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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15103-0.txt b/15103-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..568ea0f --- /dev/null +++ b/15103-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10259 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Imaginary Marriage, by Henry St. John Cooper + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Imaginary Marriage + +Author: Henry St. John Cooper + +Release Date: February 18, 2005 [eBook #15103] +[Most recently updated: March 6, 2023] + +Language: English + +Produced by: Michael Ciesielski, Beginners Projects, Martin Barber and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE *** + + + + +THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE + +Henry St. John Cooper + + + + +CONTENTS + + CHAPTER I. A MASTERFUL WOMAN + CHAPTER II. IN WHICH HUGH BREAKS THE NEWS + CHAPTER III. JOAN MEREDYTH, TYPIST + CHAPTER IV. FACE TO FACE + CHAPTER V. “PERHAPS I SHALL GO BACK” + CHAPTER VI. “THE ONLY POSSIBLE THING” + CHAPTER VII. MR. SLOTMAN ARRIVES AT A MISUNDERSTANDING + CHAPTER VIII. THE DREAM GIRL + CHAPTER IX. THE PEACEMAKER + CHAPTER X. “IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING” + CHAPTER XI. THE GENERAL CALLS ON HUGH + CHAPTER XII. “I TAKE NOT ONE WORD BACK” + CHAPTER XIII. THE GENERAL CONFESSES + CHAPTER XIV. THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL + CHAPTER XV. “TO THE MANNER BORN” + CHAPTER XVI. ELLICE + CHAPTER XVII. UNREST + CHAPTER XVIII. “UNGENEROUS” + CHAPTER XIX. THE INVESTIGATIONS OF MR. SLOTMAN + CHAPTER XX. “WHEN I AM NOT WITH YOU” + CHAPTER XXI. “I SHALL FORGET HER” + CHAPTER XXII. JEALOUSY + CHAPTER XXIII. “UNCERTAIN—COY” + CHAPTER XXIV. “—TO GAIN, OR LOSE IT ALL” + CHAPTER XXV. IN THE MIRE + CHAPTER XXVI. MR. ALSTON CALLS + CHAPTER XXVII. THE WATCHER + CHAPTER XXVIII. “HE DOES NOT LOVE ME NOW” + CHAPTER XXIX. “WHY DOES SHE TAKE HIM FROM ME?” + CHAPTER XXX. “WAITING” + CHAPTER XXXI. “IF YOU NEED ME” + CHAPTER XXXII. THE SPY + CHAPTER XXXIII. GONE + CHAPTER XXXIV. “FOR HER SAKE” + CHAPTER XXXV. CONNIE DECLARES + CHAPTER XXXVI. “HE HAS COME BACK” + CHAPTER XXXVII. THE DROPPING OF THE SCALES + CHAPTER XXXVIII. “HER CHAMPION” + CHAPTER XXXIX. “THE PAYING” + CHAPTER XL. “IS IT THE END?” + CHAPTER XLI. MR. RUNDLE TAKES A HAND + CHAPTER XLII. “WALLS WE CANNOT BATTER DOWN” + CHAPTER XLIII. “NOT TILL THEN WILL I GIVE UP HOPE” + CHAPTER XLIV. POISON + CHAPTER XLV. THE GUIDING HAND + CHAPTER XLVI. “—SHE HAS GIVEN!” + CHAPTER XLVII. “AS WE FORGIVE—” + CHAPTER XLVIII. HER PRIDE’S LAST FIGHT + + + + +CHAPTER I +A MASTERFUL WOMAN + + +“Don’t talk to me, miss,” said her ladyship. “I don’t want to hear any +nonsense from you!” + +The pretty, frightened girl who shared the drawing-room at this moment +with Lady Linden of Cornbridge Manor House had not dared to open her +lips. But that was her ladyship’s way, and “Don’t talk to me!” was a +stock expression of hers. Few people were permitted to talk in her +ladyship’s presence. In Cornbridge they spoke of her with bated breath +as a “rare masterful woman,” and they had good cause. + +Masterful and domineering was Lady Linden of Cornbridge, yet she was +kind-hearted, though she tried to disguise the fact. + +In Cornbridge she reigned supreme, men and women trembled at her +approach. She penetrated the homes of the cottagers, she tasted of +their foods, she rated them on uncleanliness, drunkenness, and +thriftlessness; she lectured them on cooking. + +On many a Saturday night she raided, single-handed, the Plough Inn and +drove forth the sheepish revellers, personally conducting them to their +homes and wives. + +They respected her in Cornbridge as the reigning sovereign of her small +estate, and none did she rule more autocratically and completely than +her little nineteen-year-old niece Marjorie. + +A pretty, timid, little maid was Marjorie, with soft yellow hair, a +sweet oval face, with large pathetic blue eyes and a timid, uncertain +little rosebud of a mouth. + +“A rare sweet maid her be,” they said of her in the village, “but +terribul tim’rous, and I lay her ladyship du give she a rare time of +it....” Which was true. + +“Don’t talk to me, miss!” her ladyship said to the silent girl. “I know +what is best for you; and I know, too, what you don’t think I know—ha, +ha!” Her ladyship laughed terribly. “I know that you have been meeting +that worthless young scamp, Tom Arundel!” + +“Oh, aunt, he is not worthless—” + +“Financially he isn’t worth a sou—and that’s what I mean, and don’t +interrupt. I am your guardian, you are entirely in my charge, and until +you arrive at the age of twenty-five I can withhold your fortune from +you if you marry in opposition to me and my wishes. But you won’t—you +won’t do anything of the kind. You will marry the man I select for you, +the man I have already selected—what did you say, miss? + +“And now, not another word. Hugh Alston is the man I have selected for +you. He is in love with you, there isn’t a finer lad living. He has +eight thousand a year, and Hurst Dormer is one of the best old +properties in Sussex. So that’s quite enough, and I don’t want to hear +any more nonsense about Tom Arundel. I say nothing against him +personally. Colonel Arundel is a gentleman, of course, otherwise I +would not permit you to know his son; but the Arundels haven’t a +pennypiece to fly with and—and now—Now I see Hugh coming up the drive. +Leave me. I want to talk to him. Go into the garden, and wait by the +lily-pond. In all probability Hugh will have something to say to you +before long.” + +“Oh, aunt, I—” + +“Shut up!” said her ladyship briefly. + +Marjorie went out, with hanging head and bursting heart. She believed +herself the most unhappy girl in England. She loved; who could help +loving happy-go-lucky, handsome Tom Arundel, who well-nigh worshipped +the ground her little feet trod upon? It was the first love and the +only love of her life, and of nights she lay awake picturing his +bright, young boyish face, hearing again all the things he had said to +her till her heart was well-nigh bursting with love and longing for +him. + +But she did not hate Hugh. Who could hate Hugh Alston, with his cheery +smile, his ringing voice, his big generous heart, and his fine +manliness? Not she! But from the depths of her heart she wished Hugh +Alston a great distance away from Cornbridge. + +“Hello, Hugh!” said her ladyship. He had come in, a man of +two-and-thirty, big and broad, with suntanned face and eyes as blue as +the tear-dimmed eyes of the girl who had gone miserably down to the +lily-pond. + +Fair haired was Hugh, ruddy of cheek, with no particular beauty to +boast of, save the wholesomeness and cleanliness of his young manhood. +He seemed to bring into the room a scent of the open country, of the +good brown earth and of the clean wind of heaven. + +“Hello, Hugh!” said Lady Linden. + +“Hello, my lady,” said he, and kissed her. It had been his habit from +boyhood, also it had been his lifelong habit to love and respect the +old dame, and to feel not the slightest fear of her. In this he was +singular, and because he was the one person who did not fear her she +preferred him to anyone else. + +“Hugh,” she said—she went straight to the point, she always did; as a +hunter goes at a hedge, so her ladyship without prevarication went at +the matter she had in hand—“I have been talking to Marjorie about Tom +Arundel—” + +His cheery face grew a little grave. + +“Yes?” + +“Well, it is absurd—you realise that?” + +“I suppose so, but—” He paused. + +“It is childish folly!” + +“Do you think so? Do you think that she—” Again he paused, with a +nervousness and diffidence usually foreign to him. + +“She’s only a gel,” said her ladyship. Her ladyship was Sussex born, +and talked Sussex when she became excited. “She’s only a gel, and gels +have their fancies. I had my own—but bless you, they don’t last. She +don’t know her own mind.” + +“He’s a good fellow,” said Hugh generously. + +“A nice lad, but he won’t suit me for Marjorie’s husband. Hugh, the +gel’s in the garden, she is sitting by the lily-pond and believes her +heart is broken, but it isn’t! Go and prove it isn’t; go now!” + +He met her eyes and flushed red. “I’ll go and have a talk to Marjorie,” +he said. “You haven’t been—too rough with her, have you?” + +“Rough! I know how to deal with gels. I told her that I had the command +of her money, her four hundred a year till she was twenty-five, and not +a bob of it should she touch if she married against my wish. Now go and +talk to her—and talk sense—” She paused. “You know what I mean—sense!” + +A very pretty picture, the slender white-clad, drooping figure with its +crown of golden hair made, sitting on the bench beside the lily-pond. +Her hands were clasped, her eyes fixed on the stagnant green water over +which the dragon-flies skimmed. + +Coming across the soundless turf, he stood for a moment to look at her. + +Hurst Dormer was a fine old place, yet of late to him it had grown +singularly dull and cheerless. He had loved it all his life, but +latterly he had realised that there was something missing, something +without which the old house could not be home to him, and in his dreams +waking and sleeping he had seen this same little white-clad figure +seated at the foot of the great table in the dining-hall. + +He had seen her in his mind’s eye doing those little housewifely duties +that the mistresses of Hurst Dormer had always loved to do, her slender +fingers busy with the rare and delicate old china, or the +lavender-scented linen, or else in the wonderful old garden, the +gracious little mistress of all and of his heart. + +And now she sat drooping like a wilted lily beside the green pond, +because of her love for another man, and his honest heart ached that it +should be so. + +“Marjorie!” he said. + +She lifted a tear-stained face and held out her hand’ to him silently. + +He patted her hand gently, as one pats the hand of a child. “Is—is it +so bad, little girl? Do you care for him so much?” + +“Better than my life!” she said. “Oh, if you knew!” + +“I see,” he said quietly. He sat staring at the green waters, stirred +now and again by the fin of a lazy carp. He realised that there would +be no sweet girlish, golden-haired little mistress for Hurst Dormer, +and the realisation hurt him badly. + +The girl seemed to have crept a little closer to him, as for comfort +and protection. + +“She has made up her mind, and nothing will change it. She wants you +to—to marry me. She’s told me so a hundred times. She won’t listen to +anything else; she says you—you care for me, Hugh.” + +“Supposing I care so much, little girl, that I want your happiness +above everything in this world. Supposing—I clear out?” he said—“clear +right away, go to Africa, or somewhere or other?” + +“She would make me wait till you came back, and you’d have to come +back, Hugh, because there is always Hurst Dormer. There’s no way out +for me, none. If only—only you were married; that is the only thing +that would have saved me!” + +“But I’m not!” + +She sighed. “If only you were, if only you could say to her, ‘I can’t +ask Marjorie to marry me, because I am already married!’ It sounds +rubbish, doesn’t it, Hugh; but if it were only true!” + +“Supposing—I did say it?” + +“Oh, Hugh, but—” She looked up at him quickly. “But it would be a lie!” + +“I know, but lies aren’t always the awful things they are supposed to +be—if one told a lie to help a friend, for instance, such a lie might +be forgiven, eh?” + +“But—” She was trembling; she looked eagerly into his eyes, into her +cheeks had come a flush, into her eyes the brightness of a new, though +as yet vague, hope. “It—it sounds so impossible!” + +“Nothing is actually impossible. Listen, little maid. She sent me here +to you to talk sense, as she put it. That meant she sent me here to ask +you to marry me, and I meant to do it. I think perhaps you know why”—he +lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it—“but I shan’t now, I never +shall. Little girl, we’re going to be what we’ve always been, the best +and truest of friends, and I’ve got to find a way to help you and Tom—” + +“Hugh, if you told her that you were married, and not free, she +wouldn’t give another thought to opposing Tom and me—it is only because +she wants me to marry you that she opposes Tom! Oh, Hugh, if—if—if you +could, if it were possible!” She was trembling with excitement, and the +sweet colour was coming and going in her cheeks. + +“Supposing I did it?” he said, and spoke his thoughts aloud. “Of course +it would be a shock to her, perhaps she wouldn’t believe!” + +“She would believe anything you said...” + +“It is rather a rotten thing to do,” he thought, “yet....” He looked at +the bright, eager face, it would make her happy; he knew that what she +said was true—Lady Linden would not oppose Tom Arundel if marriage +between Marjorie and himself was out of the question. It would be +making the way clear for her: it would be giving her happiness, doing +her the greatest service that he could. Of his own sacrifice, his own +disappointment he thought not now; realisation of that would come +later. + +At first it seemed to him a mad, a nonsensical scheme, yet it was one +that might so easily be carried out. If one doubt was left as to +whether he would do it, it was gone the next moment. + +“Hugh, would you do—would you do this for me?” + +“There is very little that I wouldn’t do for you, little maid,” he +said, “and if I can help you to your happiness I am going to do it.” + +She crept closer to him; she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and +held his hand in hers. + +“Tell me just what you will say.” + +“I haven’t thought that out yet.” + +“But you must.” + +“I know. You see, if I say I am married, naturally she will ask me a +few questions.” + +“When she gets—gets her breath!” Marjorie said with a laugh; it was the +first time she had laughed, and he liked to hear it. + +“The first will probably be, How long have I been married?” + +“Do you remember you used to come to Marlbury to see me when I was at +school at Miss Skinner’s?” + +“Rather!” + +“That was three years ago. Supposing you married about then?” + +“Fine,” Hugh said. “I married three years ago. What month?” + +“June,” she said; “it’s a lovely month!” + +“I was married in June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, my lady,” said +Hugh. “Where at, though?” + +“Why, Marlbury, of course!” + +“Of course! Splendid place to get married in, delightful romantic old +town!” + +“It is a hateful place, but that doesn’t matter,” said Marjorie. She +seemed to snuggle up a little closer to him, her lips were rippling +with smiles, her bright eyes saw freedom and love, her heart was very +warm with gratitude to this man who was helping her. But she could not +guess, how could she, how in spite of the laughter on his lips there +was a great ache and a feeling of emptiness at his heart. + +“So now we have it all complete,” he said. “I was married in June, +nineteen eighteen at Marlbury; my wife and I did not get on, we parted. +She had a temper, so had I, a most unhappy affair, and there you are!” +He laughed. + +“All save one thing,” Marjorie said. + +“Goodness, what have I forgotten?” + +“Only the lady’s name.” + +“You are right. She must have a name of course, something nice and +romantic—Gladys something, eh?” + +Marjorie shook her head. + +“Clementine,” suggested Hugh. “No, won’t do, eh? Now you put your +thinking cap on and invent a name, something romantic and pretty. Let’s +hear from you, Marjorie.” + +“Do you like—Joan Meredyth?” she said. + +“Splendid! What a clever little brain!” He shut his eyes. “I married +Miss Joan Meredyth on the first of June, or was it the second, in the +year nineteen hundred and eighteen? We lived a cat-and-dog existence, +and parted with mutual recriminations, since when I have not seen her! +Marjorie, do you think she will swallow it?” + +“If you tell her; but, Hugh, will you—will you?” + +“Little girl, is it going to help you?” + +“You know it is!” she whispered. + +“Then I shall tell her!” + +Marjorie lifted a pair of soft arms and put them about his neck. + +“Hugh!” she said, “Hugh, if—if I had never known Tom, I—” + +“I know,” he said. “I know. God bless you.” He stooped and kissed her +on the cheek, and rose. + +It was a mad thing this that he was to do, yet he never considered its +madness, its folly. It would help her, and Hurst Dormer would never +know its golden-haired mistress, after all. + + + + +CHAPTER II +IN WHICH HUGH BREAKS THE NEWS + + +Lady Linden had just come in from one of her usual and numerous +inspections, during which she had found it necessary to reprove one of +the under-gardeners. She had described him to himself, his character, +his appearance and his methods from her own point of view, and had left +the man stupefied and amazed at the extent of her vocabulary and her +facility of expression. He was still scratching his head, dazedly, when +she came into the drawing-room. + +“Hugh, you here? Where is Marjorie?” + +“Down by the pond, I think,” he said, with an attempt at airiness. + +“In a moment you will make me angry. You know what I wish to know. Did +you propose to Marjorie, Hugh?” + +“Did I—” He seemed astonished. “Did I what?” + +“Propose to Marjorie! Good heavens, man, isn’t that why I sent you +there?” + +“I certainly did not propose to her. How on earth could I?” + +“There is no reason on earth why you should not have proposed to her +that I can see.” + +“But there is one that I can see.” He paused. “A man can’t invite a +young woman to marry him—when he is already married!” + +It was out! He scarcely dared to look at her. Lady Linden said nothing; +she sat down. + +“Hugh!” She had found breath and words at last. “Hugh Alston! Did I +hear you aright?” + +“I believe you did!” + +“You mean to tell me that you—you are a married man?” + +He nodded. He realised that he was not a good liar. + +“I would like some particulars,” she said coldly. “Hugh Alston, I +should be very interested to know where she is!” + +“I don’t know!” + +“You are mad. When were you married?” + +“June nineteen eighteen,” he said glibly. + +“Where?” + +“At Marlbury!” + +“Good gracious! That is where Marjorie used to go to school!” + +“Yes, it was when I went down to see her there, and—” + +“You met this woman you married? And her name?” + +“Joan,” he said—“Joan Meredyth!” + +“Joan—Meredyth!” said Lady Linden. She closed her eyes; she leaned back +in her chair. “That girl!” + +A chill feeling of alarm swept over him. She spoke, her ladyship spoke, +as though such a girl existed, as though she knew her personally. And +the name was a pure invention! Marjorie had invented it—at least, he +believed so. + +“You—you don’t know her?” + +“Know her—of course I know her. Didn’t Marjorie bring her here from +Miss Skinner’s two holidays running? A very beautiful and brilliant +girl, the loveliest girl I think I ever saw! Really, Hugh Alston, +though I am surprised and pained at your silence and duplicity, I must +absolve you. I always regarded you as more or less a fool, but Joan +Meredyth is a girl any man might fall in love with!” + +Hugh sat gripping the arms of his chair. What had he done, or rather +what had Marjorie done? What desperate muddle had that little maid led +him into? He had counted on the name being a pure invention, and now— + +“Where is she?” demanded Lady Linden. + +“I don’t know—we—we parted!” + +“Why?” + +“We didn’t get on, you see. She’d got a temper, and so—” + +“Of course she had a temper. She is a spirited gel, full of life and +fire and intelligence. I wouldn’t give twopence for a woman without a +temper—certainly she had a temper! Bah, don’t talk to me, sir—you sit +there and tell me you were content to let her go, let a beautiful +creature like that go merely because she had a temper?” + +“She—she went. I didn’t let her go; she just went!” + +“Yes,” Lady Linden said thoughtfully, “I suppose she did. It is just +what Joan would do! She saw that she was not appreciated; you wrangled, +or some folly, and she simply went. She would—so would I have gone! And +now, where is she?” + +“I tell you I don’t know!” + +“You’ve never sought her?” + +“Never! I—I—now look here,” he went on, “don’t take it to heart too +much. She is quite all right—that is, I expect—” + +“You expect!” she said witheringly. “Here you sit; you have a beautiful +young wife, the most brilliant girl I ever met, and—and you let her go! +Don’t talk to me!” + +“No, I won’t; let’s drop it! We will discuss it some other time—it is a +matter I prefer not to talk about! Naturally it is rather—painful to +me!” + +“So I should think!” + +“Yes, I much prefer not to talk about it. Let’s discuss Marjorie!” + +“Confound Marjorie!” + +“Marjorie is the sweetest little soul in the world, and—” + +“It’s a pity you didn’t think of that three years ago!” + +“And Tom Arundel is a fine fellow; no one can say one word against +him!” + +“I don’t wish to discuss them! If Marjorie is obsessed with this folly +about young Arundel, it will be her misfortune. If she wants to marry +him she will probably regret it. I intended her to marry you; but since +it can’t be, I don’t feel any particular interest in the matter of +Marjorie’s marriage at the moment! Now tell me about Joan at once!” + +“Believe me, I—I much prefer not to: it is a sore subject, a matter I +never speak about!” + +“Oh, go away then—and leave me to myself. Let me think it all out!” + +He went gladly enough; he made his way back to the lily-pond. + +“Marjorie,” he said tragically, “what have you done?” + +“Oh, Hugh!” She was trembling at once. + +“No, no, dear, don’t worry; it is nothing. She believes every word, and +I feel sure it will be all right for you and Tom, but, oh Marjorie—that +name, I thought you had invented it!” + +Marjorie flushed. “It was the name of a girl at Miss Skinner’s: she was +a great, great friend of mine. She was two years older than I, and just +as sweet and beautiful as her name, and when you were casting about for +one I—I just thought of it, Hugh. It hasn’t done any harm, has it?” + +“I hope not, only, don’t you see, you’ve made me claim an existing +young lady as my wife, and if she turned up some time or other—” + +“But she won’t! When she left school she went out to Australia to join +her uncle there, and she will in all probability never come back to +England.” + +Hugh drew a sigh of relief. “That’s all right then! It’s all right, +little girl; it is all right. I believe things are going to be brighter +for you now.” + +“Thanks to you, Hugh!” + +“You know there is nothing in this world—” He looked down at the lovely +face, alive with gratitude and happiness. His dreams were ended, the +“might-have-been” would never be, but he knew that there was peace in +that little breast at last. + + + + +CHAPTER III +JOAN MEREDYTH, TYPIST + + +Mr. Philip Slotman touched the electric buzzer on his desk and then +watched the door. He was an unpleasant—looking man, strangely corpulent +as to body, considering his face was cast in lean and narrow mould, the +nose large, prominent and hooked, the lips full, fleshy, and of +cherry—like redness, the eyes small, mean, close together and deep set. +The over—corpulent body was attired lavishly. It was dressed in a fancy +waistcoat, a morning coat, elegantly striped trousers of lavender hue +and small pointed—toed, patent—leather boots, with bright tan uppers. +The rich aroma of an expensive cigar hung about the atmosphere of Mr. +Slotman’s office. This and his clothes, and the large diamond ring that +twinkled on his finger, proclaimed him a person of opulence. + +The door opened and a girl came in; she carried a notebook and her head +very high. She trod like a young queen, and in spite of the poor black +serge dress she wore, there was much of regal dignity about her. Dark +brown hair that waved back from a broad and low forehead, a pair of +lustrous eyes filled now with contempt and aversion, eyes shielded by +lashes that, when she slept, lay like a silken fringe upon her cheeks. +Her nose was redeemed from the purely classical by the merest +suggestion of tip-tiltedness, that gave humour, expression and +tenderness to the whole face—tenderness and sweetness that with +strength was further betrayed by the