When she was alone Joan sat and gazed not at her wall but at the pictures that came back to her out of a part of her life which seemed to have been lived centuries ago.They were the pictures that came back continually without being called, the clearness of which always startled her afresh.Sometimes she thought they sprang up to add to her torment, but sometimes it seemed as if they came to save her from herself--her mad, wicked self.After all, there were moments when to know that she had been the girl whose eighteen-year-old heart had leaped so when she turned and met Jem's eyes, as he stood gazing at her under the beech-tree, was something to cling to.She had been that girl and Jem had been--Jem.And she had been the girl who had joined him in that young, ardent vow that they would say the same prayers at the same hour each night together.Ah! how young it had been--how YOUNG! Her throat strained itself because sobs rose in it, and her eyes were hot with the swell of tears.
She could hear voices and laughter and the click of balls from the billiard-room.Her mother and Palliser laughed the most, but she knew the sound of her mother's voice would cease soon, because she would come back to her.She knew she would not leave her long, and she knew the kind of scene they would pass through together when she returned.
The old things would be said, the old arguments used, but a new one would be added.It was a pleasant thing to wait here, knowing that it was coming, and that for all her fierce pride and fierce spirit she had no defense.It was at once horrible and ridiculous that she must sit and listen--and stare at the growing wall.It was as she caught her breath against the choking swell of tears that she heard Lady Mallowe returning.She came in with an actual sweep across the room.
Her society air had fled, and she was unadornedly furious when she stopped before Joan's chair.For a few seconds she actually glared;then she broke forth in a suppressed undertone:
"Come into the billiard-room.I command it!"
Joan lifted her eyes from her book.Her voice was as low as her mother's, but steadier.
"No," she answered.
"Is this conduct to continue? Is it?" Lady Mallowe panted.
"Yes," said Joan, and laid her book on the table near her.There was nothing else to say.Words made things worse.
Lady Mallowe had lost her head, but she still spoke in the suppressed voice.
"You SHALL behave yourself!" she cried, under her breath, and actually made a passionate half-start toward her."You violent-natured virago!
The very look on your face is enough to drive one mad!""I know I am violent-natured," said Joan."But don't you think it wise to remember that you cannot make the kind of scene here that you can in your own house? We are a bad-tempered pair, and we behave rather like fishwives when we are in a rage.But when we are guests in other people's houses--"Lady Mallowe's temper was as elemental as any Billingsgate could provide.
"You think you can take advantage of that!" she said."Don't trust yourself too far.Do you imagine that just when all might go well for me I will allow you to spoil everything?""How can I spoil everything?"
"By behaving as you have been behaving since we came here--refusing to make a home for yourself; by hanging round my neck so that it will appear that any one who takes me must take you also.""There are servants outside," Joan warned her.
"You shall not stop me!" cried Lady Mallowe.
"You cannot stop yourself," said Joan."That is the worst of it.It is bad enough when we stand and hiss at each other in a stage whisper;but when you lose control over yourself and raise your voice--""I came in here to tell you that this is your last chance.I shall never give you another.Do you know how old you are?""I shall soon be twenty-seven," Joan answered."I wish I were a hundred.Then it would all be over.""But it will not be over for years and years and years," her mother flung back at her."Have you forgotten that the very rags you wear are not paid for?""No, I have not forgotten." The scene was working itself up on the old lines, as Joan had known it would.Her mother never failed to say the same things, every time such a scene took place.
"You will get no more such rags--paid or unpaid for.What do you expect to do? You don't know how to work, and if you did no decent woman would employ you.You are too good-looking and too bad-tempered."
Joan knew she was perfectly right.Knowing it, she remained silent, and her silence added to her mother's helpless rage.She moved a step nearer to her and flung the javelin which she always knew would strike deep.
"You have made yourself a laughing-stock for all London for years.You are mad about a man who disgraced and ruined himself."She saw the javelin quiver as it struck; but Joan's voice as it answered her had a quality of low and deadly steadiness.
"You have said that a thousand times, and you will say it another thousand--though you know the story was a lie and was proved to be one."Lady Mallowe knew her way thoroughly.
"Who remembers the denials? What the world remembers is that Jem Temple Barholm was stamped as a cheat and a trickster.No one has time to remember the other thing.He is dead--dead! When a man's dead it's too late."She was desperate enough to drive her javelin home deeper than she had ever chanced to drive it before.The truth--the awful truth she uttered shook Joan from head to foot.She sprang up and stood before her in heart-wrung fury.
"Oh! You are a hideously cruel woman!" she cried."They say even tigers care for their young! But you--you can say that to _me_.'When a man's dead, it's too late.'""It _is_ too late--it IS too late!" Lady Mallowe persisted.Why had not she struck this note before? It was breaking her will: "I would say anything to bring you to your senses."Joan began to move restlessly to and fro.
