When she reached the Davis house, Charlotte and Mrs. North were on the veranda, clad brightly in a summer frivolity, and their air of leisure and gayety was oddly unlike the tense and passionate mood of Sheila herself. In fact the whole scene—the porch with its fluttering awnings and festive flowers, the dainty tea-table that already awaited the guest, the two charming women presiding there—seemed far removed from the grave resolve and stormy emotions that Sheila had brought thither. For an instant, as she paused at the gate, she felt herself absurd. She had come to have afternoon tea with two women who were obviously of the big, conventional world—and she had brought her naked soul to them! Acutely self-conscious, painfully humiliated, she would have retreated if she could, but Charlotte was already hailing her. And then—her hand was clasped in Alice North's, her eyes were meeting eyes at once so probing and so luminous that they opened every door of her nature and flooded it with light.
Sheila had never had a case of hero-worship, but as she put her hand in Mrs. North's, she fell, figuratively, upon her knees. The very buoyancy and assurance of the latter's manner, which had, for an instant, chilled and rebuffed her, now appeared to her the outward manifestation of a brilliant and conquering spirit. Like a devotee, she watched Mrs. North's quick, graceful movements, her vivid, changeful face; like a devotee she listened to her sparkling, inconsequent chatter. This woman, handicapped by her womanhood, had done big things. Any word from her lips, any gesture of her hand was something to admire and remember.
It never even entered Sheila's head that, although she had done great things, Alice North might not be a great woman. It never occurred to her to ask how she had triumphed—at whose or at what cost. She never even dreamed that one's life—just a noble submission to Nature, a willing and patient compliance with laws and purposes above one's own—might be the final and fullest expression of genius. Alice North had written books—and Sheila was at her feet.
After awhile Charlotte tactfully left her alone with her idol—in whose footsteps she meant to walk henceforth—to climb!
"I've read your stories," said Mrs. North softly then. It was the first mention of Sheila's work, and the girl quivered from head to foot. She gazed mutely at the oracle—waiting for life, for death.
Suddenly Mrs. North leaned forward and caught Sheila's hands in hers. Alice North had never failed to be sensitive to drama; to play her part in it with sympathy and effect.
"My dear," she exclaimed, and her voice was clear and thrilling, "my dear, you have it—the divine gift!"
And as they looked at each other, the eyes of each filled with tears. Alice North was indeed sensitive to drama—so sensitive that her counterfeit emotions sometimes deceived even her—and Sheila was shaken to the heart, to the soul.
"You mean—you mean—that I—" began the girl brokenly.
"I mean," answered Mrs. North, "that you are already doing remarkable work—that you will go far—unless——"