Escorting his aunt to the car, Matthias helped her in, closed the door,
and then, with a grin of amused resignation masking that trepidation to
which he was actually a prey, folded his arms on the top of the door and
invited the storm with one word of whimsical accent: "Well?"
"Is it true?" she demanded, as if downright incredulous.
"Most true," he insisted with convincing simplicity.
The tip of one gloved finger to her chin, Helena considered remotely.
"She's very beautiful," she conceded, "and sweet and fetching and
hopelessly plebeian. She'd be wonderful to have around, to look at; but
to listen to.... Oh my dear! what _are_ you thinking of?"
"Cut it," Tankerville advised from his corner. "None of your funeral,
old lady."
"That consideration never yet hindered a Matthias," his wife
retorted--"or a Tankerville, either, as far as I've been gifted to
observe. However"--she turned again to her nephew--"you are presumably
in love, and I hope you'll be happy, if ever you marry her. I shan't
interfere--don't be afraid--but ... I could murder Venetia for this!"
"Good night," said Matthias, offering his hand.
But instead of taking it, his aunt leaned forward, caught his cheeks
between both hands, and kissed him publicly.
"Good night," she murmured in a tragical voice. "And Heaven help you!...
When is it going to be?"
"We haven't settled that yet," he laughed; "but you may be sure I shan't
marry until I'm able to support my wife in a manner to which she's
unaccustomed."
He returned to Joan with--until he recrossed the threshold of his
study--a thought ironic concerning the inconsistency of Helena's
veneration of caste with her union to fat, good-natured, pretentiously
commonplace George Tankerville. For that matter, the Matthias dynasty
itself was descended from a needy, out-at-elbows English adventurer who
had one day founded the family fortunes by taking title to Manhattan
real estate in settlement of a gambling debt and on the next had died in
a duel--the only act of thoughtful provision against improvidence
registered in his biography. So Matthias wasn't much disposed to
reverence his pedigree: social position, at least as a claim upon his
consideration, meant little to him: the only class distinctions he was
inclined to acknowledge were those created by the intellect and of the
heart. In his private world people were either intelligent or stupid,
either kindly or (stupidly) egoistic. To the first order, with humility
of soul he aspired; for the other he was, without condescension,
heartily sorry....
But there was nothing half so analytical as this in his temper when he
rejoined Joan: only wonder and rejoicing and delight in her.
He found her near the door, tense and hesitant, as though poised on the
point of imminent flight. There was in her wide eyes a look almost of
consternation; they seemed to glow, shot with the fire of her lambent
thoughts. A doubting thumb and forefinger clipped her chin; a thin line
of exquisite whiteness shone between her scarlet lips.
Closing the door, he opened his arms. She came to them swiftly and
confidently. Doubts and fears vanished in the joy of his embrace; she
was no longer lonely in a world unfriendly.
From the eloquent deeps of their submerged and blended senses, words now
and again floated up like bubbles to the surface of consciousness:
"You still love me?"
"I love you."
"It wasn't pity--impulse--Jack--?"
"It was--love. It is love. It shall be love, dear heart, forever and
always...."
"You _told_ her--your aunt--we were engaged!"
"Aren't we?"
A convulsive tightening of her arms....
A whisper barely articulate: "You really ... want me ... enough to marry
me?"
"I love you."
"But...."
"Isn't that enough?"
"But I am--only me: nothing: a girl who dares to love you."
"Could any man ask more?"
"You.... What will your friends say?... You'll be ashamed of me."
"Hush! That's treason."
"But you will--you won't be able to help it--"
A faint, half-hearted cry of protest: words indistinguishable, silenced
by lips on lips; a space of quiet....
"How shall I make myself worthy of you?"
"Love me always."
"How shall I dare to meet your family, your friends--?"
"You will be my wife."
"But that won't be for a long time...."
"Yes, we must wait--be patient, Joan." She lifted her head, wondering.
"But don't fear; love will sustain us."
"I will be patient. You'll have to give me time to learn how not to
disgrace you--"
"What nonsense!"
"I mean it. I must be somebody. I'm nobody now."
"You are my dearest love."
"I must be more, to be your wife. Give me time to learn to act. When I
am a success--"
"No more of that!" There was definite resolution in the interruption.
"You must give up all thought of the stage."
"But I want to--"
"It's not the place for you--for my wife that is to be."
"But we're not to be married for a long time, you say."
"I'm a poor man, dear--I have enough for one, not enough for two. It may
be only weeks, it may be months or years before my work begins to pay."
"But meantime I must live--support myself, somehow."
"You will leave that to me?"
"I must do something--be independent--"
"Won't you leave it all to me? I will arrange everything--"
"I'll do whatever you wish me to."
"And forget the stage--?"
"I don't know--I'll try, Jack."
"You must, dear one."
It was not a time for disagreements. Joan clung more closely to him. The
issue languished in default, was forgotten for the time....
Transports ebbed: the faintest premonitory symptoms of a return to
something resembling sanity made their appearance; of a sudden Matthias
remembered the hour.
"Do you know," he said with tender gravity, having consulted his watch,
"it's after eleven?"
"It doesn't seem possible," she laughed happily.
"And I'm hungry," he announced. "Aren't you?"