finely cut, red-lipped mouth and +the strong little chin, carried so proudly on the white column of her +neck. + +Her figure was that of a young goddess, and a goddess she looked as she +swept disdainfully into Mr. Philip Slotman’s office, shorthand notebook +in her hand. + +“I want you to take a letter to Jarvis and Purcell, Miss Meredyth,” he +said. “Please sit down. Er—hum—‘Dear Sirs, With regard to your last +communication received on the fourteenth instant, I beg—’” + +Mr. Slotman moved, apparently negligently, from his leather-covered +armchair. He rose, he sauntered around the desk, then suddenly he flung +off all pretence at lethargy, and with a quick step put himself between +the girl and the door. + +“Now, my dear,” he said, “you’ve got to listen to me!” + +“I am listening to you.” She turned contemptuous grey eyes on him. + +“Hang the letter! I don’t mean that. You’ve got to listen about other +things!” + +He stretched out his hand to touch her, and she drew back. She rose, +and her eyes flashed. + +“If you touch me, Mr. Slotman, I shall—” She paused; she looked about +her; she picked up a heavy ebony ruler from his desk. “I shall defend +myself!” + +“Don’t be a fool,” he said, yet took a step backwards, for there was +danger in her eyes. + +“Look here, you won’t get another job in a hurry, and you know it. +Shorthand typists are not wanted these days, the schools are turning +out thousands of ’em, all more or less bad; but I—I ain’t talking about +that, dear—” He took a step towards her, and then recoiled, seeing her +knuckles shine whitely as she gripped the ruler. “Come, be sensible!” + +“Are you going to persist in this annoyance of me?” she demanded. +“Can’t I make you understand that I am here to do my work and for no +other purpose?” + +“Supposing,” he said, “supposing—I—I asked you to marry me?” + +He had never meant to say this, yet he had said it, for the fascination +of her was on him. + +“Supposing you did? Do you think I would consent to marry such a man as +you?” She held her head very proudly. + +“Do you mean that you would refuse?” + +“Of course!” + +He seemed staggered; he looked about him as one amazed. He had kept +this back as the last, the supreme temptation, the very last card in +his hand; and he had played it, and behold, it proved to be no trump. + +“I would neither marry you nor go out with you, nor do I wish to have +anything to say to you, except so far as business is concerned. As that +seems impossible, it will be better for me to give you a week’s notice, +Mr. Slotman.” + +“You’ll be sorry for it,” he said—“infernally sorry for it. It ain’t +pleasant to starve, my girl!” + +“I had to do it, I had to, or I could not have respected myself any +longer,” the girl thought, as she made her way home that evening to the +boarding-house, where for two pounds a week she was fed and lodged. But +to be workless! It had been the nightmare of her dreams, the haunting +fear of her waking hours. + +In her room at the back of the house, to which the jingle of the +boarding-house piano could yet penetrate, she sat for a time in deep +thought. The past had held a few friends, folk who had been kind to +her. Pride had held her back; she had never asked help of any of them. +She thought of the Australian uncle who had invited her to come out to +him when she should leave school, and then had for some reason changed +his mind and sent her a banknote for a hundred pounds instead. She had +felt glad and relieved at the time, but now she regretted his decision. +Yet there had been a few friends; she wrote down the names as they +occurred to her. + +There was old General Bartholomew, who had known her father. There was +Mrs. Ransome. No, she believed now that she had heard that Mrs. Ransome +was dead; perhaps the General too, yet she would risk it. There was +Lady Linden, Marjorie Linden’s aunt. She knew but little of her, but +remembered her as at heart a kindly, though an autocratic dame. She +remembered, too, that one of Lady Linden’s hobbies had been to +establish Working Guilds and Rural Industries, Village Crafts, and +suchlike in her village. In connection with some of these there might +be work for her. + +She wrote to all that she could think of, a letter of which she made +six facsimile copies. It was not a begging appeal, but a dignified +little reminder of her existence. + +“If you could assist me to obtain any work by which I might live, you +would be putting me under a deep debt of gratitude,” she wrote. + +Before she slept that night all six letters were in the post. She +wished them good luck one by one as she dropped them into the +letter-box, the six sprats that had been flung into the sea of fortune. +Would one of them catch for her a mackerel? She wondered. + +“You’d best take back that notice,” Slotman said to her the next +morning. “You won’t find it so precious easy to find a job, my girl; +and, after all, what have I done?” + +“Annoyed me, insulted me ever since I came here,” she said quietly. +“And of course I shall not stay!” + +“Insulted you! Is it an insult to ask you to be my wife?” + +“It seems so to me,” she said quietly. “If you had meant that—at +first—it would have been different; now it is only an insult!” + +Three days passed, and there came answers. She had been right, Mrs. +Ransome was dead, and there was no one who could do anything for Miss +Meredyth. + +General Bartholomew was at Harrogate, and her letter had been sent on +to him there, wrote a polite secretary. And then there came a letter +that warmed the girl’s heart and brought back all her belief and faith +in human nature. + + +“MY DEAREST CHILD, + +“Your letter came as a welcome surprise—to think that you are looking +for employment! Well, we must see to this—I promise you, you will not +have far to look. Come here to me at once, and be sure that everything +will be put right and all misunderstandings wiped out. I am keeping +your letter a secret from everyone, even from Marjorie, that your +coming shall be the more unexpected, and the greater surprise and +pleasure. But come without delay, and believe me to be, + +“Your very affectionate friend, +“HARRIET LINDEN.” + + +“P.S.—I suggest that you wire me the day and the train, so that I can +meet you. Don’t lose any time, and be sure that all past unhappiness +can be ended, and the future faced with the certainty of brighter and +happier days.” + + +Over this letter Joan Meredyth pondered a great deal. It was a +warm-hearted and affectionate response to her somewhat stilted little +appeal. Yet what did the old lady mean, to what did the veiled +reference apply? + +“So you mean going, then?” Slotman asked. + +“I told you I would go, and I shall. I leave to-morrow.” + +“You’ll be glad to come back,” he said. He looked at her, and there was +eagerness in his eyes. “Joan, don’t be a fool, stay. I could give you a +good time, and—” + +But she had turned her back on him. + +She had written to Lady Linden thanking her for her kindly letter. + + +“I shall come to you on Saturday for the week-end, if I may. I find +there is a train at a quarter-past three. I shall come by that to +Cornbridge Station. + +“Believe me, +“Yours gratefully and affectionately, +“JOAN MEREDYTH.” + + +There was a subdued excitement about Lady Linden during the Thursday +and the Friday, and an irritating air of secretiveness. + +“Foolish, foolish young people! Both so good and so worthy in their +way—the girl beautiful and clever, the man as fine and honest and +upright a young fellow as ever trod this earth—donkeys! Perhaps they +can’t be driven—very often donkeys can’t; but they can be led!” + +To Hugh Alston, at Hurst Dormer, seven miles away, Lady Linden had +written. + + +“MY DEAR HUGH, + +“I want you to come here Saturday; it is a matter of vital importance.” +(She had a habit of underlining her words to give them emphasis, and +she underscored “vital” three times.) “I want you to time your arrival +for half-past five, a nice time for tea. Don’t be earlier, and don’t be +later. And, above all, don’t fail me, or I will never forgive you.” + + +“I expect,” Hugh thought, “that she is going to make a public +announcement of the engagement between Marjorie and Tom Arundel.” + +It was precisely at half-past five that Hugh stepped out of his +two-seater car and demanded admittance at the door of the Manor House. + +“Oh, Mr. Alston,” the footman said, “my lady is expecting you. She told +me to show you straight into the drawing-room, and she and—” The man +paused. + +“Her ladyship will be with you in a few moments, sir.” + +“There is festival in the air here, Perkins, and mystery and secrecy +too, eh?” + +“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” the man said. “This way, Mr. Alston.” + +And now in the drawing-room Hugh was cooling his heels. + +Why this mystery? Where was Marjorie? Why didn’t his aunt come? + +Then someone came, the door opened. Into the room stepped a tall girl—a +girl with the most beautiful face he thought he had ever seen in his +life. She looked at him calmly and casually, and seemed to hesitate; +and then behind her appeared Lady Linden, flushed, and evidently +agitated. + +“There,” she said, “there, my dears—I have brought you together again, +and now everything must be made quite all right! Joan, darling, here is +your husband! Go to him, forgive him if there is aught to forgive. Ask +forgiveness, child, in your turn, and then—then kiss and be friends, as +husband and wife should be.” + +She beamed on them both, then swiftly retreated, and the door behind +Joan Meredyth quickly closed. + + + + +CHAPTER IV +FACE TO FACE + + +It was, Hugh Alston decided, the most beautiful face he had ever seen +in his life and the coldest, or so it seemed to him. She was looking at +him with cool questioning in her grey eyes, her lips drawn to a hard +line. + +He saw her as she stood before him, and as he saw her now, so would he +carry the memory of the picture she made in his mind for many a day to +come—tall, perhaps a little taller than the average woman, tall by +comparison with Marjorie Linden, brown of hair and grey of eye, with a +disdainfully enquiring look about her. + +He was not a man who usually noticed a woman’s clothes, yet the picture +impressed on his mind of this girl was a very complete one. She was +wearing a dress that instinct told him was of some cheap material. She +might have bought it ready-made, she might have made it herself, or +some unskilled dressmaker might have turned it out cheaply. Poverty was +the note it struck, her boots were small and neat, well-worn. Yes, +poverty was the keynote to it all. + +It was she, womanlike, who broke the silence. + +“Well? I am waiting for some explanation of all the extraordinary +things that have been said to me since I have been in this house. You, +of course, heard what Lady Linden said as she left us?” + +“I heard,” he said. His cheeks turned red. Was ever a man in a worse +position? The questioning grey eyes stared at him so coldly that he +lost his head. He wanted to apologise, to explain, yet he knew that he +could not explain. It was Marjorie who had brought him into this, but +he must respect the girl’s secret, on which so much depended for her. + +“Please answer me,” Joan Meredyth said. “You heard Lady Linden advise +us, you and myself, to make up a quarrel that has never taken place; +you heard her—” She paused, a great flush suddenly stole over her face, +adding enormously to her attractiveness, but quickly as it came, it +went. + +What could he say? Vainly he racked his brains. He must say something, +or the girl would believe him to be fool as well as knave. Ideas, +excuses, lies entered his mind, he put them aside instantly, as being +unworthy of him and of her, yet he must tell her—something. + +“When—when I used your name, believe me, I had no idea that it was the +property of a living woman—” + +“When you used my name? I don’t understand you!” + +“I claimed that I was married to a Miss Joan Meredyth—” + +“I still don’t understand you. You say you claimed that you were +married—are you married to anyone?” + +“No!” + +“Then—then—” Again the glorious flush came into her cheeks, but was +gone