Marianne indicated a chair, but he refused with an agitated shake of his head. So she sat down, thinking that in this case Carlton and the doctor had acted correctly. The vicar's brand of salvation was not suited to the Duchess even when she was in good health, and she needed no more reminders that her end was near.
"You have done all you could," she said. "Please sit down and let me give you a cup of tea. You are upset -"
"Upset!" The vicar whirled and crossed the space that separated them in a single bound, his coattails flying out like the wings of a big black bird. Marianne was so startled that she emitted a faint yelp of alarm. Before she could do more the vicar took her by the shoulders – it seemed to be a favorite gesture of his – and lifted her clean out of her chair. Holding her at arm's length, with the tips of her slippers barely touching the floor, he cried out, "Yes, I am upset! I confess it. But I will not yield. I will snatch one brand from the burning. Miss Ransom, will you… No, I will not ask, I will command – purely in my pastoral capacity, of course. Miss Ransom, you must be mine!"
Marianne could only conclude that she had lost her wits, or that the vicar had lost his. One of them must be mad.
Seeing her consternation, St. John grew calmer. "I have frightened you," he said.
Marianne nodded dumbly.
"My zeal overcame me." St. John lowered her into her chair. But then he lifted her again, having transferred his grasp from her shoulders to her waist. "I do not ask this," he explained carefully, "out of selfish lust."
"Oh, indeed?" Marianne had at last recovered her breath. She put her hands against the young man's chest and pushed. For all the effect this had she might have been pushing at a stone.
"No," St. John said. "I do it in order to save a soul. You are doomed to perdition, my dear Miss Ransom, if you remain here.
I offer you sanctuary – redemption – everlasting bliss! I realize the ambiguities of your position: your doubtful heritage, your lack of a dowry, your scandalous past. I overlook them. At heart you are honest, I am sure. We will leave this house at once. I will take you to an aged relative of mine, where you will remain until the wedding."
Throughout this speech his actions had been somewhat at variance with his lofty sentiments; for his arms clasped Marianne closer and closer and he made a very determined effort to reach her lips with his.
Sad to say, Marianne's reaction was not indignation or the sense of spiritual shame the vicar had hoped to inspire. It was, simply and solely, boredom. She wondered how she could have gone out of her way to catch a glimpse of this singularly dull, pompous young man.
Finally, realizing that she was losing ground in her effort to keep him from kissing her, she freed one hand and slapped his face as hard as she could. St. John let her go. Nursing his wounded cheek with one hand, he stared at her in shocked surprise.
"You are distraught," he suggested.
"I am insulted – and amused. Let me advise you, Mr. St. John, the next time you propose to a lady, do not begin by listing all her negative qualities. Can you find your way out, or shall I ring for Jenkins to show you out?"
St. John found his own way out.
Marianne collapsed into a chair. She did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry or swear. She was only certain of one thing: what a blessing it was that Carlton had not come in upon that dreadful, farcical scene!
Even as the thought came to her mind a voice remarked, "Very nicely done, upon my word. I would not have believed you had it in you."
Carlton's head appeared above the back of the sofa.
"You listened!" Marianne cried furiously. "You are the most disgusting – the most reprehensible -"
She was so angry she stumbled over the last word, pronouncing it "rehensibubble," and Carlton burst out laughing. Marianne fled, her hands pressed to her burning cheeks.
After that misadventure it was time to force herself to face the Duchess.
At first all went smoothly. The Duchess appeared bright and calm. They spoke of Mr. MacGregor, and Marianne expressed her enthusiastic approval. The Duchess agreed. She had one more candidate to interview next day, but unless he proved to be extraordinary she thought the nod must go to the young Scot.
When Marianne rose to dress for dinner, the Duchess caught her hand and, with a startling change in manner and tone, said, "You have not forgotten? You will keep your word? It will not be long now…"
"I know." The fingers clasping hers were so thin and cold they felt like fleshless bone. Marianne repressed a shudder. "I – I will do my best. Are you not coming downstairs tonight?"
"No, I think not. I am a little tired. I want to save my strength for tomorrow." The Duchess smiled – a strange, shadowy smile. "We will have a grand dinner party and all dress in our best. Won't that be splendid?"
"Yes, indeed," Marianne managed to say. When she was outside the room she wiped her fingers with a fold of her skirt; but the icy touch still lingered on her flesh.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At two o'clock in the morning Marianne finally abandoned her effort to sleep. She had been tossing and turning for hours, watching the shadows lengthen as her candle burned down, and listening to the hiss of sleety snow against the windows.
Dinner had been a miserable affair. The brisk north wind had found cracks and crannies in the paneling of the dining room that had never before been apparent, and Marianne had shivered in her formal gown until the doctor sent a maid for her shawl. She could not meet Carlton's eyes. Whenever she tried, they narrowed with such diabolical amusement that she was afraid he would say something about the encounter between herself and the vicar. He was in a particularly exasperating mood, baiting the doctor, insulting Horace the cat until Lady Annabelle finally threw her napkin at him and retired in a high dudgeon, and even committing the unspeakable faux pas of speaking to the footmen as they passed the dishes. And after dinner, when Marianne tried to speak alone with the doctor, longing for the solid comfort of his conversation, Carlton refused to be dismissed. He suggested music and made her stay at the piano until bedtime.
She had hoped the dreary weather would help her sleep, but it was no use; the knowledge of what the next day would bring twisted in her mind like a sharp knife, destroying peace. Twenty-four hours from now, she told herself, it will be over. But that was no comfort, for who knew what the denouement would bring, and what unwilling role she would play in bringing it about?
She got up at last, lighted a fresh candle, and started to look for the doctor's brown bottle. She did not like sleeping medicine, but tonight she would have been tempted to swallow a cup of hemlock if someone had assured her it would bring temporary forgetfulness. She searched in increasing frustration until she remembered that Carlton had made off with the medicine and had never returned it. That made her stamp and use some of the squire's swear words. If the hour had not been so late she would have gone after it, but she could imagine Carlton's comments if she crept into his room in the dead of night.
Parting the window curtains, she peered out into the dark. There was nothing to be seen but a blowing curtain of snow. An icy draft blew against her through cracks in the molding and she let the curtain drop.
There was no sense in going back to bed. Wrapping herself in a comforter, she poked the fire up and settled down with Carlyle. He had put her to sleep once before, perhaps he would perform the same office again.
Sleep came upon her so subtly that she did not sense its approach. It seemed to her that she was still sitting by the fire, her head bent over her book, though its print had become a meaningless blur, when a smoldering brand in the fire broke and sent up a last spurt of flame. In the brief illumination she saw a figure sitting in the chair opposite hers.