, and I had dealings with you. That was sin. That was horrible.That was what my mother did. She was a ----" Joan used the coarse andugly word her father had taught her, and Prosper laid a hand over hermouth.
"Joan! No! Never say it, never think it. You are clean."
Joan twisted herself free, stood up, and walked away. "I am _that_!"she said grimly; "and it was you that made me. You took lots oftrouble to make me see things in a way where nothing a person wants iseither right or wrong. You made me thirsty with your talk and yourbooks and your music, and when I was tormented with thirst, you cameand offered me a drink of water. That was it. I don't care about yournot marrying me. I still don't see that that has much to do with itexcept, perhaps, that a man would be caring to give any woman herightly loves whatever help or cherishing or gifts the world hasdecided to give her. But, you see, Prosper, we didn't start fair. Youknew that Pierre was alive."
"But, Joan, you say yourself that marrying--"
She stopped him with so fierce a gesture that he flinched. "Yes.Pierre did rightly love me. He gave me his best as he knew it. Oh, hewas ignorant, a savage, I guess, like I was. But he did rightly loveme. He was not trying to break my spirit nor to tame me, nor to amusehimself with me, nor to give me a longing for beauty and easiness andthen leave me to fight through my own rough life without any of thosethings. Did you really think, Prosper Gael, that I would stay in yourhouse and live on your money till you should be caring to come back tome--if ever you would care? Did you honestly think that you would becoming back--as--as my lover? No. Whatever it was that took you away,it was likely to keep you from me for always, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Prosper in a muffled voice, "it was likely to. But, Joan,Fate was on your side. Since I have been yours, I haven't belonged toany one but you. You've put your brand on me."
"I don't want to hear about you," Joan broke in. "I am done with you.Have you seen this play?"
"Yes." He found that in telling her so he could not meet her eyes.
"Well, the man who wrote that knew what you are, and, if he didn't,every one that has seen me act in it, knows what you are." She paused,breathing fast and trembling. "Good-bye," she said.
He went vaguely toward the door, then threw up his head defiantly."No," he said, "it's not going to be good-bye. I've found you. Youmust let me tell you the truth about myself. Come, Joan, you're asjust as Heaven. You never read my explanations. You've never heard myside of it. You'll let me come to see you and you'll hear me out.Don't do me an injustice. I'll leave the whole thing in your handsafter that. But you must give me that one chance."
"Chance?" repeated Joan. "Chance for what?"
"Oh,"--Prosper flung up his lithe, long hands--"oh, for nothing but acleansing in your sight. I want what forgiveness I can wring from you.I want what understanding I can force from you. That's all."
She thought, standing there, still and tall, her arms hanging, hereyes wide and secret, as he had remembered them in her thin, changed,so much more expressive face.
"Very well," she said, "you may come. I'll hear you out." She gave himthe address and named an afternoon hour. "Good-night."
It was a graceful and dignified dismissal. Prosper bit his lip, bowedand left her.
As the door closed upon her, he knew that it had closed upon the onlyreal and vivid presence in his life. War had burnt away his glittering,clever frivolity. Betty was the adventure, Betty was the tinsel; Joanwas the grave, predestined woman of his man. For the first time in hislife he found himself face to face with the cleanness of despair.
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