At times Joan was more than half inclined to doubt the reality of some
of those unique phases of existence to which her love affair introduced
her. Some experiences seemed beyond belief, even to an imagination
stimulated by inordinate ambition and further excited by incessant
novel-reading and theater-going.
On the Friday morning following the receipt of Helena's invitation she
went shopping, squandering upwards of three weeks' savings with that
delicious abandonment to extravagance which is possible only to a woman
of supremely confident tomorrows. The hundreds she was in subsequent
days to disburse as thoughtlessly never afforded her one-half the
pleasure that accompanied the expenditure of those seventy hoarded
dollars. (For aside from the rent of her room, her association with
Matthias had spared her nearly every other expense of daily life.)
Among other things, she purchased for twenty-five dollars a simple
evening frock eminently adapted to her requirements. A tolerably
faithful copy of a foreign model, it had been designed to fetch a much
higher price than that at which Joan was able to acquire it at an
end-of-the-season bargain sale. She tried it on before deciding, and had
the testimony of the department store mirrors that it was wonderfully
becoming to her years and type of beauty. And it was the only garment of
its kind that she had ever owned.
As she hurried, tardily, to keep an appointment with Matthias for lunch
at Martin's, she told herself that she would never know greater
happiness. She could not rid her mind of that wonderful frock and the
figure she had cut in it, posing in the dressing-room.
But after luncheon--over which they lingered until they were quite alone
in the eastern dining-room--with some hesitation, and having assured
himself that there was not even a waiter near at hand, Matthias fumbled
in one of his waistcoat pockets, produced a small leather-covered case,
and passed it across the table.
"I'd meant to keep this till we got home," he said with an awkward
smile. "But I don't think I can wait...."
Joan opened the box--and drew the longest breath of her life. Her heart
seemed to leap and then stand stock-still for a full minute before she
grasped the magnificence of his present: her engagement ring!
Then and there the girl lost all touch with the tough verities of life;
and throughout the day and until she lost consciousness in bed that
night, a sensual enchantment held dominion over all her being....
Nor was the great adventure of the visit to Tanglewood of a nature
calculated to dissipate that glamour--save, perhaps, in one untoward
circumstance which, wholly unforeseen, could not have been provided
against.
A woman less shrewd and intelligent than Helena Tankerville, and one as
violently opposed to the match, might have planned that short week-end
visit to influence and discourage the girl rather than Matthias. But
Helena knew that contrast would have the desired effect only upon the
man; to whom its significance would be in inverse ratio to the emphasis
lent it. So with infinite tact and thoughtfulness Joan's way was made
smooth for her from the moment she alighted from the train until the
moment of her leave-taking; and this without the least tangible
suggestion that any especial consideration was being shewn her. The
smallness of the party sanctioned informality; and George Tankerville's
obtuse kindness of heart (which permitted him to see nothing in the
stratagems of his wife other than a desire to put the girl completely at
her ease) facilitated matters immensely.
Joan was spared the embarrassment of a maid--was, indeed, given no
reason to believe there were any such servants attached to the
establishment. Suffered to unpack her modest effects and dispose of them
herself, she received at Helena's hands the indispensable service of
"hooking-up." And her unpretentious, pretty frock was by no means
overshadowed by Helena's or by the unceremonious dinner jackets of the
men; while the simplicity of the evening meal put her thoroughly at her
ease, whose recently acquired but rather extensive acquaintance with New
York restaurant ways and waiters robbed the attentions of a butler of
their terrors.
Nor was it, possibly, altogether a matter of chance that neighbouring
friends telephoned an after-dinner invitation to Helena and Tankerville
to run over and make up a table at auction: so that Joan was left alone
with her lover to become acquainted with and at home among the charms of
Tanglewood....
But it wasn't until the first hours of a still and splendid September
Sunday that her sense of wonder was quite ravished by the place: its
foreign and luxurious atmosphere, the half-wild loveliness of its
grounds, the perfection of its appointments and the uniquity of its
location. Then the sense of unreality resumed full sway over her
perceptions: she seemed to move and have her being in a strange, new
world of rare and iridescent witchery. And Helena was at pains to leave
her no time for doubts or analysis. They motored in the morning to the
South Shore and back, and after luncheon took the Enchantress for a
short spin up the Sound, returning for tea upon the terrace....
Tankerville and Matthias were wrangling amiably about the least
comfortless routes overland to the Pacific; Helena, with binoculars at
the balustrade, was simulating an extravagant interest in the
manoeuvers of two small yachts far in the distance (and, in the
breathing-space thus cunningly contrived, wildly ransacking a rather
extensive fund of resource for some subject which might prove a common
ground of interest between herself and her guest) and Joan, in the
depths of a basket-chair, while seeming smilingly to attend to the light
banter of the men, was deeply preoccupied in consideration of her
extraordinary sensation of comfort and security in this exotic
environment. She was deliciously flattered by appreciation of her own
ease and adaptability. The conclusion seemed inevitable that, somehow,
strangely, Nature had meant her for just such an existence as this.
