As Joan went into the restaurant on Lord Vansittart's arm, she felt a
subtle, exquisite sensation of leaving her troubled, garish, emotional
life on the threshold, and stepping into another, new existence.
The vast circular building, with a dome where the electric lights
already cast a warm glow upon the bright scene beneath, was dotted over
with white tables surrounded by diners. Palms stood about it--a grove
of moist, luscious water-plants of subtropical origin surrounded a
rosewater fountain, that tinkled pleasantly in the centre.
"We had better go upstairs, I think," said Vansittart; and he led her up
a broad staircase into a wide gallery surrounding the building, and
chose a table next to the gilt balustrade, where she might watch the
crowd beneath.
"This is delightful," she said smiling, as a band began to play a
selection from a favourite opera in a subdued yet fascinating style.
Then a waiter came up, obsequious, as with an instinct born of
experience he detected a couple above the average of their ordinary
patrons, and after a brief colloquy with him, Vansittart offered her the
menu, and seated himself opposite to await her choice.
"It is difficult to think of eating with that music going on," she said,
feeling as if in the enchanted atmosphere coarse food was a vulgar item;
and her selection was a slight one--oysters, chicken cutlets, iced
pudding. Vansittart, possessed of an honest appetite when dinner time
came round, felt compelled to supplement it with an order on his own
account. "You do not want me to be starved, I know," he gaily said, as
the man departed on his errand.
The music played, the fountain's tinkle mingled with the hum of many
voices, the footfalls, the clinking of glass and china. Then the
dramatic critic and another man took the table a little on one side,
near to them. Joan met an admiring glance from a pair of intelligent
eyes. The oysters were fresh, and some clear soup Vansittart had
ordered seemed to "pick her up" so much that she resolved to force
herself to eat for the future.
"I shall fight the horrors of my life better if I do not fast," she told
herself, immediately afterwards chiding herself almost angrily for
recurring to her "dead miseries." With a certain desperation born of
the discovery that she had not cast the skin of her experiences on the
threshold, she set herself to court oblivion by plunging violently into
present sensations. She laughed and talked, ate, drank champagne, and
Vansittart, opposite, gazed at her with admiring beatitude. Joan's
lovely neck, alabaster white as it rose from her square-cut black dress,
her delicately-tinted oval face with its perfect features, now
brightened by her temporary gaiety, her great dark eyes, gleaming with
subdued, if incandescent fire, her halo of golden hair--all were items
in the general effect of radiant beauty. Vansittart hardly knew what
she was talking about; he felt that the dreamy music discoursed by the
little orchestra below was a fitting accompaniment to the melody of her
delightful speaking voice, that was all. He was plunged in a perfect
rhapsody of self-gratulation. And she? Her suspicions were as alert as
ever. She saw he was in a "brown study," and, although his eyes looked
dreamy ecstasy into hers, and a vague smile of as vague a content
hovered about his lips, she would rather he lived outside himself. She
herself was trying madly to live in externals--to stifle thought!
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, leaning forward.
"You!" he said passionately. "How can I think about anything else with
you there opposite me?"
"Hush, the waiter is listening," she said. But just at that moment the
waiter was aroused by the dramatic critic and his friend rising and
pushing back their chairs, and went forward to help them assume their
light overcoats.
"Your friend is going, and you have not introduced him to me," said
Joan.
"I will," said he, and, abruptly joining the departing men, he brought
back the critic, in no wise reluctant.
"Mr. Clement Hunt--Miss Thorne, very soon to be Lady Vansittart," he
said.
"May I offer my congratulations?" Mr. Hunt's face, if not handsome, was
pleasant. His voice betrayed a past of public school and college. Joan
instinctively liked him. After a little small talk and apologies on his
part for haste--duty called him to be at his post at the raising of the
curtain upon the new drama--he departed, volunteering to pay their box a
visit between the acts.
"He is a capital good fellow, dearest," said Vansittart, asking her
permission to smoke as the waiter brought their coffee. "But you must
know that, for I would not otherwise have introduced him to you."
"He looks it," said Joan warmly.
