“Never beat about the bush where you deal with Jake Shackleton,” she said, slipping her hand in Mariposa’s arm as they passed down the corridor. “He’s got no use for people who gambol round the subject. Say your say and then go. That’s the way to get on with him.”
In the anteroom the boy was still sitting, his chair tilted back on its hind legs, The Trumpet in his hands. Nevertheless, he had made an incursion into the inner regions to find out whom Mrs. Willers was piloting into the sanctum, for he had the curiosity of those who hang on the fringes of the newspaper world.
As the ladies passed him, going toward the stair-head, a young man rose above it, almost colliding with them. Then in the gloom of the dejected gas-jets he stood aside, against the wall, letting them pass out. He wore a long ulster with a turned-up collar. Between the edge of this and the brim of his derby hat, there was the gleam of a pair of eye-glasses and a suggestion of a fair mustache. He raised his hat, holding it above his head during the interval of their transit, disclosing a small pate clothed with smooth blond hair.
“Who was that lady with Mrs. Willers?” he said to the boy, as he walked toward the door into the corridor.
“She’s some singing lady,” answered that youth drawlingly, tilting his chair still farther back, “what’s come to see Mr. Shackleton about singing at the opera-house. Her name’s Moreau.”
The young man, without further comment, passed into the inner hall, leaving the boy smiling with pride that his carelessly-acquired information should have been so soon of use. For the questioner was Winslow Shackleton, the millionaire’s only son.
The next morning was one of feverish excitement in the cottage on Pine Street. Mariposa could not settle herself to anything, at one moment trying her voice at the piano, at the next standing in front of her glass and putting on all her own and her mother’s hats in an effort to see in which she presented the most attractive appearance. She thrilled with hope for a space, then sank into a dead apathy of dejection. Lucy was quietly encouraging, but the day was one of hidden anguish to her. The daughter, ignorant of the knowledge and the memories that were wringing the mother’s heart, wondered why Lucy was so confident of her winning Shackleton’s approval. As the hour came for her to go she wondered, too, at the marble pallor of her mother’s face, at the coldness of the hand that clung to hers in a lingering farewell. Lucy was giving back her child to the father who had deserted it and her.
The excitement of the morning reached its climax when a carriage appeared at the curb with Mrs. Willers’ face at the window. The hour of fate had struck, and Mariposa, with a last kiss to her mother, ran down the steps feeling like one about to embark on a journey upon perilous seas in which lie enchanted islands.
During the drive Mrs. Willers talked on outside matters. She was business-like and quiet to-day. Even her clothes seemed to partake of her practical mood and were inconspicuous and subdued. As the carriage turned down Mission Street she herself began to experience qualms. What if they had all been mistaken and the girl’s voice was nothing out of the ordinary? What a cruel disappointment, and with that sick, helpless mother! What she said was:
“Now, here we are! Remember that you’ve got the finest voice Lepine’s ever likely to hear, and you’re going to sing your best.”