again, leaving her whiter, colder than before, only her eyes +seemed to burn with the fire of anger and contempt. + +“I am beginning to understand, for some reason of your own, you used my +name, you informed Lady Linden that you—and I were—married?” + +“Yes,” he said. + +“And it was, of course, a vile lie, an insolent lie!” Her voice +quivered. “It has subjected me to humiliation and annoyance. I do not +think that a girl has ever been placed in such a false position as I +have been through your—cowardly lie.” + +He had probably never known actual fear in his life, nor a sense of +shame such as he knew now. He had nothing to say, he wanted to explain, +yet could not, for Marjorie’s sake. If Lady Linden knew how she had +been deceived, she would naturally be furiously angry, and the brunt of +her anger would fall on Marjorie, and this must not be. + +So, silent, unable to speak a word in self-defence, he stood listening, +shame-faced, while the girl spoke. Every word she uttered was cutting +and cruel, yet she shewed no temper. He could have borne with that. + +“You probably knew of me, and knew that I was alone in the world with +no one to champion me. You knew that I was poor, Mr. Alston, and so a +fit butt for your cowardly jest. My poverty has brought me into contact +with strange people, cads; but the worst, the cruellest, the lowest of +all is yourself! I had hoped to have found rest and refuge here for a +little time, but you have driven me out. Oh, I did not believe that +anything so despicable, so unmanly as you could exist. I do not know +why you have done this, perhaps it is your idea of humour.” + +“Believe me—” he stammered, yet could say no more; and then a sense of +anger, of outraged honesty, came to him. Of course he had been foolish, +yet he had been misled. To hear this girl speak, one would think that +he had deliberately set to work to annoy and insult her, she of whose +existence he had not even known. + +“My poverty,” she said, and flung her head back as she spoke, “has made +me the butt, the object for the insolence and insult of men like +yourself, men who would not dare insult a girl who had friends to +protect her.” + +“You are ungenerous!” he said hotly. + +She seemed to start a little. She looked at him, and her beautiful eyes +narrowed. Then, without another word, she turned towards the door. + +The scene was over, yet he felt no relief. + +“Miss Meredyth!” + +She did not hear, or affected not to. She turned the handle of the +door, but hesitated for a moment. She looked back at him, contempt in +her gaze. + +“You are ungenerous,” he said again. He had not meant to say it; he had +to say something, and it seemed to him that her anger against him was +almost unreasonable. + +She made no answer; the door closed on her, and he was left to try and +collect his thoughts. + +And he had not even apologised, he reflected now. She had not given him +an opportunity to. + +Pacing the room, Hugh decided what he would do. He would give her time +to cool down, for her wrath to evaporate, then he would seek her out, +and tell her as much as he could—tell her that the secret was not +entirely his own. He would appeal to the generosity that he had told +her she did not possess. + +“Hugh!” + +“Eh?” He started. + +“What does this mean? You don’t mean to tell me, Hugh, that all my +efforts have gone for nothing?” + +Lady Linden had sailed into the room; she was angry, she quivered with +rage. + +“I take an immense amount of trouble to bring two foolish young people +together again, and—and this is the result!” + +“What’s the result?” + +“She has gone!” + +“Oh!” + +“Did you know she had gone?” + +“No, I knew nothing at all about her.” + +“Well, she has. She left the house twenty minutes ago. I’ve sent +Chepstow after her in the car; he is to ask her to return.” + +“I don’t suppose she will,” Hugh said, remembering the very firm look +about Miss Joan Meredyth’s mouth. + +“And I planned the reconciliation, I made sure that once you came face +to face it would be all right. Hugh, there is more behind all this than +meets the eye!” + +“That’s it,” he said, “a great deal more! No third person can interfere +with any hope of success.” + +“And you,” she said, “can let a girl like that, your own wife, go out +of your life and make no effort to detain her!” + +He nodded. + +“For two pins,” said Lady Linden, “I would box your ears, Hugh Alston.” + + + + +CHAPTER V +“PERHAPS I SHALL GO BACK” + + +Perhaps she was over-sensitive and a little unreasonable, but she would +not admit it. She had been insulted by a man who had used her name +lightly, who had proclaimed that he was her husband, a man who was a +complete stranger to her. She had heard of him before from Marjorie +Linden, when they were at school together. + +Marjorie had spoken of this man in effusive admiration. Joan’s lips +curled with scorn. She did not question her own anger. She did not ask +herself, was it reasonable? Had not the man some right to defend +himself, to explain? If he had wanted to explain, he had had ample +opportunity, and he had not taken advantage of it. No, it was a joke—a +cruel, cowardly joke at her expense. + +Poor and alone in the world, with none to defend her, she had been +subjected to the odious attentions of Slotman. She was ready to regard +all men as creatures of the same type. She had allowed poverty to +narrow her views and warp her mind, and now— + +“I beg your pardon, ma’am—” + +She was walking along the road to the station. She turned, a man had +pulled up in a small car; he touched his hat. + +“My lady sent me after you, Mrs. Alston.” + +Joan gripped her hands tightly. She looked with blazing eyes at the +man—“Mrs. Alston...” Even the servant! + +“My lady begs that you will return with me. She would be very much +hurt, ma’am, if you left the house like this, her ladyship begs me to +say.” + +“Who was your message for?” + +“For you, ma’am, of course,” said the man. + +“Ma’am—Mrs. Alston!” So this joke had been passed on even to the +servants, and now she was asked to return. + +“Go back and tell Lady Linden that I do not understand her message in +the least. Kindly say that the person you overtook on the road was Miss +Joan Meredyth, who is taking the next train to London.” She bent her +head, turned her back on him, and made her way on to the station. + +Half an hour later she was leaning back wearily on the dusty seat of a +third-class railway carriage, on her way back to the London she hated. +Now she was going back again, because she had nowhere else to go. As +she sat there with closed eyes, and the tears on her cheeks, she +counted up her resources. They were so small, so slender, yet she had +been so careful. And now this useless journey had eaten deeply into the +little store. + +She had no more than enough to keep her for another week, one more +week, and then.... She shivered at the thought of the destitution that +was before her. + +Dinner at the boarding-house was over when she returned, but its +unsavoury and peculiar smell still pervaded the place. + +“Why, Miss Meredyth, I thought you were away for the week-end, at +least,” Mrs. Wenham said. “I suppose you won’t want any dinner?” + +“No,” Joan said. “I shall not want anything. I—I—” She paused. “I was +obliged to come back, after all. Perhaps you could let me have a cup of +tea in my room, Mrs. Wenham?” + +“Well, it’s rather inconvenient with all the washing-up to do, and as +you know I make it a rule that boarders have to be in to their meals, +or go without—still—” + +“Please don’t trouble!” Joan said stiffly. + +The woman looked up the stairs after the tall, slight figure. + +“Very well, then, I won’t!” she muttered. “The airs some people give +themselves! Anyone would think she was a lady, instead of a clerk or +something.” + +There was a letter addressed to Joan waiting for her in her room. She +opened it, and read it. + + +“DEAR JOAN, + +“I suppose you are in a temper with me, and I don’t think you have +acted quite fairly. A man can’t do more than ask a girl to be his wife. +It is not usually considered an insult; however, I say nothing, except +just this: You won’t find it easy to get other work to do, and if you +like to come back here on Monday morning, the same as usual, I think +you will be doing the sensible thing. + +“Yours, +“PHILIP SLOTMAN.” + + +She had never meant to go back. This morning she had thanked Heaven +that she had looked her last on Mr. Philip Slotman, and yet a few hours +can effect such changes. + +The door was open to her; she could go back, and pick up her life again +where she had dropped it before her journey to Cornbridge. After all, +Slotman was not the only cad in the world. She would find others, it +seemed to her, wherever she went. + +At any rate, Slotman had opened the door by which she might re-enter. +As he said, work would be very, very hard to get, and it was a bitter +thing to have to starve. + +“Perhaps,” she said to herself wearily as she lay down on her bed, +“perhaps I shall go back. It does not seem to matter so very much after +all what I do—and I thought it did.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI +“THE ONLY POSSIBLE THING” + + +For the first time since when, as a small, curly-headed boy, Hugh +Alston had looked up at her ladyship with unclouded fearless eyes, that +had appealed instantly to her, he and she were bad friends. Hugh had +driven back to Hurst Dormer after a brief battle with her ladyship. He +had seen Marjorie for a few moments, had soothed her, and told her not +to worry, that it was not her fault. He had kissed her in brotherly +fashion, and had wondered a little at himself for the slight feeling of +impatience against her that came to him. He had never been impatient of +her before, but her tears this afternoon unreasonably annoyed him. + +“She’s a dear, sweet little soul, and over tender-hearted. Of course, +she got me into this mess, and of course, bless her heart, she is +worrying over it; but it can’t be helped. As for that other girl!” His +lips tightened. It seemed to him that Miss Joan Meredyth had not shone +any more than he had. She had taken the whole thing in bad part. + +“No woman,” said Hugh to himself, “has any sense of humour!” In which +he was wrong, besides which, it had nothing to do with the case. + +“I am disappointed in Hugh,” Lady Linden said to her niece. “I don’t +often admit myself wrong; in this matter I do. I regarded Hugh Alston +as a man utterly and completely open and above board. I find him +nothing of the kind. I am deeply disappointed. I am glad to feel that +my plans with regard to Hugh Alston and yourself will come to nothing.” + +“But, aunt—” + +“Hold your tongue! and don’t interrupt me when I am speaking. I have +been considering the matter of you and Tom Arundel. Of course, your +income is a small one, even if I released it, but—” + +“Aunt—we—we wouldn’t mind, I could manage on so little. I should love +to manage for him.” The girl clasped her hands, she looked with +pleading eyes at the old lady. + +“Well, well, we shall see!” her ladyship said indulgently. “I don’t say +No, and I don’t say Yes. You are both young yet. By the way, write a +letter to Tom and ask him to dine with us to-morrow.” + +“Thank you, aunt!” Marjorie flushed to her eyes. “Oh, thank you so +much!” + +“My good girl, there’s nothing to get excited about. I don’t suppose +that he will eat more than about half a crown’s worth.” + +Meanwhile, Hugh Alston had retired to his house at Hurst Dormer in a +none too happy frame of mind. He had rowed with Lady Linden, had +practically told her to mind her own business, which was a thing +everyone had been wishing she would do for the past ten years, and no +one had ever dared tell her to. + +Altogether, he felt miserably unhappy, furious with himself and angry +with Miss Joan Meredyth. The one and only person he did not blame was +the one, only and entirely, to blame—Marjorie! + +This Sunday morning Hugh in his study heard the chug-chug of a small +and badly driven light car, and looked out of the window to see +Marjorie stepping out of the vehicle. + +“Hugh,” she said a few moments later, “I am so—so worried about you. I +hate to