"I suppose you know who that couple are?" asked Mr. Hunt, as he rejoined
his friend.
"Lord Vansittart, wasn't it? What a beautiful girl! But if all is true
they say, what an unfortunate creature!"
"Why, Vansittart is one of the best fellows I know!" exclaimed Clement
Hunt; and he spent the next ten minutes in indignantly endeavouring to
convince his friend that if club gossip were not invariably entirely
false, in this case any rumour of a previous marriage on Vansittart's
part was an absolute and odious fabrication.
Meanwhile, Vansittart had carefully cloaked his beloved in her quiet, if
costly, theatre wrap, and, after royally tipping the waiter, had
escorted her, followed by interested glances, down the stairs to the
entrance. A hansom speedily conveyed them to the theatre. They were
just settled in the box, Joan was glancing round the house through her
opera glass, when the orchestra began the overture. At first, the music
merely aroused a dormant, unpleasant, shamed sensation. Then, as it
struck up a well-known air from "Carmen," she inwardly shrank, her whole
being, heart included, indeed seemed to halt, as if paralyzed with
reminiscent horror.
_It was the air Victor had whistled under her window at night when he
was secretly courting her, and she had not heard it since._
What demon was persecuting her? Not only that air sent arrows of pain
into her very soul, but the subsequent melodies drove them home to the
core. It was as if a malignant fiend had picked out and strung together
the favourite tunes the dead man had whistled and sung during the stolen
meetings of their clandestine love affair, to clamour them in her ears
when she was powerless to escape. To rush away before the curtain rose
would be to betray some extraordinary emotion; yet she had to fight the
desire to do so. It took her whole little strength to force herself to
remain seated in the box and endure the consequent performance.
By the time the curtain rose she was the conqueror. She had held the
lorgnette to her eyes, and pretended to scan the audience while that
brief mental battle was raging, lest, removing it, her lover should
notice her agitation. Fortunately, even as the curtain gave place to a
woodland scene, the auditorium was darkened.
As the first act proceeded, she recovered herself a little. There was
less of a dense black veil before her eyes, less surging in her ears.
She could hardly have told what the first dialogue between the second
heroine and the first heroine--a certain Lady Chumleigh--was. The girl
was sister to the heroine's husband, Sir Dyved Chumleigh, and appeared
to cause discomfiture to her sister-in-law by some innocent teasing; at
least, that was what Joan gathered from the lady's subsequent soliloquy.
"However, it doesn't much matter whether I understand the thing or not,"
she told herself. "It seems vapid and unreal in the extreme."
The thought had hardly flashed across her mind when a sensational
episode in the play awakened the attention of the house. A slouching
tramp, ragged, dirty, abandoned-looking, suddenly appeared from behind a
tree, and addressed Lady Chumleigh as "My wife!"
Joan sat up and stared. Was it an awful nightmare? No! As the
interview proceeded between the aristocratic lady and the miserable
ex-criminal, the husband she had hoped was dead, and with him her past
degradation and misery, Joan recognized that the stage play was not only
real, and no bad dream, but the parallel of her own miserable story.
The unfortunate heroine had met and loved and been courted by Sir Dyved
Chumleigh while trying to live down her secret past. And just when she
seemed sure of present and future happiness, the wretch who had stolen
her affection traded on it, and then having been imprisoned for fraud,
perjury, and what not, had appeared in the flesh to blast her whole
life.
The curtain descended upon a passionate scene. The unhappy woman, after
a spurt of useless defiance, fell on her knees to adjure, bribe, appeal
to the man's baser nature, since he seemed to be in possession of no
better feeling. He listened grimly. The outcome of the encounter was
left to the next act.
"Dearest, it is upsetting you, I am afraid," said Vansittart, as the
turned-up lights showed him Joan pale and gasping. "But don't think
that villain will have it all his own way. I read a _resume_ of the
plot, and she kills him before the curtain falls on the last act."
"What?" said Joan, gazing at him--very strangely, he thought. He was
about to propose they should leave the theatre, when there was a knock
at the box door, and Mr. Hunt came in.
"Well, how do you like it?" he asked pleasantly, accepting Vansittart's
chair.