The tone of the missive seemed to half paralyse poor Joan. For a little
while she lay prone on her bed, unable to think, answering Julie
mechanically as she hovered about, pulling up the blinds, getting the
bath ready, placing the dainty garments ready to hand.
Then, with the first returning pang of despair--for that letter told her
that she need not imagine she was in the least secure--a sword of
Damocles hung over her unhappy head--she cast about what she must do.
Go, of course! that was certain. And make terms--or, rather, accede _in
toto_ to anything he might propose for that flight of theirs which was
never to take place.
"I had better take money with me," she told herself. "And--to a certain
extent I must take Julie into my confidence." "Julie, I have no money
by me, do you know," she said, irrelevantly, as Julie was dressing her
golden hair, and wondering why her young mistress' beautiful face was so
pale and _triste_. Julie usually cashed her young lady's cheques drawn
to "Self" for pocket-money.
"Shall I go for madamoiselle--after breakfast?" asked Julie, sweetly, as
she vigorously combed the glistening hairs from the jewelled hair brush,
one of Sir Thomas' frequent gifts to his niece. She had always liked
her beautiful young mistress, but since Joan had sympathized with her
love affair with Paul Naz, she had been ready and willing to fly to the
ends of the earth to do her bidding, if need be.
"No. I am going shopping in the carriage, and you shall come with me.
I don't like your taking much money into omnibuses, Julie, so I think I
shall draw a large sum at once. It is perfectly safe locked up in this
room."
Julie readily acquiesced--and during the morning drove with Joan to
several shops, and to the Bank, where she cashed a cheque for a hundred
and fifty pounds in rouleaux of gold, which she carried in a bag to the
carriage. As they were driving home Joan told her she wanted her to
help her in an errand of charity that very evening.
"Mais certainement, mademoiselle!" the girl readily exclaimed.
"To-night? I can easily go out another evening."
"I don't want you to do that," returned Joan. "What I want is this. My
uncle knows nothing of this poor person I am helping, and I do not want
him to know. I thought that I might take a sudden fancy to go--say, to
Madame Tussauds', which I have not seen for years--that we might start
together in a cab--my uncle and aunt are going out to dinner, and have
the landau--and then I will drop you at a certain spot, and meet you
there again when you are returning home."
Julie acquiesced with acclamation--and flushed with pleasure at being
admitted to share a secret with the sweet, proud girl who would, she was
certain, very soon be a great lady. If she had her doubts about the
"poor person," and imagined, from what she knew by experience of Joan's
eccentricity--as she considered her mistress' coldness hitherto in
regard to the opposite sex--that the nocturnal escapade meant an
assignation with the charming milord who intended to make a great lady
of Miss Thorne--she kept it to herself.
Mistress and maid carried out their plan without hindrance. Sir Thomas
teased his niece a little slily about the sudden fancy for waxworks--he
had, like Julie, some _arriere-pensee_ not unconnected with
Vansittart--but he made no objection to the expedition. Nor did Lady
Thorne, to whom, after his talk with Vansittart, he had said, after
giving her some broad hints--"my dear, understand this once and for
all--if we give Joan her head, and don't interfere in the least, she
will be the Viscountess Vansittart before we know where we are!"
Shortly after Joan had had a solitary tea-dinner in her sitting-room
upstairs--a meal she affected when she preferred not to accompany Sir
Thomas and Lady Thorne to a long, dreary, dinner-party of old
fogies--mistress and maid started off in a four-wheeled cab to which a
man-servant pompously gave the address--"Madame Tussord's."
Julie had admired, with a French girl's admiration, her young lady's
_savoir faire_, when she had suggested that they should actually make a
tour of the exhibition and take an opportunity of slipping quietly out
when others likely to absorb the door-keeper's attention were coming in,
and had readily acquiesced in the idea.
They alighted at the entrance, paid their money, walked leisurely in,
strolled about, apparently examining the effigies with interest then
steering unostentatiously towards the door by which they had entered;
they waited until a number of lively children were flocking
obstreperously upstairs and had to be held in check at the turnstile,
when they issued forth, and walked along the Marylebone Road.
When they came to a church, Joan stopped. "Will you remember this
place?" she asked. "You are sure? Then I will leave you here, and meet
you again at the exact spot at eleven o'clock. If you are here first,
wait until I come. On no account are you to go home alone--without me!
Do you understand?"
Julie's protestations that she understood were sincere and hearty. Joan
said no more, but took the bag from her--Julie had mentally commented
upon its weight, and wondered who was the lucky person to be benefited
by its contents--and with an easy "_au revoir_, then," was gone.
She sped along the street as much in the shadow as she could, lest a
glance of recognition might by any possibility be cast upon her from any
of the carriages which drove by almost in numbers, for it was the climax
of an unusually gay London season. Then, when she began to meet
crawling cabs and hansoms, she hailed one, gave the order, "Westminster
Bridge--the Southwark end," and sank back in the corner a little spent
and exhausted by the first part of her escapade.
"So far, so good," she told herself, drawing a long breath of mingled
anxiety and disgust. Although she had steadily pulled herself together,
willed resolutely to go through the tragic farce with Victor Mercier, as
her only alternative--her loathing of the part she had to play was so
intense that at times she felt tempted to take a leap into the black
waters of the great river instead of submitting to his endearments. As
the cab drove briskly towards Westminster, and her eyes rested miserably
on the familiar landmarks of the great city, so beautiful in its nightly
robe of the mingled light and darkness which is so typical of its very
soul--she said to herself in a wild moment--"death or
Vansittart--which?" and the memory of her beloved one's fine frank face,
glorified into absolute beauty by the strong tenderness of his deep
love--won.
"Even Victor's touch--his kiss," she grimly told herself, "are not too
much to pay for a lifetime with _him_!"
A clock informed her that it was considerably past nine o'clock. So
much the better! The shorter that hated _tete-a-tete_ with Mercier would
be, the more thankful she would feel.
The air blowing freshly down stream as they crossed the bridge, revived
her. She alighted, paid the cabman, and taking her bag tightly in her
hand, passed some roughs who were shouting noisily as they came along,
by stepping into the road; then seeing the helmet and tunic of a
policeman silhouetted against the sky--still dully red after the
sunset--she went across the road to him.
"Can you direct me to Haythorn Street?" she asked.
"Haythorn Street? Yes, miss. Straight along that road, and first to
the left."
Evidently the street where her bugbear at present lived was an ordinary
one, and respectable. The policeman's tone of voice suggested that!
She went along the road, which was rather dark, until she came to a
neat-looking street of small, uniformly built houses. Yes, this was
Haythorn Street--she read the name by the light of the gas lamp close
by. Now to find the number! The corner was number one, so she went on
at once, and then her heart gave a dull, leaden thud against her chest.
She saw a dark figure on a little balcony a few houses up, which
disappeared as she advanced. When she came up to number twelve, the
street door stood open--Victor came out, took her hand, and led her in.
"Welcome, my dearest wife!" he exclaimed, embracing her. Then he closed
the door. She saw an odious, triumphant smile on his sharp, handsome
features, and in his bright dark eyes. He was carefully dressed.
Although only half a Frenchman, he had the southern taste for fantasy in
costume. A diamond stud shone in his embroidered shirt-front, a
button-hole of some white, strongly-scented blossom was in his coat.
"You are frightened, my own!" he caressingly said, with a suggestion of
proprietorship which made her inwardly shudder.
"Don't be! We are quite alone in the house, you and I! And I will take
precautions to keep us so," he added, returning to the door and putting
up the chain.