The terrace was aflood with the golden glow of the westering sun--the
season so far advanced that there was no discomfort in its warmth. The
Sound shone like a sapphire, still and vast, and the cup of the skies
bending over it was flawless sapphire banded at its rim with an
exquisite shade of amethyst. Ashore, the wooded slopes were all aflame
in the mortal passion of Indian summer.
In the stirless, suave, and aromatic air hung an impalpable yet
ineluctable hint of melancholy....
From landward, with unusual resonance in the deep quiet of that hour,
sounded the long, dull, whining purr of a motor-car.
Helena lowered the glasses, turned an ear to the sound, and came slowly
back to the tea-table and Joan. Her faint smile, together with a slight
elevation of her delicately darkened brows, indicated surprise.
Engrossed in their argument, Matthias and Tankerville gave no heed to
the threatened visitation.
Resentfully, Joan detached her attention from the diamond Matthias had
given her, and at discretion tossed aside a cigarette which she had been
pretending to like because Helena smoked quite openly, and it was
consequently the smart thing to do.
Undoubtedly the car was stopping on the drive. Helena moved a few paces
toward the house, paused, waited. A woman's laugh with an accent of
cheerful excitement came to them. Joan saw Helena start and noticed
Matthias break off a sentence in the middle and swing round in his
chair. Immediately a woman ran through the doorway to the terrace, a
light dust-wrap streaming from her shoulders. A man followed, but at the
time Joan hardly noticed him. The woman absorbed all her interest, even
though it was an interest compounded of jealousy and hostility. She was
unquestionably the loveliest creature Joan had ever seen. Without
moving, but staring, the girl sat transfixed with distrust and poignant
envy.
With a cry of wonder--"Venetia!"--Helena ran to greet these unpresaged
guests.
Meeting, the two women indulged in an embrace almost theatrically
perfunctory. The commonplaces of such situations were breathlessly
exchanged. Then Helena, disengaging turned to the man and extended a
hand.
"Well, Mr. Marbridge!..." she cried with a light note of semi-reproof in
her laughter.
At this, with a brightening smile, Marbridge bent over her hand, saying
something indistinguishable to Joan.
She was watching the meeting between Matthias and Venetia Marbridge.
He held both her hands, and she permitted him to retain them, for a
longer moment of silent greeting than Joan thought necessary. But this
circumstance alone betrayed whatever constraint was felt by either. A
smile, vague and perhaps not lacking a thought of tender sadness,
touched the lips and eyes of Venetia. Matthias returned his twisted and
indefinitely apologetic grin.
"More than ever charming, Venetia!"
"Thank you, Jack."
If there were any hint of challenge in her tone or her straightforward
eyes, Joan didn't detect it.
George Tankerville submitted with open resignation to the embrace of his
sister.
"I suppose I've got to stand for this," he observed with philosophy. "Do
you mean me to infer that you're humble and contrite?"
"Not in the least," Venetia retorted defiantly.
"Oh, very well," said he. "That being the case, I extend to you my
belated blessing. How did you leave things on the other side?"
"Much as usual--and by steamer."
"When'd you get back?"
"Last Monday...."
Venetia became openly aware of Joan. Matthias interposed.
"Miss Thursday--my fiancée. Joan, this is Mrs. Marbridge."
[Illustration: "Miss Thursday--my fiancée. Joan, this is Mrs.
Marbridge."]
"Truly?"
The shock told; she had been playing off very deftly a painful
contretemps, but this announcement dashed Venetia. Momentarily she
hesitated, scarlet lips apart but inarticulate, widening eyes of violet
a shade darker, with--if possible--a pallor deeper even than that most
striking attribute of her beauty. But the check could have been apparent
only to the initiate or to a strongly intuitive intelligence.
"I _am_ so glad!" she cried with sincerity--"so glad for both of you!"
Impulsively she caught Joan's hands, drew the girl to her--"May I, my
dear? We're to be great friends, you know!"--kissed her; then swinging
round--"Vincent!" she called gaily. "Such news! Do come here
immediately!"
Marbridge showed a face strongly marked with the enquiry of his heavy,
lifting eyebrows. His glance comprehended Joan with kindling interest.
With Helena he approached, his heavy body rolling a little in spite of
the elasticity of his stride.
"My husband, Vincent Marbridge. Vincent, this is Joan Thursday. She's
engaged to Jack Matthias. Isn't it wonderful? And aren't they both
fortunate? And _isn't_ she pretty?"
Marbridge's unctuous and intimate smile accompanied his reply: "Yes to
all--twice yes to your last question." His warm strong hand closed
over Joan's diffident fingers. "My heartiest congratulations to you
both.... Ah, Mr. Matthias, how are you? So we meet again--at
Tanglewood!"
