Awakened and informed of what had happened, the housekeeper called the
doctor, who looked at the body and certified that death had resulted
from failure of the heart, which must have been long diseased. Joan paid
for a good oak coffin and a decent funeral. She bought a grave at
Kensal Green and ordered a neat stone to be erected. If she had
previously earned Mrs. Gone's gratitude, she felt that she had now
merited any reward which might accrue in future, and the curious,
erasible tablet that did duty as her conscience was wiped clear.
The morning after Mrs. Gone's funeral, the girl put on her favourite
frock of grey cloth, with a hat to match, which had been bought at one
of the most fashionable shops in Monte Carlo. This costume, with grey
gloves, grey shoes, and a grey chiffon parasol, ivory-handled, gave Joan
an air of quiet smartness, a combination particularly appropriate for
the adventure which she had planned. She hired a decorous brougham and
said to the coachman: "Drive to Northmuir House, Belgrave Square."
It was but ten o'clock, and, as Joan had gleaned some information
concerning the habits of the occupant, she was confident that he would
be at home. Mrs. Gone had not been dead two hours when the girl began
searching through her own scrapbook, compiled of cuttings taken from
Society papers. Whenever she came across the description of any
important member of the aristocracy--his or her home life, manners,
fancies, and ways--she cut it out and pasted it into this book, in case
it should become valuable for reference. The moment that the dying
woman uttered the name of Northmuir, Joan's memory jumped to a paragraph
(one of the first that had gone into the scrapbook), and as soon as she
could shut herself up in the little back room, she had consulted her
authority.
The Earl of Northmuir was, according to the paper from which the cutting
had been clipped, still the handsomest man in England, though now long
past middle age. Once he had been among the most popular also, but for
some years he had lived more or less in retirement, owing to illness and
family bereavements, seldom leaving his fine old town house in Belgrave
Square.
"He'll be in London, and he won't be the sort of man to go out before
noon," Joan said to herself.
Her heart was beating more quickly than usual, but her face was calm and
untroubled, as she stood on the great porch at Northmuir House, asking a
footman in sober livery if Lord Northmuir were at home.
The girl in the grey dress and grey hat, with large, soft ostrich
feathers, might have been a young princess. Whatever she was, she
merited civility, and the servant, who could not wholly conceal
surprise, politely invited her to enter, while he inquired if his
Lordship could receive a visitor. "What name shall I say?" he asked.
"Give him this, please," said Joan, handing the footman an envelope,
addressed to "The Earl of Northmuir." Inside this envelope was a sheet
of paper, blank, save for the words, "A messenger from Mrs. Gone, who is
dead"; and the death notice was enclosed.
With this envelope the man went away, leaving her to wait in a large and
splendid drawing-room, where stiffness of arrangement betrayed the
absence of a woman's taste.
Joan looked about appreciatively, yet critically. Then, when she had
gained an impressionist picture of the room, she glanced at the jewelled
watch on her wrist, a present from Lady John Bevan after the sale of the
_Titania_.
What if Lord Northmuir had never known the dead woman under the name of
Gone? What if--there were many things which might go wrong, and Joan had
put her whole stake on a single chance. If she had been mistaken--but
as her mind played among surmises, the footman returned.
"His Lordship will see you in his study, if you will kindly come this
way," the servant announced.
Joan rose with quiet dignity and followed the man along a pillared hall
to a closed door. "The lady, my lord," murmured the footman, in opening
it. Joan was left alone with a singularly handsome old man, who sat in
a huge cushioned chair by the fireplace. It was summer still, but a
fire of ship-logs sparkled with changing rainbow lights on the stone
hearth. In a thin hand, Lord Northmuir held an exquisitely bound book.
He must have been more than sixty, but his features were of the
cameo--fine, classic cut, of which the beauty, like that of old marble,
never dies, and it was easy to see why he had once borne a reputation as
the handsomest man in England. It was easy to see also, by his eyes as
they catalogued each item of Joan's beauty, that he had been a gallant
man, not blind to the charms of women. Nevertheless, his voice was cold
as he spoke to the unexpected visitor.