think that all this trouble is through me. Aunt thinks I have +gone to church, but I haven’t. I got out the car, and drove here +myself. Hugh, what can I do?” + +“There’s one thing you can’t do, child, and that is drive a car! There +are heaps of things you can do. One of them is to go back and be happy, +and not worry your little head over anything.” + +“But I must, it is all because of me; and, Hugh, aunt has asked Tom to +dinner to-day.” + +“I hope he has a good dinner,” said Hugh. + +“Hugh!” She looked at him. “It is no good trying to make light of it. I +know you’ve been worried. I know you and—and Joan must have had a scene +yesterday, or she wouldn’t have left the house without even seeing me.” + +“We had—a few words; I noticed that she did seem a little angry,” he +said. + +“Poor Joan! She was always so terribly proud; it was her poverty that +made her proud and sensitive, I think.” + +He nodded. “I think so, too. Poverty inclines her to take an +exaggerated view of everything, Marjorie. She took it badly.” + +The girl slipped her hand through his arm. “Is—is there anything I can +do? It is all my fault, Hugh. Shall I confess to aunt, and then go and +see Joan, and—” + +“Not on your life, you’ll spoil everything. I am out of favour with the +old lady; she will take Tom into favour in my place. All will go well +with you and Tom, and after all that is what I worked for. With regard +to Miss Joan Meredyth—” He paused. + +“Yes, Hugh, what about Joan? Oh, Hugh, now you have seen her, don’t you +think she is wonderful?” + +“I thought she had a very unpleasing temper,” he said. + +“There isn’t a sweeter girl in the world,” Marjorie said. + +“I didn’t notice any particular sweetness about her yesterday. She had +reason, of course, to feel annoyed, but I think she made the most of +it, however—” He paused. + +“Yes, Hugh, what shall you do? I know you have something in your mind.” + +“You are right; I have. I am going to do the only thing that seems to +me possible just now.” + +“And that is?” + +“Seek out Miss Joan Meredyth, and ask her to become my wife in +reality.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII +MR. SLOTMAN ARRIVES AT A MISUNDERSTANDING + + +At half-past nine on the Monday morning Miss Joan Meredyth walked into +Mr. Slotman’s office, and Mr. Slotman, seeing her, turned his head +aside to hide the smirk of satisfaction. + +“Women,” he said to himself, “are all alike. They give themselves +confounded airs and graces, but when it comes to the point, they aren’t +born fools. She knows jolly well she wouldn’t get another job in a +hurry, and here she is.” + +But Mr. Slotman made up his mind to go cautiously and carefully. He +would not let Miss Meredyth witness his sense of satisfaction. + +“I am glad you have returned, Miss Meredyth. I felt sure that you +would; there’s no reason whatever we shouldn’t get on perfectly well.” + +The girl gave him a stiff little inclination of her head. She had done +much personal violence to her sense of pride, yet she had come back +because the alternative—worklessness, possible starvation and +homelessness—had not appealed to her. And, after all, knowing Mr. +Slotman to be what he was, she was forewarned and forearmed. + +So Joan came back and took up her old work, and Mr. Slotman practised +temporarily a courtesy and a forbearance that were foreign to him. But +Mr. Slotman had by no means given up his hopes and desires. Joan +appealed to him as no woman ever had. He admired her statuesque beauty. +He admired her air of breeding; he admired the very pride that she had +attempted to crush him with. + +A woman like that could go anywhere, Slotman thought, and pictured it +to himself, he following in her trail, and finding an entry into a +society that would have otherwise resolutely shut him out. For like +most men of his type, self made, egregious, and generally offensive, he +had an inborn desire to get into Society and mingle with his betters. + +On the Monday morning there had been delivered to Hugh Alston by hand a +little note from Marjorie; it was on pink paper, and was scented +delicately. If he had not been so very much in love with Marjorie, the +pink notepaper might have annoyed him, but it did not. The faint +fragrance reminded him of her. + +She wrote a neat and exquisite hand; everything that she did was neat +and exquisite, and remembering his hopes of not so long ago, he groaned +a little dismally to himself as he reverently cut the envelope. + + +“MY DEAR HUGH, + +“I have managed to get the address from aunt. It is ‘Miss Joan +Meredyth, care Mrs. Wenham, No. 7, Bemrose Square, London, W.C.’ I have +been thinking so much about what you said, and hoping that your plan +may succeed. I am sure that you would be very, very happy together....” + + +(Hugh laughed unmusically.) + + +“Tom has been here all the afternoon and evening, and aunt has been +perfectly charming to him. Hugh, I know that everything is going to be +right now, and I owe it all to you. You don’t know how grateful I am, +dear. I shall never, never forget your goodness and sweetness to me, +dear old Hugh. + +“Your loving +“MARJORIE.” + + +With something approaching reverent care, Hugh put the little +pink-scented note into his pocket-book. + +To-night he would go to Town, to-morrow he would interview Miss Joan +Meredyth. He would offer her no explanations, because the secret was +not his own, and nothing must happen now that might upset or tell +against Marjorie’s happiness. + +He would express regret for what had happened, ask her to try and +realise that no indignity and no insult had ever been intended against +her, and then he would offer her his hand, but certainly not his heart. +If she felt the sting of her poverty so, then perhaps the thought of +his eight thousand a year would act as balm to her wounded feelings. + +At this time Hugh Alston had a very poor opinion of Miss Meredyth. He +did not deny her loveliness. He could not; no man in his senses and +gifted with eyesight could. But the placid prettiness of Marjorie +appealed to him far more than the cold, disdainful beauty of the young +woman he had called ungenerous, and who had in her turn called him a +cad. + +It was Mrs. Wenham herself who opened the hall door of the house in +Bemrose Square to Mr. Hugh Alston at noon on the day following. + +Though certainly not dressed in the height of fashion, and by no means +an exquisite, Mr. Hugh Alston had that about him that suggested birth +and large possessions. Mrs. Wenham beamed on him, cheating herself for +a moment into the belief that he had come to add one more to the select +circle of persons she alluded to as her “paying guests.” + +Her face fell a little when he asked for Miss Meredyth. + +“Oh, Miss Meredyth has gone to work,” she said. + +“To work?” + +“Yes, she’s a clerk or something in the City. The office is that of +Philip Slotman and Company, Number sixteen, Gracebury.” + +“You think that I could see her there?” asked Hugh, who had little +knowledge of City offices and their routine and rules, so far as +hirelings are concerned. + +“I suppose you could; you are a friend of hers?” + +He nodded. + +“Well, I don’t know that it is usual for visitors to call on lady +clerks. If I might make a suggestion I’d say send in your card to Mr. +Slotman, and ask his permission to see Miss Meredyth.” + +“Thanks!” Hugh said. “If that’s the right thing to do, I’ll do it.” + +Half an hour later Mr. Slotman was examining Hugh’s card. + +“Who is he?” + +“A tall, well-dressed gentleman, sir; young. Looks as if he’s up from +the country, but he’s a gentleman all right,” the clerk said. + +“Very good, I’ll see him.” + +Slotman rose as Hugh came in. He recognised the man of position and +possessions, a man of the class that Slotman always cultivated. + +“I wish to ask your permission to interview Miss Meredyth. I understand +that, in business hours, the permission of the employer should be asked +first.” + +“Delighted!” Slotman said. “You are a friend of Miss Meredyth’s?” He +looked keenly at Hugh, and the first spark of jealousy was ignited in +his system. + +“Hardly that, an acquaintance only,” said Hugh. + +Slotman felt relieved. + +“Miss Meredyth is in the outer general office. You could hardly talk to +her there. If you will sit down, I will go out and send her to you, +Mr.—Alston.” He glanced at the card. + +“Thanks, perhaps you would be so kind as not to mention my name to +her,” said Hugh. + +“Something up!” Slotman thought. He was an eminently suspicious man; he +suspected everyone, and more particularly all those who were in his +pay. He suspected his clerks of wasting their time—his time, the time +he paid for. He suspected them of filching the petty cash, stealing the +postage stamps, cheating him and getting the better of him in some way, +and in order to keep a watch on them he had riddled his suite of +offices with peepholes, listening holes, and spyholes in every unlikely +corner. + +A small waiting office divided his private apartment from the General +Office, and peepholes cunningly contrived permitted anyone to hear and +see all that passed in the General Office, and in his own office too. + +He found a young clerk in the waiting office, and sent him to Miss +Meredyth. + +“Ask Miss Meredyth to go to my office at once, not through this way, +and then you remain in the General Office till I send for you,” said +Slotman. + +This gave him the advantage he wanted. He locked both doors leading +into the waiting office, and took up his position at the spyhole that +gave him command of his own office. + +He could see his visitor plainly. Hugh Alston was pacing the room +slowly, his hands behind his back, his face wearing a look of worry. +Slotman saw him pause and turn expectantly to the door at the far end +of the room. + +Slotman could not see this door, but he heard it open, and he knew by +the look on the man’s face that Joan had come in. + +“Why are you here? How dare you follow me here?” + +“I have dared to follow you here, to express my deep regret for what is +past,” Hugh said. He looked at the girl, her white face, the hard line +made by a mouth that should be sweet and gentle. + +It seemed, he thought, that the very sight of him roused all that was +cold and bitter in her nature. + +“Am I to be tormented and insulted by you all my life?” she asked. + +“You are unreasonable! You cannot think that this visit is one that +gives me any pleasure,” Hugh said. + +“Then why do you come?” + +“I asked permission of your employer to see you, and he kindly placed +his office at our disposal. I shall not keep you long.” + +“I do not intend that you shall, and in future—” + +“Will you hear what I have to say? Surely I am not asking too much?” + +“Is it necessary?” + +“To me, very! I wish to make a few things plain to you. In the past—I +had no intention of hurting or of disgracing you—” + +Slotman started, and clenched his hands. What did that man mean? He +wondered, what could such words as those mean? + +“But as I have shamed and angered you, I have come to offer the only +reparation in my power—a poor one, I will admit.” + +He looked at her, paused for a moment to give her an opportunity of +speaking, but she did not speak. She looked at him steadily. + +“May I briefly explain my position? I am practically alone in the +world. My home is at Hurst Dormer, one of the finest old buildings in +Sussex. I have an income of eight thousand a year.” + +“What has this to do with me?” + +“Only that I am offering it to you, myself and all I possess. I am +asking you to do me the honour of marrying me. It seems to me that it +is the one and the only atonement that I can make for what has passed.” + +“You are—very generous! And—and you think that I would accept?” + +“I hoped that you might consider the offer.” + +Slotman gripped at the edge of the table against which he leaned. + +He could scarcely believe his own ears—Joan, who had held her head so +high, whom he had believed to be above the breath of suspicion! + +If it were possible for such a man as Mr. Philip Slotman to be shocked, +then Slotman was deeply shocked at this moment. He had come to regard +Joan as something infinitely superior