The scene was of a tropical island, palms, a strip of turquoise sea. A
girl pushed aside the great fronds of ferns and stepped down to the
beach. At her appearance the audience broke into applause. She was a
tall girl, her stained legs and arms bare below her ragged dress, her
black hair hung wild and free about her face and neck. As the daughter
of a native mother and an English father, her beauty had been made to
seem both Saxon and savage. Stained and painted, darkened below the
great gray eyes, Joan with her brows and her classic chin and throat,
Joan with her secret, dangerous eyes and lithe, long body, made an
arresting picture enough against the setting of vivid green and blue.
She moved slowly, deliberately, naturally, and stood, hands on hips,
to watch a ship sail into the turquoise harbor. It was not like
acting, she seemed really to look. She threw back her head and gave a
call. It was the name of her stage brother, but it came from her deep
chest and through her long column of a throat like music. Prosper
brought down his hands on the railing before him, half pushed himself
up, turned a blind look upon Betty, who laid a restraining hand upon
his arm.
He whispered a name, which Betty could not make out, then he sat down,
moistened his lips with his tongue, and sat through the entire first
act and neither moved nor spoke. As the curtain went down he stood up.
"I must go out," he said, and hesitated in the back of the box till
Jasper came over to him with an anxious question. Then he began to
stammer nervously. "Don't tell her, Jasper, don't tell her."
"Tell her what, man? Tell whom?" Jasper gave him a shake. "Don't you
like Jane? Isn't she wonderful?"
"Yes, yes, extraordinary!"
"Made for the part?"
"No." Prosper's face twisted into a smile. "No. The part came second,
she was there first. Morena, promise me you won't tell her who wrote
the play."
"Look here, Prosper, suppose you tell me what's wrong. Have you seen a
ghost?"
Prosper laughed; then, seeing Betty, her face a rigid question, he
struggled to lay hands upon his self-control.
"Something very astonishing has happened, Morena,--one of those
'things not dreamt of in a man's philosophy.' I can't tell you. Have
you arranged for me to meet Jane West?"
"After the show, yes, at supper."
"But not as the author?"