If Joan had succeeded in fascinating Lord Vansittart until his passion
dominated him to the extinction of all his ordinary interests in life,
while she was mysteriously enwrapped in an unaccountable gloom--a gloom
which hid her natural charms, her bright, ready wit, her spontaneity,
her sympathetic responses to the moods of others, as a thick mist hides
a beautiful landscape--in her new gaiety and sudden joyousness she
simply intoxicated him.
As he sat opposite her at dinner, he gazed fatuously at her in her pink
glory, her sweet face shining above the roseate robe as the morning star
above the sunrise-tinted clouds--and wondered at the magnificence of the
fate dealt out to him by fortune. When they were driving to Arran
House--Sir Thomas by his betrothed, and he squeezing in his long figure
on the opposite seat--he felt that to sit at her feet and worship her
was more happiness than he deserved. What of being her husband? Of
possessing this delightful being for his very own--half of himself?
His mood, half deprecatory, half triumphant, but wholly joyful, seemed
reflected in the brilliant atmosphere of Arran House, as he followed Sir
Thomas, who had Joan on his arm, through the hall--where heavy
rose-garlands wreathed the pillars, casting their rich, luscious perfume
profusely upon the air--up the rose-decorated staircase to the draped
entrance to the ballroom, where the duchess stood, a picture in rose
moire and old point lace, the kindly little duke at her elbow, receiving
her guests, but detaining the newly-betrothed for a few warmly-spoken
words of congratulation. The ballroom floor was already sprinkled with
couples dancing the second valse of the programme.
"Now we belong to each other publicly as well as in private, you must
dance all, or nearly all, your dances with me," said Vansittart, in
tones of suppressed emotion, as he gazed at her white throat, encircled
with his first gift--a necklet of topaz and pearls with _parure en
suite_; then, with a longing, searching look into her eyes. Half
fearful lest the old enigmatic horror should still be lurking there, his
heart gave a throb of delight as those sweet brown orbs gazed
innocently, fearlessly, yet with a passionate abandon into his.
"Let us join the others--shall we?" he said. She nodded slightly--a
trick of hers--and encircling her slight waist with his arm, he made one
of the slowly gyrating throng.
To Joan that dance was like a new, delicious dream. To feel the one she
loved as she had never imagined it was in her to love, near her, was in
itself an abiding joy. But to have lost the awful burden--her secret
link to another--to be relieved of the weight of fear lest she should
really be a criminal--that, mingled with the delight of being the
betrothed bride of her beloved, was in itself an earthly heaven.
The valse over, they betook themselves to a couple of chairs placed
invitingly under a big palm. But Vansittart yearned to be alone with
her; or, at least, where they could talk unobserved. In spite of his
pervading joy, there was just one discordant note sounding in his mind;
there was one gleam of anxiety anent the cause of the almost miraculous
change in Joan's mood, from darkest night to sunlit noonday.
"It was a pretty idea of the duchess, was it not, darling, to decorate
with roses in our honour?" he said caressingly, as he took her bouquet
and inhaled its delicate sweetness. "The flower of love! But--well, of
course you know the story of the rose? It seems to me that that also
may not be without its meaning in our case. It was through a bad member
of my sex, was it not, that you had so much to endure? Why, dearest,
forgive me for alluding to it. I thought you would not mind!"
Joan had started a little--as a sensitive horse at the unexpected touch
of its rider's heel. It was only for a moment; she recovered herself
immediately.
"What story? I don't know of any! Tell me," she replied, annoyed with
herself at being so "morbidly impressionable." Still, any allusion to
her secret stung her to the quick. It disappointed her. She had wanted
to bury her dead at once and for ever.
"Why, I hardly like alluding to your confidences to me," he began, a
little taken aback by her sudden change of humour. "The story is about
a girl named Zillah--a Bethlehemite--whose would-be lover rejected, gave
out that she was possessed, and had her condemned to be burnt. But the
stake blossomed into roses! I take that to mean that no real trouble
can come to one who is pure and good by the machinations of any vile
man, however base----"
"Oh, don't talk about it here!" she exclaimed, inwardly writhing.
"Besides, I don't want ever to allude to--to--that affair of my poor
friend's marriage again. It is not necessary. She has escaped from her
troubles. It is that which has made me so happy. Do you understand? I
cannot tell you how it has happened. You must trust me so far. But it
is all over. I have only one, one boon to crave of you--that you will
never, never again remind me of it. Can you do that much for your
future wife? If you do keep raking up my past troubles, we shall not be
happy. I promise you that!"
