The paragraphs seemed to dance before her eyes. Joan's mind at first
refused to understand. Then, as she read, she feared her brain was
playing her false.
Victor a'Court was identified by several witnesses--one a detective, who
had failed to track him when he was "wanted" four years ago for
embezzling monies belonging to his firm--as Victor Mercier.
His old mother was called, but was in so pitiable a state that his
identity was finally established by the evidence of her step-daughter,
Vera "Anerley."
She was described as pale, but perfectly self-possessed. She told the
coroner's court how Victor Mercier's father died in obscurity some years
before her own father, a widower, met Madame Mercier and married her.
She and Victor, who was ten years at least her senior, had called each
other brother and sister, albeit not related. She knew nothing of the
particulars of the charge brought against him some years ago, except
that the firm were subsequently bankrupt. She knew he had "got on"
abroad, but how, or why, he had not exactly said.
Then two medical men--one the aged practitioner who attended the family,
Dr. Thompson, the other the young doctor, his nephew--testified to the
death, and gave an account of the _post-mortem_ examination they had
made by the coroner's order. The sudden death, which at first had had
the appearance of suicide, especially as some brandy in a tumbler had
proved, on analysis, to contain a quantity of morphia--was actually due
to failure of the heart.
Cross-examination elicited from both medical men that there was not much
actual disease. The heart was not in good condition--it could never
have acted strongly--and failure might have happened, they considered,
at any time, after undue strain, or shock, or even indiscretion.
Was the dose found in the stomach sufficient to cause death? asked the
foreman of the jury. The reply was--and Joan read it feverishly again
and again--not, perhaps, in a healthy person who was addicted to
narcotics. Those who were accustomed to other sedatives would possibly
escape being poisoned by the amount of morphia Victor Mercier seemed
likely to have swallowed. But with a heart like his death might
certainly ensue were the person unaccustomed to narcotics and the like.
Then the medical student, who had returned from settling his dead
mother's affairs to find his "diggings" the scene of a recent tragedy,
testified to the amount and kind of morphia he had left in a bottle
among the rest of his drugs. Probably two-thirds of the half-bottle had
been accounted for by the drugged brandy left in a tumbler, and by the
contents of the stomach. He identified the empty bottle.
Here a juror asked if the bottle from which the brandy had been taken
were in court?
It was not. No bottle had been found in the cupboard or anywhere in the
sitting-room, although several empty brandy bottles were in a corner of
the adjoining bedroom, where Victor Mercier was temporarily sleeping.
The student lodger vigorously disowned these, upon which the coroner
asked the aged doctor whether a man whose heart was in the condition of
Victor Mercier's would be tempted to resort to alcohol, and having
received a decided reply in the affirmative, the subject was dropped.
Mr. Dobbs, the student who had escorted Victor Mercier's mother to the
hospital entertainment, testified to finding Victor Mercier dead, as far
as he could judge; then Vera gave an account of how she found him, and
asked to be allowed to make a statement.
She told the Court that to her knowledge Victor Mercier had secretly
married a lady, his senior, wealthy, of good position, who had behaved
shamefully when he was under a cloud some years previously: that he had
intended and hoped to procure a divorce, and that a person was expected
to call upon him that night--the night he died--whose evidence would go
far to assist him in his desire. "I expected the person would be still
with him," she added--"and--I found him--dead!"
The significant utterance of her statement appeared to have brought
about a perfect storm of questioning. But, giving an absolute denial to
any further knowledge of the affair, she adhered firmly to what she had
said, and nothing further could be elicited from her, except the
somewhat defiant reply to a suggestion of the foreman of the jury that
Victor Mercier might have had some motive in wishing to have a divorce
instead of claiming conjugal rights. "Yes. We--he and I--were engaged
to be married, as soon as he could get rid of her!"
That speech, apparently, brought matters to a speedy conclusion. The
Coroner placed the "ambiguous affair" before the jury somewhat
diffidently. Their verdict was, perhaps in consequence, hardly a
decisive one. They disagreed. While the majority wished to adopt the
coroner's hint that "death by misadventure" might be a safe view to
take, and that it would be easy for investigations to be proceeded with
by other authorities, should those authorities feel inclined to
dissatisfaction, there were some dissentients who suspected possible
foul play.
