She went to her room somewhat heavy-hearted. She was no woman of the
world, and was taken aback by his unexpected change of manner. Her maid
Julie was busy with a charming _toilette de bal_ just arrived from
Paris: a gauzy robe over satin, richly sewn with flowers and foliage
made of tiny seed pearls.
"This will suit mademoiselle _a merveille_," exclaimed the little
Frenchwoman. "And with that pearl _garniture_----"
"I shall not go out to-night," she said, with a disgusted glance at the
finery which seemed such hollow mockery. And as soon as she had changed
her habit for a tea-gown, she locked herself in her boudoir, and
stormily pacing the room, asked herself what this sudden chill in her
lover meant.
"I have gone too far--I have been too cold--I have lost him!" she told
herself, wildly. "I cannot bear it! While there was the faintest of
faint hope left--that I might be with him some day--I could
bear--everything! But to see him look at me as if I were anybody, speak
as if he did not care what became of me--no, no, I should soon go mad!"
Flinging herself prone on her sofa, she clasped her throbbing head in
both hands, and asked herself passionately what could be done.
"I cannot, must not, lower myself by writing to him--and then, if he was
the same again, I could not take advantage of it! Was ever poor wretched
girl in such a miserable position as I am?"
All seemed hopeless, gloomy, dark, until a sudden thought came like a
brilliant flash of light.
"He may be there, he will be there, to-night! Of course, he is a friend
of the Duchess," she told herself. "That is what it meant! He knew we
should meet there! He was teasing me--trying me!"
The suggestions comforted her as she rang, told Julie she had changed
her mind, and would go to the ball; and she subsequently dined with her
uncle and aunt, who seemed in exceedingly good spirits. (Sir Thomas'
pet project was that Lord Vansittart should marry Joan, and he augured
well from his appearance at this juncture, and went through the ceremony
of dressing with a certain amount of patience.) When she stood before
her long glass, with all the electric lights switched on, and saw
herself in her gleaming white and shining pearls, tall, queenly, fair,
with the glistening wreaths of golden hair crowning her small head, and
her lustrous brown eyes alive with that peculiar, unfathomable
expression which had gained her the epithet "sphinx-like" more than once
when she was discussed as the Beauty who meant to flout every Beast that
approached her, and did--she felt comforted. Only when she was shut into
the carriage, her aunt prattling platitudes, and the flickering street
lamps flashing stray gleams into the dimly-lit vehicle as they drove
along, was she seized with a sudden panic.
"I feel as if--if he does not come--I shall break down, utterly--I shall
not be able to bear my life any more!" she told herself, despondently.
"I shall end it all--no one will care! There is only old Nana, who is
barely alive, and she would follow me at once!"
The Duke of Arran was a man of ideas--and he lived to carry them out.
The balls and entertainments at Arran House were always unique. That
evening was no exception. As Joan alighted, and passing through the
hall accompanied Lady Thorne through the vestibule and up the wide
staircase, even she felt transient admiration. White and gold
everywhere was the rule to-night at Arran House, where the famous marble
staircase had been brought from an old Venetian palazzo. This evening's
decorations were carried out in gold-yellow; after the gardens and
houses had been denuded of gold and white flowers to the disgust of the
ducal gardeners, the London florists had been commissioned to supply the
banks and wreaths and festoons of gold and white blossoms which
everywhere met the eye, perfumed the atmosphere, and made a fitting
background for the large staff of tall, handsome powdered men-servants
in black velvet and satin liveries, which was augmented to-night into a
very regiment.
One sickening glance round the magnificent ballroom, full of
delicately-beautiful toilettes, bright with flowers, lights, and
laughter, gay with the music of a well-known band--told her Vansittart
was not there. However, she maintained her composure--he might yet
come--and with her usual chilly indifference allowed her few privileged
friends to inscribe their initials on her tiny tablet. New partners she
declined, with the plea of fatigue. But it was weary work! She was
just telling herself, fiercely, that she could bear no more; she was
seeking Lady Thorne to implore a retreat, when she came upon Vansittart
talking pleasantly to her aunt in a cool corner.
"I was waiting for you," he said, looking into her eyes and reading in
them that which fired his blood. "You will give me this dance?"