"I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name, or why you have honoured
me by calling," he said. "Forgive my not rising. I am rather an
invalid. Pray sit down. There is something I can do for you?"
"Several things, Lord Northmuir," returned the girl, taking the chair
his gesture had indicated.
"You will tell me what they are?"
"I am anxious to tell you. In the first place, I wish to be a relation
of yours, and not a poor relation. I wish to have a thousand pounds a
year, either permanently or until my marriage, should I become the wife
of a rich man through your introduction."
Lord Northmuir stared at the girl, and if there were not genuine
astonishment in his eyes, he was a clever actor. "You are a handsome
young woman," he said slowly, when she had finished, "but I begin to be
afraid that your mind is unfortunately--er--affected."
"There is a weight upon it," Joan replied.--"the weight of your secret.
It's so heavy that unless you are very kind, I shall be tempted to throw
the burden off by laying it upon others."
Now the blood hummed in her ears. If she had built a house of cards,
this was the moment when it would topple, and bury her ambition in its
ignominious downfall. But Lord Northmuir's slow speech had quickened her
hope, for she said to herself that it was not spontaneous; and gazing
keenly into his face, she saw the blood stain his forehead. She had
staked on the right chance, yet the risk was not past. Her game was the
game of bluff, but its success depended upon the man with whom she had
to deal.
"I do not understand what you are talking about," he said.
"I dare say I haven't made my meaning clear," answered Joan, half
rising. "Perhaps I'd better explain to my solicitor, and get him to
write a letter----"
"You are nothing more nor less than a common blackmailer," Lord
Northmuir exclaimed, bringing down his white hand on the arm of his
chair.
"I may be nothing less, but I am a good deal more than a common one,"
retorted Joan, surer of her ground. "I will prove that, if you force me
to do it."
"Who are you?" he broke out abruptly.
"I am a Woman Who Knows," she replied. "There was another Woman Who
Knew. She called herself Gone. She is dead, and I have come. I have
come to stay."
"Don't you understand that I can hand you over to the police?" demanded
Lord Northmuir, with difficulty controlling his voice so that it could
not be heard by possible listeners outside the door.
"Yes; and I understand that I can hand your secret over to the police.
They would know how to use it."
He flushed again, and Joan saw that her daring shot had told. For the
instant he had no answer ready, and she seized the opportunity to speak
once more. "You can do better for yourself than hand me over to the
police. There need be no trouble, if you will realise that I am not a
common person, and not to be treated as such."
"Again I ask: Who are you?" he cried.
Joan risked another shot in the dark. "Can't you make a guess?" she
asked, with a malicious suggestion of hidden meaning in her tone.
An expression of horror and surprise passed over Lord Northmuir's
handsome face, devastating it as a marching tornado devastates a
landscape. It was evident that he had "made a guess," and been
thunderstruck by its answer. Joan's curiosity was so strongly roused
that it touched physical pain. Almost, she would have been ready to
give one of her pretty fingers to know the secret.
"Do you still wish to ask questions?" she inquired.
"Heaven help me, no! What is it that you want?"
"I have told you already. If I insisted on all I have a right to claim,
you would not be where you are."
She watched him. He grew deathly and bowed his white head. Joan felt
sorry for the man now that he was at her mercy; but her imagination
played with the secret, as a child plays with a prism in the sunshine.
Its flashing colours allured her. "Oh! if I only _knew_ something," she
thought, "something which would hold in law, and could go through the
courts, where might I not stand? I might reach one of the highest
places a woman can fill. But it's no use; I must take what I can get,
and be thankful; and, anyway, I can't help pitying him a little, though
I'm sure he doesn't deserve it. He's old and tired, and I won't make him
suffer more than is necessary for the game."