to himself. Self-indulgent, a +libertine, he had pursued her with his attentions, pestered her with +his admiration and his offensive compliments. Then it had slowly dawned +on the brain of Mr. Philip Slotman that this girl was something better, +higher, purer than most women he had known. He had come to realise it +little by little. His feelings towards her had undergone a change. The +idea of marriage had come to him, a thing he had never considered +seriously before. Little by little it grew on him that he would prefer +to have Joan Meredyth for a wife rather than in any other capacity. He +could have been so proud of her beauty, her birth and her breeding. + +And now everything had undergone a change. The bottom had fallen out of +his little world of romance. He stood there, gasping and clutching at +the edge of the table, while he listened to the man in the adjoining +room offering marriage to Joan Meredyth “as the only possible +atonement” he could make her! + +Naturally, Mr. Philip Slotman could not understand in the least why or +wherefore; it was beyond his comprehension. + +And now he stood listening eagerly, holding his breath waiting for her +answer. + +Would she take him, this evidently rich man? If so, then good-bye to +all his hopes, all his chances. + +Within the room the two faced one another in momentary silence. A flush +had come into the girl’s cheeks, making her adorable. For an instant +the coldness and hardness and bitterness were all gone, and Hugh Alston +had a momentary glimpse of the real woman, the woman who was neither +hard, nor cold, but was womanly and sweet and tender. + +And then she was her old self again, the bitterness and the anger had +come back. + +“I thank you for making everything so clear to me, your wealth and +position and your desire to make—to make amends for the insult and the +shame you have put on me. I need hardly say of course that I refuse!” + +“Why?” + +“Did you ever expect me to accept? I think you did not!” + +She gave him a slight inclination of the head and, turning, went out of +the room, and Hugh Alston stood staring at the door that had closed on +her. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +THE DREAM GIRL + + +“She is utterly without generosity; she is cold and hard and bitter, +and she has made a mountain out of a molehill, built up a great +grievance on what was, after all, only a foolish and ill-considered +statement. She is pleased to feel herself deeply insulted, and she +hates me for what I did in perfect innocence. I have done all that I +can do. I have offered to make amends in the only way I can think of, +and she refuses to accept either that or my apologies. Very well, +then... But what a lovely face it is, and for just that moment, when +the hardness and bitterness were gone...” He paused; his own face +softened. One could not be angry for long with a vision like that, +which was passing before his mind, conjured up by memory. + +Just for that instant, when the flush had come into her cheeks, she had +looked all those things that she was not—sweet, womanly, tender, and +gentle, a woman with an immense capacity for love. + +“Bah!” said Hugh. “I’m an idiot. I shall go to a theatre to-night, +forget all about her, and go home to-morrow—home.” He sighed a little +drearily. For months past he had pictured pretty Marjorie Linden as +queen of that home, and now he knew that it would never be. His house +would remain lonely and empty, as must his life be. + +He sighed sentimentally, and took out Marjorie’s little pink note from +his pocket-book. He noticed for the first time that it was somewhat +over-scented. He realised that he did not like the smell of scent, +especially on notepaper, and pink was not his favourite colour. In +fact, he disliked pink. Marjorie was happy, Lady Linden was beaming on +Tom Arundel, the cloud had lifted from Marjorie’s life. Hugh tore up +the pink, smelly little missive, and dropped the fragments into the +grate of the hotel bedroom. + +“That’s that!” he said. “And it’s ended and done with!” + +He was amazed to find himself not broken-hearted and utterly cast down. +He lighted his pipe and puffed hard, to destroy the lingering smell of +the pink notepaper. Then he laughed gently. + +“By every right I should now be on my way to the bar to drown dull care +in drink. She’s a dear little soul, the sweetest and dearest and best +in the world. I hope Tom Arundel will appreciate her and make the +little thing happy. I would have done my best, but somehow I feel that +Tom is the better man, so far as Marjorie is concerned.” + +Grey eyes, not disdainful and cold and scornful, but soft, and filled +with kindliness and gentleness, banished all memory of Marjorie’s +pretty pathetic blue eyes. Why, Hugh thought, had that girl looked at +him like that for just one moment? Why had she appeared for that +instant so different? It was as if a cold and bitter mask had fallen +from her face, and he had had a peep at the true—the real woman, the +woman all love and tenderness and gentleness, behind it. + +“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter,” said Hugh. “I’ve done what I believed to +be the right thing. She turned me down; the affair is now closed, and +we’ll think of something else.” + +But it was not easy. At his dinner, which he took in solitary state, he +had a companion, a girl with grey eyes and flushed cheeks who sat +opposite to him at the table. She said nothing, but she looked at him, +and the beauty of her intoxicated him, and the smile of her found an +answer on his own lips. She ate nothing, nor did the waiter see her; so +far as the waiter was concerned, there was an empty chair, but Hugh +Alston saw her. + +“Why,” he asked, “why can you look like that, and yet be so different? +That look in your eyes makes you the most beautiful and wonderful thing +in this world, and yet...” + +He laughed softly to himself. He was uttering his thoughts aloud, and +the unromantic waiter stared at him. + +“Beg your pardon, sir?” he asked. + +“That’s all right!” Hugh said. “What won the three-thirty?” + +“I don’t think there was any racing to-day, sir,” the man said. + +He went away, not completely satisfied as to this visitor’s sanity, and +Hugh drifted back into dreams and memories. + +“You are very wonderful,” he said to himself, “yet you made me very +angry; you hurt me and made me furious. I called you ungenerous, and I +meant it, and so you were. Yet when you look at me with your eyes like +that and the colour in your cheeks, I can’t find one word to say +against you.” + +He went to the theatre that night. It was a successful play. All London +was talking of it, but Hugh Alston never remembered what it was about. +He was thinking of a girl with cold disdainful looks that changed +suddenly to softness and tenderness. She sat beside him as she had sat +opposite to him at dinner. On the stage the actors talked meaningless +stuff; nothing was real, save this girl beside him. + +“What’s the matter with you, my good fellow, is,” Hugh said to himself, +as he walked back to the hotel that night, “you’re a fickle man; you +don’t know your own mind. A week ago you were dreaming of Marjorie; you +considered blue eyes the most beautiful thing in the world. You would +not have listened to the claims of eyes of any other colour, and +now—Bless her dear little heart, she’ll be happy as the day is long +with Tom Arundel, with his nice fair hair parted down the middle, and +her pretty scented notepaper. Of course she’ll be happy. She would have +been miserable at Hurst Dormer, and so should I have been; seeing her +miserable, I should have been miserable myself. But I shall go back to +Hurst Dormer to-morrow and start on that renovation work. It will give +me something to occupy my time and attention.” + +That night, much to his surprise, Hugh found he could not sleep. + +“It’s the strange bed,” he said. “It’s the noise of the London +streets.” Sleeplessness had never troubled him before, but to-night he +rolled and tossed from side to side, and then at last he sat bolt +upright in the bed. + +“Good Lord!” he said. “Good Lord, it can’t be!” He stared into the +thick darkness and saw an oval face, crowned by waving brown hair, that +glinted gold in the highlights. He saw a sweet, womanly, tender, +smiling mouth and a pair of grey eyes that seemed to burn into his own. + +“It can’t be!” he said again. And yet it was! + + + + +CHAPTER IX +THE PEACEMAKER + + +“Bless my soul!” said General Bartholomew. He had turned to the last +page and looked at the signature. “Alicia Linden! I haven’t heard a +word of her for five and twenty years. A confoundedly handsome girl she +was too. Hudson, where’s my glasses?” + +“Here, General,” said the young secretary. + +The General put them on. + +“My dear George,” he read. + +It was a long letter, four pages closely written in Lady Linden’s +strong, almost masculine hand. + +“...I remember that when she visited me years ago, she told that me you +were an old friend of her father’s. This being so, I think you should +combine with me in trying to bring these two wrong-headed young people +together. I have quarrelled with Hugh Alston, so I can do nothing at +the moment; but you, being on the spot so to speak, in London, and Hugh +I understand also being in London...” + +“What the dickens is the woman drivelling about?” the General demanded. +“Hudson!” + +“Yes, sir!” + +“Read this letter carefully, digest it, and then briefly explain to me +what the dickens it is all about.” + +The secretary took the letter and read it carefully. + +“This letter is from Lady Linden, of Cornbridge Manor House, +Cornbridge. She is deeply interested in a young lady, Miss Joan +Meredyth. At least—” Hudson paused. + +“Joan, pretty little Joan Meredyth—old Tom Meredyth’s girl. Yes, go +on!” + +“Three years ago,” Hudson went on, “Miss Meredyth was married in secret +to a Mr. Hugh Alston—” + +“Hugh Alston, of course—bless me, I know of Hugh Alston! Isn’t he the +son of old George Alston, of Hurst Dormer?” + +“Yes, that would be the man, sir. Her ladyship speaks of Mr. Alston’s +house, Hurst Dormer.” + +“That’s the man then, that’s the man!” said the General, delighted by +his own shrewdness. “So little Joan married him. Well, what about it?” + +“They parted, sir, almost at once, having quarrelled bitterly. Lady +Linden does not say what about, and they have never been together +since. A little while ago she received a letter from Miss Meredyth, as +she still continues to call herself, asking her assistance in finding +work for her to do. And that reminds me, General, that a similar letter +was addressed to you by Miss Meredyth, which I sent on to you at +Harrogate.” + +“Must have got there after I left. I never had it—go on!” + +“Lady Linden urges you to do something for the young lady, and do all +in your power to bring her and Mr. Alston together. She says if you +could effect a surprise meeting between them, good may come of it. She +is under the impression that they will not meet intentionally. Miss +Meredyth’s address is, 7 Bemrose Square, and Mr. Alston is staying at +The Northborough Hotel, St. James. Of course, there is a good deal +besides in the letter, General—” + +“Of course!” the General said. “There always is. Well, Hudson, we must +do something. I knew the girl’s father, and the boy’s too. Tom Meredyth +was a fine fellow, reckless and a spendthrift, by George! but as +straight a man and as true a gentleman as ever walked. And old George +Alston was one of my best friends, Hudson. We must do something for +these two young idiots.” + +“Very good, sir!” said Hudson. “How shall we proceed?” + +The General did not answer; he sat deep in thought. + +“Hudson, I am getting to be a forgetful old fool,” he said. “I’m +getting old, that’s what it is. Before I went to Harrogate I was with +Rankin, my solicitor. He was talking to me about the Meredyths. I +forget exactly what it was, but there’s some money coming to the girl +from Bob Meredyth, who went out to Australia. No, I forget, but some +money I know, and now the girl apparently wants it, if she is asking +for influence to get work. Go and ring Rankin up on the