These were, however, sufficiently in the minority for a verdict of
"death by misadventure" to be returned, and when Joan understood that by
this she was still unsuspected by man of that which God alone yet knew
she had done, the sudden shock of joy was as bad to bear as her agony
when she read that Victor Mercier was dead.
"I am not to be hanged, I am not to be shamed before the world--God is
just--He is merciful--He has heard my prayer!" she frantically told
herself, as in the folly of ecstasy she clasped and kissed the paper,
and held it to her heart. Was the world all sunshine, all joy? What
was the matter? she wondered. It was as if she had been groping through
some dark, noisome tunnel, holding by the dark walls, expecting every
moment that some horror would rush upon and destroy her miserable,
hopeless being--and--without even a warning ray of light--she had
suddenly emerged into a beautiful world--ancient, yet new--bathed in
glorious sunshine, awake and alive with joy.
She heard, almost with wonder, that the birds were carolling, that gay
voices and laughter, mingled with the ripple of the wavelets a few yards
away, where little children were screaming as they fed the quacking
ducks. Little children! Some day she might be a mother, and in tending
innocent babes she might forget the horror of her life.
She had no pity for the cruel man whom she saw now, first, in his true
light, as perjurer, liar, thief--who had stolen her young affections out
of mere wantonness, so it seemed to her, when he really loved this "Vera
Anerley," who was supposedly his sister. He had lied to her all
through--he was a mere nobody--he meant to climb to a position by her
wealth: he had lied about his legal tie to her, this Vera--this love of
his. What had he meant to do? How could he divorce her?
The answer to her own question was as a blow, so sharp, so cruel. She
closed her eyes faint and sick.
"He knew about _us_," she thought. "He said--'your lover, Lord
Vansittart.' He meant to get a divorce--because of him. He would have
sworn to lies, very likely. He would have got 'damages'--a decree--and
after he had disgraced me for ever, would have made that girl his wife!
Oh--his death has been a mercy to every one--may God grant it has been a
mercy to him!"
As soon as she was equal to the effort of walking--for she felt unsteady
and giddy even then--she left the newspaper on the seat on which she had
sat to read her fate, and making her way out of the Park, took a cab
home, and entered without, she believed, being unduly observed. She
found that her uncle had lunched at his club, and her aunt was in her
room, so, joining Lady Thorne in her boudoir, where she was lying
comfortably tucked up on a sofa, she excused her absence very casually.
She had been detained shopping, had lunched out, had attended service in
the Abbey. Lady Thorne smiled indulgently. "Of course, of course, my
dear!" she interrupted. "But I am glad you are in. Violette has sent
home one of your _trousseau_ evening frocks. It is a poet's dream--pink
embroidered roses, and a bouquet of pink roses has come from the Duchess
with a little note--they decorate with roses to-night in your honour! I
want you to wear that frock. It would make such a nice paragraph in the
society papers, and encourage Violette to exert her utmost with the rest
of the wedding order."
Joan went upstairs, wondering what it meant--this sudden flow of
sunshine. As she inspected the dress--an exquisite _confection_ of pale
pink and white shot tissue, embroidered with clusters of La France roses
with so cunning a hand that the blossoms looked almost real--she
wondered what she would have felt, arraying herself in that gala attire,
yesterday.
"My dark, darkest of dark nights, seems over, thank Heaven!" she told
herself as she went down later on, radiant, to the drawing-room to
receive her lover. As she opened the door, she saw him standing as if
lost in anxious thought. He sprang towards her with a puzzled,
astounded gaze.
"How lovely you look! But--but--oh, darling, how thankful I am to see
you look almost happy for once!" he passionately exclaimed, as he kissed
her--hands, brow, lips--with the tender reverence which made her almost
worship him in return. "But--oh, something must have happened to please
you! Tell me, Joan, do not let us have any secrets from each other!"
"You shall know to-night--at the dance," she said. The dance was given
by the Duchess of Arran.