Joan again named her terms, this time with much ornamental detail. She
was to be a newly discovered orphan cousin. Her name was to be, as it
had been in Cornwall, Mercy Milton. She was to be invited to visit, for
an indefinite length of time, at Northmuir House. Her noble relative
was to exert himself to the extent of giving entertainments to introduce
her to his most influential and highly placed friends. He was also to
make her an allowance of a thousand pounds a year.
"Don't think, if you gamble away as--as the other did, that I will go
beyond this bargain, for I will not!" cried Lord Northmuir, with a testy
desire to assert himself and show that he was not wholly to be cowed.
"I don't gamble, except with Fate," said Joan.
This exclamation of his explained one or two things which had been dark.
She guessed now why Mrs. Gone, evidently used to luxuries, had been
reduced to living on the charity of a boarding-house keeper, and why it
had been necessary to wait until she should be well enough to go out
before she could obtain "remittances."
Having concluded her arrangement with Lord Northmuir, and settled to
become his relative and guest, Joan went back in her brougham to Woburn
Place. She told Miss Witt that she had been called away, packed her
things, left such as she would not want in Belgrave Square in boxes at
the boarding-house, delighted the housekeeper with many gifts, and the
following morning drove off with a pile of luggage on a cab. Turning
the corner of Woburn Place into the next street, she also turned a
corner in her career, and for the third time ceased to be Joan Carthew.
She had chosen to take up her lately laid down part of Mercy Milton for
two reasons. One was, that in this character as she had played it in
Cornwall, with meekly parted hair, soft, downcast eyes, simple manners
and simple frocks, she was not likely to be recognised by any one who
had known the dashing and magnificent Miss Jenny Mordaunt; while if she
should come across Cornish acquaintances, there was nothing in her new
position which need invalidate the story of Lady Pendered's gentle
sister.
If Lord Northmuir had looked forward with dread to the intrusion of the
adventuress whom he was forced to receive, he soon found that, beyond
the galling knowledge of his bondage, he had nothing disagreeable to
fear. The young cousin did not attempt to interfere with his habits
after he had provided her with acquaintances, who increased after the
manner of a "snowball" stamp competition. The two usually lunched and
dined together, and--at first--that was all. But Miss Mercy Milton made
herself charming at table, never referred by word or look to the loathed
secret, and was so tactful that, to his extreme surprise, almost horror,
the man found himself looking forward to the hours of meeting. Joan was
not slow to see this; indeed, she had been working up to it. When the
right time came, she volunteered to help Lord Northmuir with his letters
(he had no secretary) and to read aloud. At the end of six months she
had become indispensable, and he would have wondered how existence had
been possible without his treasure had he dwelt upon the dangerous
subject at all. If, however, the blackmailer's instalment in the
household had turned out an agreeable disappointment to the blackmailed,
it was a disappointment of another kind to the author of the plot. Joan
Carthew did not find life in Belgrave Square half as amusing as she had
pictured it, and though she was surrounded by luxury which might be hers
as long as Lord Northmuir lived, each day she grew more restless and
discontented.
She had found society on the Riviera delightful, but the butterfly crowd
which fluttered between Nice and Monte Carlo had little resemblance to
that with which she came in contact as Lord Northmuir's cousin. Jenny
Mordaunt could do much as she pleased--at worst she was put down as a
"mad American, my dear"; but Mercy Milton had the family dignity to live
up to. Lord Northmuir's adopted relative could not afford to be "cut" by
the primmest dowager; and being an ideal, conventional English girl in
the best society did not suit Joan's roaming fancies.
It was supposed that she would be Lord Northmuir's heiress; consequently
mothers of eligible young men were charming to her, which would have
been convenient if Joan had happened to want one of their sons. But not
one of the men who sent her flowers and begged for "extras" at dances
would she have married if he had been the last existing specimen of his
sex. This was annoying, for in planning her campaign, Joan had resolved
to marry well and settle satisfactorily for life. Now, however, she
found that it was simpler to decide upon a mercenary marriage in the
abstract than when it became a personal question.
