"Are we the only people in the house, then?"
"Yes," he said. "That's part of my plan."
"Plan?" She was on her feet. "What do you mean? Have you thought all
this out and made a scheme of it?"
"Yes; all out," he said. "The moment has come, Joan."
No longer did the scent of honeysuckle take Joan back to the sun-bathed
cottage and the voice behind the door. No longer did she feel that all
this wasn't really happening, that it was fantastic. Stark reality
forced itself upon her and brought her into the present as though some
one had turned up all the lights in a dark room. She was alone with the
man whom she had driven to the limit of his patience. No one knew that
she was there. It was a trick into which she had fallen out of a new
wish to be kind. A sense of self-preservation scattered the dire
effects of everything that had happened during the afternoon. She must
get out, quickly. She made for the door.
But Gilbert was there first. He locked it, drew out the key, put it in
his pocket and before she could turn towards the door leading to the
other rooms, he was there. He repeated the process with peculiar
deftness and when he saw her dart a look at the windows, he shook his
head.
"You can't jump through those screens," he said.
"It isn't fair," she cried.
"Have you been fair?"
"I shall shout for help."
"The nearest cottage is too far away for any one to hear you."
"What are you going to do?"
He went back to her. He was far too quiet and dignified and unlike
himself. She could have managed the old vain Gilbert. A scoffing laugh,
and he would have withered. But this new Gilbert, who looked at her
with such a curious, exalted expression--what was she to do with him?
"Joan," he said, "listen. This is the end or the beginning. I haven't
locked the doors and sent the servants away to get you into a vulgar
trap. I might have done it a few weeks ago, but not as I am now. This
is my night, my beautiful Joan. You have given it to me. After all this
fencing, as you call it, you are here with me alone, as far away from
the old foolishness as if you were out at sea. What I have to say is so
much a private thing, and what I may have to do so much a matter to be
treated with the profoundest solemnity that we must run no risk of
disturbance. Do you begin to understand, little Joan?"
"No," she said.
"I will explain it to you, then. You are very young and have been very
thoughtless. You haven't stopped to think that you have been playing
with a soul as well as a heart. I have brought you here to-night to
face things up simply and quietly and finally, and leave it to you to
make a choice."
"A choice?"
"Yes, between life with me or death in my arms."