"My dearest, I would sacrifice much rather than ever say one word to
annoy you, give you pain," he began, somewhat hurt and mystified.
"I know," she exclaimed, and once more she beamed upon him. A brilliant
smile beautified a face which was too flushed for health; sudden pallor
at the tale of the rose was succeeded by a burning glow. "And now,
there they are, beginning another dance. I want to dance. I want to
live; to enjoy life. Can't you imagine it? For ever so long I have
been thinking myself a perfect wretch, not eligible, like other people,
for the ordinary joys of life; and now that I find out I am not, that no
innocent person has suffered for my absurd and ridiculous folly, I want
to be happy. Oh! let me be, if only for to-night."
"Joan, that is hardly just, not to know that there is only one thing in
this world I really wish for, your happiness," he said, with deep
feeling. "However, do not let us have the faintest shadow between us,
when we are on the eve of belonging to each other for ever--pray don't!
Darling, I will be careful for the future. Do you forgive me?"
"Don't talk nonsense," she cried, with a little laugh which sounded so
gay and careless that he led her to join the dancers somewhat reassured.
As they danced onward, round and round the duke's beautiful ballroom,
the electric light shining through the softly-tinted Bohemian glass upon
the lavish decorations of roses of all shades, from pure white to the
deepest crimson, they both almost recovered their equanimity. The deep,
yearning love in each young heart was sufficiently sun-like to dispel
all mists and shadows.
To both the evening speedily became one of unmixed delight. Once or
twice they had temporarily parted and taken other partners "for the look
of the thing." "Hating your dancing with another fellow as I do, I
would rather that, than that the frivols among them should laugh at us,"
he told her. "You know, dearest, to be in love as we are is terribly
out of date."
So they reluctantly separated for a while, to enjoy each other's
proximity with a more subtle ecstasy afterwards. The last dance before
supper Vansittart had retained for himself. "It is more than flesh and
blood can do to give up that; besides, it is not expected of me, after
the paragraphs in the papers," he said. So, after a delightful quarter
of an hour's gyration to the charming melody of the "Erste Geliebte"
waltz, he escorted Joan to the supper room.
It was crowded. As Vansittart led his beautiful betrothed through the
room, her pink train rustling, the jewels on her fair neck gleaming, all
eyes turned towards them as they passed. His head held proudly high, he
felt rather than saw that they were the object of general notice.
Meanwhile, every one of the small round supper tables, laid either for
two or four persons, seemed appropriated.
Joan had been scanning the crowd about the tables, feeling an
unpleasantly reminiscent thrill as she saw the ducal servitors in their
picturesque black uniform and powder; and remembering that horrible
shock--her encountering Victor Mercier in that garb, in that sudden and
cruel way--she was somewhat startled by meeting the malevolent,
searching gaze of a small, thin man in evening dress.
Surely it was the duke's valet--that man with the steel-blue eyes which
seemed to flash white fire as they met hers? Yes, he was approaching
them.
"Pardon, milord, but there is a table in the conservatory, if you would
like it," he said. "It is cooler there, and I will tell some one to
attend to you."
"Thanks, Paul," said Lord Vansittart genially, and he led Joan through
the room after their guide, following him into the conservatory, where,
among the roses, fuchsias, and orchids brought from the ducal houses, a
tiny table was laid for two persons. "You are very kind. But you are
not looking well. How is it?"
"A mere nothing, milord," said Paul, lightly. "And now, I will see to
the supper for you and mademoiselle. But Monsieur le Duc wishes a word
with you. He sent me to say it. You would find him in the hall, I
think, waiting for you."
"You will excuse me a minute, darling?" Vansittart, released with a
smile by Joan, left her.
Left her--with the valet, Paul Naz! Joan wondered to see the man, with
a set, stern face she did not like at all, moving the knives, forks and
glasses about upon the table in a foolish, aimless fashion. She
marvelled still more when he stood up and faced her suddenly, an ominous
gleam in his brilliant, pale eyes.
"A word, mademoiselle," he began solemnly, his hands clenching
themselves so they hung pendant at his sides. "I wish to speak to you
of my poor murdered friend, Victor Mercier."
[Illustration: "'I wish to speak to you of my poor murdered friend.'"
_A Woman Martyr_. _Page 216_]