Joan made her way home--how, she hardly knew. In the confusion of
thought succeeding that terrible interview which had successfully shown
her she was in the power of a merciless tyrant, instinct guided her.
After Victor Mercier had put her into a cab, and she had alighted from
it in a thoroughfare near her uncle's house, she let herself in with the
latchkey she had playfully annexed, little dreaming how she would need
to use it--and meeting no one as she made her way up to her room, locked
herself in to face her misery alone.
As she tossed and writhed through the long, miserable night she almost
despaired. Perhaps she would have utterly and entirely lost heart, had
not a thought flashed upon her mind--an idea she welcomed as an
inspiration.
"There is only one way to escape the grip of that savage tiger--flight!"
she told herself. Although the sole tie between them was the hasty
ceremony in a Registrar's office he had cajoled her into years
ago--although she had met him but once afterwards before he absconded
and disappeared, and that was in the very spot where their interview a
few hours before had taken place, she believed, indeed she knew, that
for her to try to undo that knot would entail publicity--disgrace--even
shame--that if she endured the ordeal, she would emerge unfit to be
Vansittart's wife. If _he_ forgave her, even her uncle--society could
and would never overlook the smirch upon her fair girlhood. She would
bear a brand.
"Victor gave me the idea, himself," she told herself, with a bitter
smile at the irony of the fact. "He--the man who is legally my husband
until he chooses to renounce me"--in her ignorance of the law she
fancied that Victor Mercier might divorce her quietly in some way, if he
pleased--"proposed that we should disappear together, and frighten my
uncle into a concession. What if I disappeared alone--and only allowed
one person to find me--Vansittart?"
That Vansittart loved her passionately, with all the fervour and
intensity of a strong, virile nature, she knew. Whether the love was
mad enough to fall in with any wildly romantic proceeding, she had yet
to discover.
"He will seek me as soon as he can!" she correctly thought. As she was
crossing the hall after breakfasting with her uncle, who--in his hopes
that his only niece and adopted daughter and heiress was thinking better
of her aloofness to mankind, and melting in regard to his favourite
among her many admirers, Lord Vansittart--had been unwontedly urbane and
affectionate, a telegram was brought to her.
"If I may see you at twelve, noon, do not reply.--Vansittart."
At noon her uncle would be at his club, and her aunt had, she knew, an
appointment with her dressmaker in Bond Street. She went to her room
and spent some little time in deciding upon her toilette. How did she
look best, or, rather, how should she be attired to appeal most strongly
to Vansittart's imagination and senses?
Most women are born with subtle instincts in regard to the weakness of
manhood, especially the manhood already to a certain extent in their
power. Joan hardly knew why she felt that a certain dishabille--a
suggestion of delicacy and fragile helplessness in her appearance, would
place Vansittart more entirely at her mercy; but it was with this
conviction that she attired herself in a white, soft, silken and
lace-adorned tea-gown, with lace ruffles about her smooth, rounded
throat and wrists--a robe that fell away from a pink silk underdress
which, fitting tightly about her waist, showed the rich, yet girlish
curves of her beautiful form to the fullest advantage.
Her hair had been wound somewhat carelessly but classically about her
small head by Julie, who was rather excited at having received an offer
of marriage. Joan had listened sympathetically--she had encouraged the
girl in her love affair, more, perhaps, because it would serve her own
interests, being one which was to remain a secret from "his parents in
France" until they had seen Julie, and therefore subject to mysterious
"evenings-out" and holidays taken, with other explanations to the
housekeeper. Altogether there was a certain softness about her whole
appearance, Joan considered, as she anxiously gazed at her reflection in
the many mirrors she passed proceeding to her boudoir, which was on the
same floor as the drawing-rooms, and opened upon a small balcony full of
flowers, with a peep of the enclosure and the Park beyond, just under
the red and white awning.
It was eleven when she entered her room and set herself to write a whole
host of letters. She had barely finished three before a brougham dashed
up to the hall door. She started up, her heart beating, her cheeks
aflame.
"It cannot be--why, it is hardly a quarter to twelve," she thought,
glancing at the Dresden china clock. But even as she spoke she heard
his voice--those musical, resonant, manly tones she loved--and in
another moment the groom of the chambers announced, "Lord Vansittart,"
with an assurance which seemed strange to Joan, unaware of the
freemasonry below stairs which enlightened the domestic staff as to the
wishes and opinions of the master of the house.
As he came in, tall, his fair, wavy hair flung back from his broad brow;
his large, frank eyes alight, his cheeks aglow with passion; some
suggestion of a conqueror in his mien--his very fervour and exultation
were infectious--she could have fallen into his arms and abandoned
herself to his embraces as if there were no obstacle to their mutual
love.
As it was she merely gave one limp, chill hand into his eager clasp, and
cast down her eyes as he said: "I am early--I could not help it--Joan,
Joan, what is it? You are not glad to see me"--his voice faltered.
"Sit down--won't you?" she said, and she sank into a low chair and
motioned him to one out in the cold--but he would not understand--he
drew a light low chair quite near to hers, and fixed her with an intent,
anxious gaze.
"Last night you behaved--as if--you cared a little for me," he began,
almost reproachfully.
"Last night--I was a fool!" she bitterly said. "I let you see too
much."
"Why too much?" he drew eagerly nearer. "Joan, my beloved--the only one
in the whole world I care for--for, indeed, you have all my love, all--I
am yours, body and soul!--what can come between us if you love me? And
you do! I know you do! I feel you don't want to--and I don't wonder, I
am not good enough, no one can be--but if you love me, I and no other
man, ought to be your husband!"
"Understand--I beg, pray, implore you to understand," she began, slowly,
painfully--this holding her wild instincts in check was the most
terribly hard battle she had ever fought--"I have sworn to myself never
to marry. Years ago my uncle was hard, cruel to my parents: they
literally died, half-starved, because he would not help them. When he
adopted me I did not know this. I had some work to accept his kindness
after I did know. But never, never will I accept a dowry, a trousseau,
from him--yet I will not explain why--nor will I go to any man a pauper.
Now perhaps you can see why--I feel--I can only do justice to myself,
and show mercy to him--by remaining as I am!"
"You mean to allow this folly about your uncle to come between you and
me?" he cried imperiously. His compelling grasp closed upon her wrists.
"Joan, Joan, do not throw away my life and yours by such an
absurdity--such a whim!"
He gazed into her eyes with his so brimful of intensity of passion that
they seemed to draw her towards him. She struggled against yielding to
the appeal, the yearning in his face--and he, he watched the
struggle--and as she gave a little sob, which was virtually a cry for
mercy, he drew her to him--he took her in his arms--she was on her
knees, in his embrace, her heart beating against his, their lips
clinging to each other.
Long--so it seemed to Joan--was she enwrapped in that delirium of bliss
she might have imagined, weakly, but had never felt in all its fierce,
oblivious ecstacy. Then she held him from her.
"Oh, what shall I do?" she wailed--and clasping his knee she leant her
face upon her cold trembling hands.
"You dear, innocent child! Do, indeed!" he almost merrily exclaimed,
stooping and kissing her fair wreaths of shining hair. "Why exactly as
you like! I don't care a fig for your uncle--at least, as regards what
he can give you--I have enough for you and a family of brothers and
sisters, too, if you had one. All I want is _you_, do you understand,
you! You have only to dictate terms--I surrender unconditionally!"