"Yes," she said, and she accompanied him, meek, silent, subdued, and
allowing him to encircle her slight waist with a firm, proprietory
clasp, glided round and round to the dreamy melody of the "Bienaimee"
valse. Once before, when she had first longed for his love, and felt the
throes of this overwhelming life-passion, they had danced together to
that swaying, suggestive melody. He remembered it--remembered how to
feel her slight form almost in his embrace had urged him into a reckless
avowal of a love which was promptly rejected. He set his teeth. He was
at a white heat again--and she--? By some subtle sense he believed his
moment had come.
"I must speak to you," he hoarsely said, as they halted, Joan white and
breathless with emotion. "May I?"
She looked up into his eyes, and at the intensity of the appealing,
passionate abandonment to his will in that gaze, he thrilled with
triumph.
"We will go into the Duchess's boudoir, I know we may," he said, feeling
a little giddy as he escorted her along a corridor and through the
drawing-rooms. The boudoir was empty--one or two couples only were
seated in the adjacent anteroom, he saw at a glance they were well
occupied with their own flirtations. He closed the door, drew the
embroidered satin portiere across--they were alone in the dimly-lighted
room.
He turned to her as she stood gazing at him, pale, fascinated. He took
her hands. "Joan!" he said--then, as he felt her passion, he simply drew
her into his arms, and stooping, kissed her lips--a long, passionate
kiss.
To feel his lips on hers was ecstacy to her--for a few moments she
forgot all--it was like heaven before its time. Then she feebly pushed
him away, and gave a low moan.
"Oh! what have I done?" she wailed, and she glanced about like a hunted
creature. "How could you?"
"You love me! What is to keep us asunder?" he hoarsely cried. As she
sank shuddering, gasping, into a chair, he fell at her knees, and
embraced them. "I am the happiest man on earth! For your uncle will
approve, and you--you, Joan! All that was wanted was your love to make
you my dear--wife!"
"Wife!" She sank back and groaned. "I shall never be any man's wife!"
she said. "Why? Because I do not want to be! That is all! Because I
never shall and will be!"
Was she crazy? He rose, slowly, and contemplated her. No! There were
anguish and suffering in the lines about her mouth and eyes--in those
lustrous, strained brown orbs--but no insanity.
"We must talk it all over. I must--I mean, I may see you to-morrow, may
I not?" he gently said, drawing a chair near, and seating himself
between her and the door, he besought at least one interview, so that
they should "understand each other." He had but just obtained a
reluctant consent to a _tete-a-tete_ on the morrow, when the door
suddenly opened, a gay young voice cried, "surely there can't be any one
in here!" and a bright face peeped round the curtain and at once
disappeared.
"Lady Violet!" exclaimed Joan, starting up. "She has seen us!"
"And if she has?" asked her lover, mystified by her terror at having
been discovered alone with him by the Duke's eldest daughter. Still,
with the promise of an elucidatory interview, he obeyed her wishes, and
left her to return to the ballroom without his escort.
She did not linger: she almost fled, scared, from the boudoir through
the drawing-rooms, into the corridor. Which way led to the ballroom?
Hesitating, glancing right and left, she saw one of the picturesque
black-clad servitors coming towards her. She would ask him.
As he advanced, the man's face riveted her attention. Not because of
its wax mask-like regularity, and the intent, glittering stare of the
black eyes which fixed themselves boldly upon her own; but because the
countenance was singularly like one which haunted her memory--waking and
sleeping--the hideous ghost of her foolish past.
"Heavens--how terribly like him!" she murmured to herself,
unconsciously, involuntarily shrinking back against the wall as he came
near.
Like! As the man came up, and halted, she gave a strangled cry like the
pitiful dying wail of a poor hare.
"I see, you recognize me," he said, in a low voice, with a bitter little
smile. "Don't be alarmed! I am not going to claim you publicly, here,
to-night. But if you do not want me to call and send in my credentials
at your uncle's house, you will meet me to-morrow at the old place, in
the evening. I shall be there at eight, and will wait till you come.
Do you understand?"
"Yes," she whispered. As he passed on and opening a baize door,
disappeared, she stood gazing after him as if his words had been a
sword-thrust, and she was a dead woman.