At the close of a year with Lord Northmuir she had saved seven hundred
pounds, and at last, after a sleepless night, she made up her mind to
take a step which was, in a way, a confession of failure.
She went to Lord Northmuir's study as usual in the morning, but this
time it was not to act as reader or amanuensis.
"It's a year to-day since I came," she said abruptly, with a purposeful
look on her face which the man felt was ominous.
"Yes," he answered. "A strange year, but not an unhappy one. What I
regarded as a curse has turned out a blessing. I should miss the
albatross now if it were to be taken off my neck."
"I'm sorry for that," said Joan, "for the albatross has revived and
intends to fly away."
"What! You will marry?"
"No. I'm tired of being conventional. I've decided to relieve you of my
presence here; and you can forget me, except when, each quarter, you
sign a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds."
Lord Northmuir's handsome face grew almost as white as when she had
first announced her claim upon him. "I don't want to forget you. I
can't forget you!" he stammered. "If I could, I would publish the whole
truth; but that is impossible, for the honour of the name. You have
made me fond of you--made me depend upon you. Why did you do that, if
you meant to leave me alone?"
"I didn't mean it at first," replied Joan frankly. "I thought I should
be 'in clover' here, and so I have been; but too much clover upsets the
digestion. I must go, Lord Northmuir. I can't stand it any longer.
I'm pining for adventures."
"Have you fallen in love?"
"No. I wish I had. I've been trying in vain."
"A year ago I would not have believed it possible that I should make you
such an offer, but you have wrought a miracle. You came to blackmail,
you remained to bless. Stay with me, my girl, till I die, and not only
shall you be remembered in my will, but I will increase your allowance
from one thousand to two thousand a year. I can afford to do this,
since you have become the one luxury I can't live without."
"I was just beginning to say that, if you would let me go without a
fuss, I would take five hundred instead of a thousand a year."
"But now I have shown you my heart, you see that offer does not appeal
to me."
Joan broke out laughing; this upsetting of the whole situation was so
humorous. A sudden reckless impulse seized her. She could not resist
it.
"Lord Northmuir, you will change your mind when I have told you
something," she said. "I have played a trick on you. I have no
connection with your family, and know no more about your secret than I
know what will be in to-morrow's papers. Mrs. Gone, in dying, mentioned
a secret and your name. I put two and two together, and they matched so
well that I've lived on you for a year, bought lots of dresses, made
crowds of friends, had heaps of proposals, and kept seven hundred pounds
in hand. Now I think you will be willing to let me go; and you can lie
easy and live happy for ever after."
Having launched the thunderbolt, she would have left the room, but Lord
Northmuir, old and invalided as he was, sprang from his chair like an
ardent youth and caught her arm.
"By Jove! you shan't leave me like that!" he cried. "You have made your
first mistake, my dear. Instead of being in your power, you have put
yourself in mine. I need fear you no longer. But as a trickster I love
you no less than I did as a blackmailer. Indeed, I love you the more
for your diabolical cleverness, you beautiful wretch! Stay with me, not
as the little adopted cousin, living on charity, but as my wife, and
mistress of this house. Or, if you will not, I shall denounce you to
the police."
For once, Joan was dumfounded. The tables had been turned upon her with
a vengeance. She gasped, and could not answer.
"You see, it is my turn to dictate terms now," said Lord Northmuir.
Joan's breath had come back. "You are right," she returned, in a meek
voice. "I have given you the reins. But--well, it would be something
to be Countess of Northmuir."
"Don't hope to be a widowed Countess," chuckled the old man. "I am only
sixty-nine, and for the last ten years I have taken good care of
myself."
"I count on nothing after this," said Joan.
"You consent, then?"
"How can I do otherwise?"
Lord Northmuir laughed out in his triumph over her. "The notice of the
engagement will go to the _Morning Post_ immediately," he said.
"To-morrow, some of our friends will be surprised."
But it was he who was surprised; for, when to-morrow came, Joan had run
away.