The hands of the two men touched and fell apart. But this clue was
wasted upon Joan, who stood silently abashed and sullen with
consciousness of her own inept awkwardness as contrasted with the
amiable aplomb of these people with whom good breeding was a cult, the
practice of the art of self-possession its primary rite.
To Marbridge she stammered: "Pleased to meet you." And immediately felt
her face burning and as if she could faint for sheer mortification.
It was Helena who, pitiful for the gaucherie of the girl, saved the
situation by raising the issue of tea. Venetia demurred: they were, it
seemed, visiting friends in Southampton; had driven over only for a call
of a moment; would be late for dinner if they tarried. But Marbridge
settled the question by dropping solidly into a chair and announcing
that there he was and there would stay pending either tea or a highball.
Venetia, unable to disguise a flush of resentment, showed her back to
her husband and devoted herself to George Tankerville. As Helena
summoned a servant, Marbridge hitched his chair closer and inaugurated a
rather one-sided conversation with Joan.
Again in her basket-chair, knees daintily crossed in imitation of a pose
mentally photographed from the stage, Joan experienced renewed
consciousness of her attractions, and with it regained a little ease. It
could scarcely be otherwise under the wondering regard that Marbridge
bent upon the girl. His admiration was unconcealed, and to Joan at first
the sweeter since it was diverted from his wife.
But insensibly the situation began to affect her less pleasantly. She
grew sensitive to an effect of strain in the atmosphere, made up in
equal parts of Venetia's indignation, Matthias's annoyance, Helena's
suave but quite fruitless efforts to interpose and distract the interest
of Marbridge to herself.
And there was a confusing and disturbing element of familiar and
personal significance in the man's undeviating and brazen stare. Truly,
in the older sense of the word, impudent, it hinted an understanding so
complete as to be almost shameful--worse, it educed a real if unspoken
response from the girl; unwillingly she admitted the existence of a bond
of sympathy between herself and this man whom she had never seen before,
a feeling more true and intimate than that which her association with
Matthias had inspired, than any she had ever known. For a time she
fought against this impression, in a bewilderment that evoked from her
only witless and hesitant responses. Then suddenly encountering his
eyes--actually against her will--she was stricken dumb and breathless by
comprehension of their intent; in effect, they stripped her: bodily and
mentally they made her naked to this man.
Nor was this the sum: for the merest fraction of a moment Joan felt
herself answering: in her bosom a strange oppression, strangely
troubling and sweet; in her own eyes a kindling light, sympathetic,
shameless....
Instantly quenched: distress and affronted modesty incarnadined her
face, veiled her eyes. Almost unconsciously she turned away.
Indistinctly she saw the white face of Venetia, set and hard, with a
scornful lip for her husband. Shifting to view the object of his
admiration, it showed no change of expression. Her voice cut incisively
through his lazy, drawling accents.
"This is quite impossible," she said coolly, consulting a jewelled watch
on her slender, gloved wrist. "If we stay another instant we shall be
unforgivably late. But"--to Helena--"thank you so much, dear, for
wanting us to stop.... Vincent, I am going."
She moved slowly toward the house. Marbridge kept his seat.
"Nonsense!" he expostulated. "Plenty of time. Tea's just coming. And I'm
dying the death of a dog with thirst."
"I am going," Venetia repeated in an uninflected voice.
His dark face darkening, Marbridge glanced to Helena, to Tankerville,
ignored Matthias, looked back to Joan: gaining as little encouragement
from her, as from his host and hostess, since she dared not again meet
his gaze. With a movement of his heavy shoulders and a chuckle he heaved
himself out of the chair.
"Oh, _all_ right," he called indulgently to his wife: "coming!... All
women are crazy, anyhow," he confided to the others. "You've got to let
'em have their own way. So--good night. Hope I'll have the pleasure of
seeing you-all soon again."
He extended a hand to Helena--who gave him cool fingertips--and paused
before Joan.
"Au revoir, Miss Thursday...."
The girl was unconscious of the proffered hand. Her eyes averted, she
murmured a good night.
His smile broadening, Marbridge turned to Matthias; received from him a
look that was as good as a kick, gave back a grin of graceless
effrontery; and swinging, linked arms with Tankerville.
"Come along, George--take a look at our new car. She's a wonder!"
Civilly playing his part, Tankerville submitted.
They disappeared--Marbridge gabbling cheerfully--into the house. Joan
uncurtained her eyes. Her lover, with a face of thunder, was looking
toward his aunt; who made a slight negative motion of her head, with an
admonitory flutter of one hand: a servant with a tray was drawing near.
Matthias answered her with a gesture of controlled wrath; turned to the
balustrade; stood there staring straight into the angry sunset glow.
On the drive a motor snorted, snored, drew away with a whine
diminuendo....
Throughout the remainder of Joan's visit the incident was not once
referred to. But it had had its curious and disturbing effect upon the
girl. She remembered it all very vividly, reviewed it with insatiable
inquisitiveness. From this she derived a feeling, which she resented, of
having witnessed a scene fraught with significance indecipherable to
her.