Seven days later this telegram reached Jim Roberts: "Bring Miss L—— on here at close. She can't go with Williamson for winter season. Train arrives late, so escort her to Riverdale first, then report to me at theatre.—Thrall." While in a certain paper's "Stage Gossip" there appeared:
"The air of the Rialto is full of mystery just now. There are whispers of a society débutante who is to become a stage débutante. Sometimes she comes from the West with consenting friends; sometimes, being wealthy, she has defied the authority of lover and guardian alike and is openly preparing for a stage career. The one thing that steadies the wavering rumor is that the name of the theatre to be favored by this shadowy society actress never changes—that part of the story is ever the same. Stewart Thrall is to be her manager and the Globe is to be the scene of her triumph. So much for the on dit of the Rialto. Perhaps Mr. Thrall will kindly rise and explain."
And a more staid and conservative paper stated: "That it was undoubtedly true that a young lady of birth and breeding, a member of one of New York's oldest families, was to be brought before the public as soon as the full consent of her family could be obtained, Mr. Stewart Thrall, with a most commendable sense of honor, refusing by his aid to place the beautiful suppliant in opposition to her natural guardians. The lady's name will only be given to the public when all opposition to her wishes have been withdrawn."
So the good angel had whispered his warning all in vain; and Thrall was already busy with glue-pot and paper and book of gold-leaf, for had he not promised, with the rose-petals that fell from her breast held red in his hand—had he not promised to crown the obstinate, ambitious girl who longed to be Queen of that fair domain, the Drama, who, while hoping to win fame herself, was "sorry that he had missed the way"? "God bless her!" he murmured, "God bless her!" and he made note of several new fables to give to the press anent the social débutante's private brougham, her lovers, her maids; for thus is the chrysalis formed from which, the dormant time being passed, the radiant butterfly will flutter forth to gladden the eyes of those whose curiosity has been cleverly aroused. Ah, yes! no chrysalis, no butterfly!
CHAPTER XIV
THE RETURN FROM THE WEST
It was October already. The old White house stood and shivered when the wind came sharp from the steely river. Lena, making ineffectual war upon fallen leaves, could not even keep the porch free from them, and they skirled and whirled and gently slid and madly rushed, while in the house their movement could be distinctly heard like light pattering footsteps, ever seeking, never resting.
They even disturbed Lena's nerves. She looked about uneasily, while Dorothy laughed as they tied up each other's fingers, for they had been engaged in what Lena called "veather vending," and what Dorothy called "battening" the windows in her mother's room. For there was no question about it, the Lawtons had to face the winter right where they were. So Lena, with Dorothy's help, was doing her best to make a few rooms comfortable, and the hammering of nails and tacks had included thumb-nails as well. But what of that; their "veather vending" was turning lots of cold air from the rooms, and there was a comforting smell of freshly baked cookies coming from the kitchen, and great crimson and dappled branches of dogwood—Sybil's favorite autumn leaf—were over mantel and door, while dark purple and pale grayish lavender asters were nodding from corner and vase. For joy! oh joy! Sybil was coming home from the West—that vague, chaotic place that had swallowed her sister, an outsider, and now cast her back a professional, a "for-true" actress, with three real newspaper notices of her work, though they had been won under an assumed name. Dear Syb! how proud they all were! Papa had split up a cigar-box and made a little frame for her very first newspaper notice and had it hanging in the corner by the window where he shaved.
And then, late that night, poor, pallid Jim Roberts had handed Sybil out of the shaky old hack at the White house door, and saying "Good-night," had turned to go, when grateful hands had drawn him inside, to receive courteous thanks from John Lawton and an explanation from Mrs. Lawton as to her present inability to send a comfortable carriage for her daughter and her escort.