He stood silent, busy with his weaving. At last he looked at her rather blankly, impersonally. Joan was conscious of a frightened, lonely chill. She put out her hand uncertainly, a wrinkle appearing sharp and deep between her eyes.
“Mr. Morena, please—I haven’t any one but you. I don’t understand very well what this divorcing rightly means. Nor what they will do to me. Will you be thinking of me a little? I wouldn’t ask it, for I know you are unhappy and bothered enough, but, you see—”
He did not notice the hand. “It will come out right, Jane. Don’t worry,” he said with absent gentleness. “Keep your mind on your work. I’ll look out for your best interests. Be sure of that.” He came near to her, his hat in his hand, ready to go. “Try to forget all about it, will you?”
“Oh, I can’t do that. I feel sort of—burnt. Betty thinking—that! But I’ll do my work just the same, of course.”
She sighed heavily and sat, the unnoticed hand clasped in its fellow.
When he had gone she called nervously for her maid. She had a hitherto unknown dread of being alone. But when Mathilde, chosen by Betty, came with her furtive step and treacherous eyes, Joan invented some duty for her. It occurred to her that Mathilde might be one of Betty’s witnesses. For some time the girl’s watchfulness and intrusions had become irritatingly noticeable. And Morena was Joan’s only frequent and informal visitor.
“Mathilde thinks I am—that!” Joan said to herself; and afterwards, with a burst of weeping, “And, of course, that is what I am.” Her past sin pressed upon her and she trembled, remembering Pierre’s wistful, seeking face. If he should find her now, he would find her branded, indeed—now he could never believe that she had indeed been innocent of guilt in the matter of Holliwell. Her father had first put a mark upon her. Since then the world had only deepened his revenge.
There followed a sleepless, dry, and aching night.