Through Helena Arnold and indirectly through Vera Sharples she obtained the promise of an interview with one of the season’s favorites.
“I’ll be able to see you early Thursday evening,” the famous woman wrote. “You may expect either a note or a telephone call from me.” At one time such a promise would have sent Joanna into the seventh ecstasy, without impairing her confidence. But recent discouragements, persistent—and for her unusual, phenomena—had rendered her timid. She was nervous. Her assurance wavered. She spent the whole day going through her repertory. Sometimes she danced like a maenad. Then she adopted a slow Greek rhythm, posturing and undulating. She struck attitudes before the mirror, standing in one position for long moments.
“For Heaven’s sake,” said Sylvia, putting her head inside the door on one of these occasions, “go out and take a walk, Joanna.” She was as nervous as her sister.
“Not a bad idea, Sylvia, I believe I will. You can answer the phone. Have you seen my brown cape?”
She came back a little after five, refreshed and soothed.
“No phone message,” Sylvia told her, “but here’s a note. What’s she got to say, Janna?” She came and looked over her sister’s arm.
“So sorry not to be able to see you tonight,” the noted artiste had written. “I’m halfway expecting an old friend of mine and must keep the evening free. I shall try to arrange to have you call, just the same, not this month I’m afraid, but certainly in February.” She ended with a meaningless expression of “good wishes.”
“Mercy,” said Sylvia, “why didn’t she say next year?”
Joanna was bitter. “Or next eternity? Sylvia, I wonder if I’m not a darn fool!” She walked upstairs trailing her long brown cape after her.
All her life she had known and seen success. When she was born her father was a successful caterer, almost a wealthy man. It is true that she had seen her own people hindered, checked on account of color, but hardly any of the things she had greatly wanted had been affected for that cause. She had had money enough to have her dancing and music lessons—the very fact that she had had to take separate and special lessons from Bertully meant to her that some special and separate way would be arranged whereby she would become a dancer on the stage.
She did not know how to envisage disappointment.
Strangely enough, the defection of the artiste struck home to her more keenly than the reception which she had had from the stage-managers. She refused Sylvia’s invitation to come back downstairs and spend the evening with her and Brian.
“We might go to a movie,” Sylvia had said tentatively. But Joanna had only made an impatient gesture of refusal, and walking into her room had closed the door very carefully after her.
She did not cry or throw herself across the bed. It might have been better for her if she had. Joanna’s creed was that one kept a stiff upper lip even to oneself. She had not had many occasions to try out that creed.
There she sat, stiffly, on the spindling chair in front of her small flat-topped writing desk and brooded over the future which suddenly stretched dull, stale, and uninvigorating before her. She would never be able to stand it.
The thought of her marriage flashed across her mind.
“And Peter,” she said to herself aloud, “willing to be ordinary and second-rate! Where is that letter of his? I might just as well answer it now as at any other time.”
In spite of her ugly mood a little wave of tenderness welled up in her heart as she read—“Just tell me that you do love me still—”
“Oh, Peter, Peter,” she murmured, “if I tell you that you’ll never change, never push on. If only you could be strong and let me bring my troubles to you.”
It would never do to let him know how completely she was discouraged. And equally she could not let him know how dear, weakness and all, he was to her. She would make her love conditional. “If you want me to love you, Peter—”
She hated that, but some day they would both be glad of it. She actually cried for the two of them as she wrote her stern little fiction:
“Dear Peter:
“No, I don’t love you as you are. The man I marry must be a man worth while like my father or Philip. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending my life with someone ordinary.
“But I want to love you, Peter. Write me soon and say you are going to get to work in earnest. Happy New Year.
She read it over and over, totally blind to its supreme egotism. Then she sealed it and, sniffling a little—more like a child than like an artist—went to bed.
In the morning she awoke with a sense of impending disaster. The phrase is trite but so, alas, is disaster. At first, as she lay there, her slender brown arms stretched above her tumbled head, she mused to herself about it.
“Let’s see why I do feel so rotten? What’s the matter?”
She remembered her engagement with the artiste. “But that’s not what’s making me sick,” she told herself after a momentary probing of her self-consciousness. Then recalling the letter to Peter, she got up and walked barefooted across the room to the desk, shivering a little as the chilly January morning air struck at her, billowing
