Louis Vance - Joan Thursday - A Novel

"But, Venetia – "

"Or have you been just making believe, all this long time?"

"It – I – why – of course it's true!" he stammered lamely.

"Then why haven't you ever told me so?"

There sounded reproach, not unkindly, but real. He shook his wits together.

"How could I guess you'd care to know?"

"Do you know me so little as to think I'd resent it, if I happened not to care?"

"I – don't know – didn't think of it that way. In fact – you've knocked me silly!"

"But why? Because I've been straightforward? Dear boy!" – she lifted a hand to him: he took it in trembling – "you're twenty-seven, I'm twenty-three. We know one another pretty well: we know ourselves – at least slightly. Why can't we face things – facts – as man and woman, not as children? What's the good of make-believe? If this thing lies between us, let's be frank about it!"

He hesitated, doubting, searching her face. Her look was very sweet and kind. Of a sudden he cried "Venetia!" came to his knees beside her chair, snatched her hand and crushed it between his own, to his lips.

"I love you – I've always loved you!.."

He felt the velvet of her lips, her breath, upon his forehead; and made as if to clasp her to him. But she slipped back, straightening an arm to fend him off.

"No," she whispered – "not now – not here. Dear boy, get up! Think – this moonlight – anybody might see – "

"I love you!"

"I know and, dear, I'm glad – so glad! But – you made me ask you!"

"I couldn't help that, Venetia: I was – afraid; I hardly dared to dream – of this. You were – you are – above, beyond – "

Gently her hand sealed his mouth.

"Dear, silly boy! Get up. If you won't, I must."

Releasing her hand, he rose. His emotion shook him violently. At discretion, he dropped back into his chair. He looked about him a little wildly, his glance embracing all the weird fantasy of the night: the cold, inaccessible, glittering vault of stars, the malformed and sardonic moon, the silken bosom of the Sound, the lace and purple velvet draperies of the land. Down on the harbour the banjo and harmonica were ragging to tatters a sentimental ballad of the day. From the house came a burst of laughter – Tankerville exultant in some successful stratagem at cards.

His gaze returned to Venetia. She sat without moving, wrapped in the exquisite mystery of her enigmatic heart, bewitching, bewildering, steadfastly reading him with eyes veiled and inscrutable in liquid shadow.

Muttering – "Preposterous!" – he dropped his head between his hands. "I'm mad – mad!" he groaned.

Without stirring, she demanded: "Why?"

He shook his head free. "To have – owned up – let this come to pass. I love you: but that's all I dare say to you."

"Isn't it, maybe, enough for me?"

"I mean – I'm mad to marry you. But how can I ask you to have me? What have I to offer you? The position of wife to a poverty-stricken, half-grown playwright! It's out of reason…"

"But possibly – am I not the one to judge of that?"

"No: I won't have you marry a man unable to provide for you in the way to which you've been educated. It's a point of honour – "

"But I have – "

"You must understand: I've got to be able – able! – to humour your every whim. With things that way – what of your own you choose to spend on yourself won't count. The issue is my ability to give you everything."

"But that will come – "

"When? I can't promise – I hardly dare hope – "

"This new play isn't your only hope?"

"No – "

"Success or failure, you'll keep on?"

"Certainly…"

"Then it's only a question of time."

"But you – how can I ask you to wait?"

"There's no necessity – "

"But it must be." He rose, unable to remain still. "Give me six months: I've got another piece of work under way – and others only waiting their turn. In six months I can – "

"No!"

The monosyllable brought him up sharply. He stared. Her white arms, radiant in that clear, unearthly light, lifted toward him.

"If you want me, dear," she said in a voice tense with emotion – "it must be now – soon! To wait – six months – I – that's im – "

The beautiful modulations of Helena Tankerville's voice interrupted.

Standing in one of the windows to the card-room, she said simply: "An exquisite night."

Then, coming out upon the terrace and seeing Venetia and Matthias, she moved toward them.

"Oh, there you are, Jack. You're wanted indoors."

Matthias, unable quickly to regain his poise, said nothing. Venetia answered for him, calmly:

"He can't come."

"What, dear?"

"I say, he can't come, Helena. He's engaged."

"Engaged!"

Recovering, Helena bore down upon them with a little call of delight.

"Not really!.. O my dears! I'm so glad!"

She gathered Venetia into her arms.

Unremarked by any of these, Marbridge stepped out upon the terrace. He was light of foot like most men of his type; his voice, unctuous with the Southern drawl which he affected together with quaint Southern twists of speech, was the first warning they had of his approach.

"This is surely one powerful' fine night. I don't wonder you-all like it better out here than – " He checked suddenly in both words and action: the women had started apart. "Why!" he added slowly, as though perplexed – "I hope I don't intrude…"

His quick dark eyes shifted rapidly from Helena to Venetia, to Matthias, and again back to the women, during a momentary lull of embarrassment. Then Helena said quietly:

"Not in the least. But this makes you the first to learn the news, Mr. Marbridge. Venetia and my nephew are engaged to be married."

"Engaged – !" The man's chin slacked: his eyes widened; a cigarette fell unheeded from his fingers. He smiled a trace stupidly.

"Why!" – he recollected himself almost instantaneously – "this certainly is some surprise, but I do congratulate you – both!"

With a stride he seized the hand Venetia could not refuse him, and pressed it warmly. "You're the luckiest man I ever knew!" he declared, turning to clasp hands with Matthias.

Instinctively the latter met his powerful grasp with one as forceful. "Thank you," he said, smiling gravely into the other's eyes. Under his firm but pleasant regard they wavered and fell, then steadied with a glint of temper. Their hands fell apart. Marbridge stepped back.

"Perhaps I don't know you well enough, Mr. Matthias, to congratulate Miss Tankerville as heartily as I do you; but I'm persuaded she's not liable to make any serious mistake."

Matthias nodded thoughtfully. "I understand: your intentions are excellent. I'm sure we both thank you. Venetia – ?"

"Mr. Marbridge is very amiable," said the girl, a hint of mirth modifying her composure. "But I'm afraid, Helena," she added quickly – "if you don't mind – I think I'll go to my room."

To Marbridge she gave a quaint little bow that was half an old-fashioned courtesy, robbed of formality by her spirited smile: to Matthias her hand and a gentle "Good night!" Taking the arm of her sister-in-law, she drew her toward the house.

Watching them until they disappeared, Marbridge chuckled quietly.

"Took my breath away!" he declared. "Why, I never suspected for an instant!.." He dropped heavily but with characteristic grace into a chair. "It takes you quiet boys to get away with the girls like Venetia – all fire and dash!"

"Yes," said Matthias reflectively: "it does – doesn't it? Have another cigarette?" He offered his case. "You dropped yours…"

"Thanks… She's a thoroughbred, all right. I reckon if I wasn't a mite too middle-aged, maybe I might've set you a pace that you'd've found lively going."