telephone. +Don’t tell him we know where Joan Meredyth is, but give him my +compliments, and ask him to repeat what he told me the other day.” + +Hudson went out. He was gone ten minutes, while the General dozed in a +chair. He was thinking of the past, of those good old days when he and +Tom Meredyth, the girl’s father, and George Alston, the lad’s father, +were all young fellows together. Ah, good old days, fine old days! When +the young blood coursed strong and hot in the veins, when there was no +need of Harrogate waters, when the limbs were supple and strong, and +the eyes bright and clear. “And they are gone,” the old man +muttered—“both of them, and a lot of other good fellows besides; and I +am an old, old man, begad, an old fellow sitting here waiting for my +call to come and—” He paused, and looked up. + +“Well, Hudson?” + +“I have been speaking to Mr. Rankin, sir. He wished me to tell you—” +Hudson paused; his face was a little flushed, as with some inward +excitement. + +“Go on!” + +“Before his death, which occurred six months ago, Mr. Robert Meredyth, +who had made a great deal of money in Australia, re-purchased the old +Meredyth family estate at Starden in Kent, Starden Hall, meaning to +return to England, and take up his residence there. Unfortunately, he +died on board ship. His wife was dead, his only son was killed in the +war, and he had left the whole of his fortune, about three hundred +thousand pounds, and the Starden Hall Estate, to his niece, Miss Joan +Meredyth.” + +“By George! so the girl’s an heiress!” + +“And a very considerable one!” + +“We won’t say a word about it—not a word, Hudson. We’ll get the girl +here, and patch up this quarrel between her and her young husband. When +that’s done we’ll spring the news on ’em, eh?” + +“I think it would be a good idea, General,” Hudson said. + + + + +CHAPTER X +“IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING” + + +Slotman leaned across his table. His eyes were glaring his face was +flushed a dusky red. + +Against the wall, her face white as death, but her eyes unafraid, the +girl stood staring at him, in silent amazement. + +“And you—you’ve given yourself airs, set yourself up to be all that you +are not! You’ve held me at arm’s length, and all the time—all the time +you’re nothing—nothing!” the man shouted. “I know all about you! I know +that a man offered you marriage to atone for the past—to atone—you hear +me? I tell you I know about you, and yet you dare—dare to give yourself +airs—dare to pretend to be a monument of innocence—you!” + +“You are mad!” the girl said quietly. + +“Yes, that’s it—mad—mad for you! Mad with love for you!” Slotman +laughed sharply. “I’m a fool—a blind, mad fool; but you’ve got me as no +other woman ever did. I tell you I know about you and the past, but it +shall make no difference. I repeat my offer now—I’ll marry you, in +spite of everything!” + +It seemed to Joan that a kind of madness came to her, born of her fear +and her horror of this man. + +She forced her way past him, and gained the door, how she scarcely +remembered. She could only recall a great and burning sense of rage and +shame. She remembered seeing, as in some distant vision, a man with +scared eyes and sagging jaw—a man who, an utter coward by nature, had +given way at her approach, whose passion had melted into fear—fear +followed later by senseless rage against himself and against her. + +So she had made her retreat from the office of Mr. Philip Slotman, and +had shaken the dust of the place off her feet. + +It was all very well to bear up and show a brave and determined face to +the enemy, to give no sign of weakness when the danger threatened. But +now, alone in her own room in the lodging-house, she broke down, as any +sensitive, highly strung woman might. + +Joan looked at her face in the glass. She looked at it critically. Was +it the face, she asked herself, of a girl who invited insult? For +insult on insult had been heaped on her. She had been made the butt of +one man’s senseless joke or lie, whatever it might be; the butt of +another man’s infamous passion. + +“Oh!” she said, “Oh!” She clasped her cheeks between her hands, and +stared at her reflection with wide grey eyes. “I hate myself! I hate +this face of mine that invites such—such—” She shuddered, and moaned +softly to herself. + +Beauty, why should women want it, unless they are rich and well placed, +carefully protected? Beauty to a poor girl is added danger. She would +be a thousand, a million times better and happier without it. + +She grew calmer presently. She must think. To-morrow the money for her +board here would be due, and she had not enough to pay. She would not +ask Slotman for the wages for this week, never would she ask anything +of that man, never see him again. + +Then what lay before her? She sat down and put her elbows on the +dressing table with its dingy cheap lace cover, and in doing so her +eyes fell on a letter, a letter that had been placed here for her. + +It was from General Bartholomew, an answer to the appeal she had +written him at the same time that she had written to Lady Linden. It +came now, kindly, friendly and even affectionate, at the very eleventh +hour. + + +“I was away, my dear child, when your letter came. It was forwarded to +Harrogate to me. Now I am back in London again. Your father was my very +dear friend; his daughter has a strong claim on me, so pack your +things, my dear, and come to me at once. I am an old fellow, old enough +to have been your father’s father, and the little note that I enclose +must be accepted, as it is offered, in the same spirit of affection. It +will perhaps settle your immediate necessities. To-morrow morning I +shall send for you, so have all your things ready, and believe me. + +“Yours affectionately, +“GEORGE BARTHOLOMEW.” + + +She cried over the letter, the proud head drooped over it; bright tears +streamed from the grey eyes. + +Could Hugh Alston have seen her now, her face softened by the gladness +and the gratitude that had come to her, he would have seen in her the +woman of his dreams. + +The banknote would clear everything. She did not scruple to accept it +in the spirit of affection in which it was offered. It would have been +churlish and false pride to refuse. + +He had said that he would send for her when the morning came; he had +taken it for granted that she would go, and there was no need to answer +the letter. And when the morning came she was ready and waiting, her +things packed, her last bill to Mrs. Wenham paid. + +The maid came tapping on the door. + +“Someone waiting for you, miss, in the drawing-room.” + +Joan went down. It would be the old fellow, the warm-hearted old man +himself come to fetch her! She entered the big ugly room, with its +dingy wall-paper and threadbare carpet, its oleographs in tarnished +frames, its ancient centre ottoman, its elderly piano and unsafe, +uncertain chairs. How she hated this room, where of evenings the +‘paying guests’ distorted themselves. + +But she came into it now eagerly, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, +and hand held out, only to draw back with sudden chill. + +It was Mr. Philip Slotman who rose from the ottoman. + +“Joan, I’ve come to tell you I am sorry, sorry and ashamed,” he said. +“I was mad. I want you to forgive me.” + +“There need be no talk of forgiveness,” she said. “You are the type of +man one can perhaps forget—never forgive!” + +He winced a little, and his face changed to a dusky red. + +“I said more than I meant to say. But what I said, after all, was right +enough. I know more about you than I think you guess. I know about that +fellow, that—what’s his name?—Alston—who came. I know why he came.” + +“You are a friend of his, perhaps? I am not surprised.” + +“I never saw him before in my life, but I know all about him—and +you—all the same. He was willing to act fairly to you after all, and—” + +“What is this to do with you?” she asked. + +“A lot!” he said thickly. “A lot! Look here!” He took another step +towards her. “Last night I behaved like a mad fool. I—I said more than +I meant to say. I—I saw you, and I thought of that fellow—and—and you, +and it drove me mad!” + +“Why?” She was looking at him with calm eyes of contempt, the same look +that she had given to Hugh Alston at their last meeting. + +“Why—why?” he said. “Why?” He clenched his hands. “You know why, you +know I love you! I want you! I’ll marry you! I’ll dig a hole and bury +the past in it—curse the past! I’ll say nothing more, Joan. I swear +before Heaven I’ll never try and dig up the past again. I forgive +everything!” + +“You—you forgive everything?” Her eyes blazed. “What have you to +forgive? What right have you to tell me that you forgive—me?” + +“I can’t let you go, I can’t! Joan, I tell you I’ll never throw the +past in your face. I’ll forget Alston and—” + +The door behind the girl opened, the maid appeared. + +“Miss,” she said, “there’s a car waiting down below. The man says he is +from General Bartholomew, and he has come for you.” + +“Thank you. I am coming now. My luggage is ready, Annie. Can you get +someone to carry it down?” + +Joan moved to the door. She looked back at Slotman. “I hope,” she said +quietly, “that we shall never meet again, Mr. Slotman, and I wish you +good morning!” And then she was gone. + +Slotman walked to the window. He looked down and saw a car, by no means +a cheap car, and he knew the value of things, none better. He waited, +unauthorised visitor as he now was, and saw the girl come out, saw the +liveried chauffeur touch his cap to her and hold the door for her, saw +her enter. Presently he saw luggage brought down and placed on the roof +of the limousine, and then the car drove away. + +Slotman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll be hanged! And who +the dickens is General Bartholomew? And why should she go to him, +luggage and all? Is it anything to do with that fellow Alston? Has she +accepted his offer after all?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think +so.” + +The General put his two hands on Joan’s shoulders. He looked at her, +and then he kissed her. + +“You are very welcome, my dear,” he said. “I blame myself, I do indeed. +I ought to have found out where you were long ago. Your father was one +of my dearest friends, God rest his soul. I knew him well, and his dear +little wife too—your mother, my child, one of the loveliest women I +ever saw. And you are like her, as like her as a daughter can be like +her mother. Bless my heart, it takes me back when I see you, takes me +back to the day when Tom married her, the loveliest girl—but I am +forgetting, I am forgetting. You’ve brought your things?” he asked. +“Hudson, where’s Hudson? Ring for Mrs. Weston, that’s my housekeeper, +child. She’ll look after you. And now you are here, you will stay here +with us for a long time, a very long time. It can’t be too long, my +dear. I am a lonely old man, but we’ll do our best to make you happy.” + +“I think,” Joan said softly, “that you have done that already! Your +welcome and your kindness, have made me happier than I have been for a +very, very long time.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI +THE GENERAL CALLS ON HUGH + + +Hugh Alston lingered in London, why, he would not admit, even to +himself. In reality he had lingered on in the hope of seeing Joan +Meredyth again. How he should see her, where and when, he had not the +faintest idea; but he wanted to see her even more than he wanted to see +Hurst Dormer. + +He had thought of going to the city and calling on Mr. Philip Slotman +again. But he had not liked Mr. Slotman. + +“If I see her, she will only suggest that I am annoying and insulting +her,” Hugh thought. “I suppose I thought that I was doing a very fine +and very clever thing in asking her to be my wife!” His face burned at +the thought. He had meant it well; but, looking back, it struck him +that he had acted like a conceited fool. He had thought to make all +right, by bestowing all his possessions and his person on her, and she +had put him in his place, had declined even without thanks. + +“And serve me jolly well right!” Hugh said. “Who?” he added aloud. + +“Gentleman, sir—General Bartholomew,” said the hotel page. + +“And who on earth is he?” + +“Short, stout gentleman, sir, white whiskers.” + +“That’s quite satisfactory then; I’ll see him,” said Hugh. + +He found the General in the lounge. + +“You’re Hugh Alston,” said the General. “I’d know you anywhere. You are +your father over again. I hope that you are as good a man.” + +“I wish I could think so,” Hugh said, “but I can’t!” He shook hands +with the General. He had a dim recollection of the old fellow, as one +of his father’s friends, who in the old days, when he was a child, had +come down to Hurst Dormer; but the recollection was dim. + +“How did you find me out here, sir?” + +“Ah, ha! That’s it—just a piece of luck! The name struck me—Alston—I +thought of George Alston. I said to myself, ‘Can this be his boy?’ And +you are, eh? George Alston, of Hurst Dormer.” + +The General rambled on, but he forgot to explain to Hugh how it was +that he had found him out at the Northborough Hotel, and presently Hugh +forgot to enquire, which was what the General wanted. + +“You’ll dine with me to-night, eh? I won’t take no—understand. I want +to talk over old times!” + +“I thought of returning to Sussex to-night,” said Hugh. + +“Not to be thought of! I can’t let you go! I shall expect you at +seven.” + +The old fellow seemed to be so genuinely anxious, so kindly, so +friendly, that Hugh had not the heart to refuse him. + +“Very well, sir; it is good of you. I’ll come, I’ll put off going till +to-morrow. I remember you well now, you used to come for the shooting +when I was a nipper.” + +Not till after the old fellow had gone did Hugh wonder how he had +unearthed him here in the Northborough Hotel. He had meant to ask +him—he had asked him actually, and the General had not explained. But +it did not matter, after all. Some coincidence, some easily +understandable explanation, of course, would account for it. + +“And to-morrow I shall go back,” Hugh thought, as he drove to the +General’s house in a taxicab. “I shall go back to Hurst Dormer, I shall +get busy doing something and forget everything that I don’t want to +remember.” + +But his thoughts were with the girl he had seen last in Mr. Slotman’s +office. And he saw her in memory as he had seen her for one brief +instant of time—softened and sweetened by some thought, some influence +that had come to her for a moment. What influence, what thought, he +could not tell; yet, as she had been then, so he saw her always and +remembered her. + +A respectful manservant took Hugh’s coat and hat; he led the way, and +flung a door wide. + +“General Bartholomew will be with you in a few moments, sir,” he said; +and Hugh found himself in a large, old-fashioned London drawing-room. + +“To-morrow,” Hugh was thinking, “Hurst Dormer—work, something to occupy +my thoughts till I can forget. It is going to take a lot of forgetting, +I suppose I shall feel more or less a cad all my life, though Heaven +knows—” + +He swung round suddenly. The door had opened; he heard the swish of +skirts, and knew it could not be General Bartholomew. + +But who it would be he could not have guessed to save his life. They +met again for the third time in their lives. At sight of him the girl +had started and flushed, had instinctively drawn back. Now she stood +still, regarding him with a steadfast stare, the colour slowly fading +from her cheeks. + +And Hugh stood silent, dumbfounded, astonishment clearly shown on his +face. + + + + +CHAPTER XII +“I TAKE NOT ONE WORD BACK” + + +“I will do you the justice, Mr. Alston, to believe that you did not +anticipate this meeting?” + +“You will only be doing me justice if you do not believe it,” Hugh +said. + +The girl bent her proud head. “I did not know that you were a friend of +General Bartholomew’s?” + +“Nor I till to-day, Miss Meredyth.” + +“I don’t understand.” + +Hugh explained that he had not seen the General since he was a child, +till the General had unearthed him at the Northborough Hotel that +afternoon. + +Joan frowned. Why had the General done that? Why had he, not three +minutes ago, patted her on the shoulder, smiled on her, and told her to +run down and wait for him in the drawing-room? Suddenly her face burned +with a glowing colour. It seemed as if all the world were in league +together against her. But this time this man was surely innocent. She +had seen the look of astonishment on his face, and knew it for no +acting. + +“I came here yesterday,” she said quietly, “in response to a warm +invitation from the General, who was my father’s friend.” + +“My father’s too!” + +“I—I wanted a home, a friend, and I accepted his invitation eagerly, +but since you have come—” + +“My presence makes this house impossible for you, of course,” Hugh +said, and his voice was bitter. “Listen to me, I may never have an +opportunity of speaking to you again, Joan.” He used her Christian +name, scarcely realising that he did so. + +“You feel bitterly towards me, and with reason. You have made up your +mind that I have deliberately annoyed and insulted you. If you ask me +to explain what I did and why I did it, I cannot do so. I have a +reason. One day, if I am permitted, I shall be glad to tell you +everything. I came here to London like a fool, a senseless, egotistical +fool, thinking I should be doing a fine thing, and could put everything +right by asking you to become my wife in reality. I can see now what +sort of a figure I made of myself, and how I must have appeared to you +when I was bragging of my possessions. I suppose I lack a sense of +humour, Joan, or there’s something wrong with me somewhere. Believe me, +senseless and crude as it all was, my intentions were good. I only +succeeded in sinking a little lower, if possible, in your estimation, +and now I wish to ask your pardon for it.” + +“I am glad,” she said quietly, “that you understand now—” + +“I do, and I have felt shame for it. I shall feel better now that I +have asked you to forgive. Joan,” he went on passionately, “listen! A +fool is always hard to separate from his folly. But listen! That day +when I saw you in the City, when I made my egregious proposal to +you—just for a moment you were touched, something appealed to you. I do +not know what it was—my folly, my immense conceit—for which perhaps you +pitied me. But it was something, for that one moment I saw you change. +The hard look went from your face, a colour came into your cheeks, your +eyes grew soft and tender—just for one moment—” + +“What does all this—” + +“Listen, listen! Let me speak! It may be my last chance. I tell you I +saw you as I know you must be—the real woman, not the hard, the +condemning judge that you have been to me. And as I saw you for that +one moment, I have remembered you and pictured you in my thoughts; and +seeing you in memory I have grown to love that woman I saw, to love her +with all my heart and soul.” + +Love! It dawned on her, this man, who had made a sport of her name, was +offering her love now! Love! she sickened at the very thought of it—the +word had been profaned by Philip Slotman’s lips. + +“I believe,” she thought, “I believe that there is no such thing as +love—as holy love, as true, good, sweet love! It is all selfish passion +and ugliness!” + +“Just now, Mr. Alston”—her voice was cold and scornful, and it chilled +him, as one is chilled by a drenching with cold water—“just now you +said perhaps you lacked humour. I do not think it is that, I think you +have a sense of humour somewhat perverted. Of course, you are only +carrying this—this joke one step further—” + +“Joan!” + +“And as you drove me from Cornbridge Manor, I suppose you will now +drive me from this house. Am I to find peace and refuge nowhere, +nowhere?” + +“If—if you could be generous!” he cried. + +She flushed with anger. “You have called me ungenerous before! Am I +always to be called ungenerous by you?” + +“Forgive me!” His eyes were filled with pleading. He did not know +himself, did not recognise the old, happy-go-lucky Hugh Alston, who had +accepted many a hard knock from Fate with a smile and a jest. + +“And so I am to be driven from this home, this refuge—by you?” she said +bitterly. “Oh, have you no sense of manhood in you?” + +“I think I have. You shall not be driven away. I, of course, am the one +to go. Through me you left Cornbridge, you shall not have to leave this +house. I promise you, swear to you, that I shall not darken these doors +again. Is that enough? Does that content you?” + +“Then I shall have at least something at last to thank you for,” she +said coldly. And yet, though she spoke coldly, she looked at him and +saw something in his face that made her lip tremble. Yet in no other +way did she betray her feelings, and he, like the man he was, was of +course blind. + +It was strange how long they had been left alone, uninterrupted. The +strangeness of it did not occur to him, yet it did to her. She turned +to the door. + +“Joan, wait,” he pleaded—“wait! One last word! One day I shall hope to +explain to you, then perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive. +For the blunder that I made in Slotman’s office, for the further +insult, if you look on it as such, I ask you to forgive me now. It was +the act of a senseless fool, a mad fool, who had done wrong and tried +to do right, and through his folly made matters worse. To-night perhaps +I have sinned more than ever before in telling you that I love you. But +if that is a sin and past all forgiveness, I glory in it. I take not +one word of it back. I shall trouble you no more, and so”—he paused—“so +I say good-bye.” + +“Good-bye!” He held out his hand to her, but she looked him full in the +face. + +“Good-bye!” she said, and then turned quickly, and in a moment the door +was closed between them. + +He did not see her hurry away, her hands pressed against her breast. He +did not see the face, all womanly and sweet, and soft and tender now. +He had only the memory of her brief farewell, the memory of her cold, +steady eyes—nothing else beside. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +THE GENERAL CONFESSES + + +“My dear, my dear, life is short. I am an old man, and yet looking back +it seems but yesterday since I was a boy beginning life. Climbing the +hill, my dear, climbing the hill; and when the top was gained, when I +stood there in my young manhood, I thought that the world belonged to +me. And then the descent, so easy and so swift. The years seem long +when one is climbing, but they are as weeks when the top is passed and +the descent into the valley begins.” He paused. He passed his hand +across his forehead. “I meant to speak of something else, of you, +child, of your life, of love and happiness, and of those things that +should be dear to all us humans.” + +“I know nothing of love, and of happiness but very, very little,” she +said. + +He took her hand and held it. “You shall know of both!” he promised. +“There is strife, there is ill-feeling between you and that lad, your +husband.” + +She wrenched her hand free, her face flushed gloriously. + +“You!” she cried. “You too !” + +“Yes, I too! I sought him out yesterday, and asked him to this house on +purpose that you and he should meet, praying that the meeting might +bring peace to you both. I knew the lad’s father as I knew yours. +Alicia Linden wrote to me and told me all about this unhappy marriage +of yours. She told me that she loved you both, that you were both good, +that life might be made very happy for you two, but for this +misunderstanding—” + +“Don’t!—don’t. Oh, General Bartholomew, how can I make you understand? +It is untrue—I am not his wife! I have never been his wife. It was a +lie! some foolish joke of his that he will not or cannot explain!” + +He looked at her, blinking like one who suddenly finds himself in +strong light after the twilight or darkness. + +“Not—not married?” + +“I never saw that man in my life before I met him at Lady Linden’s +house, not two weeks ago. All that he has said about our marriage, his +and mine, are foolish lies, something beyond my understanding!” + +The General waved his hands helplessly. + +“It is all extraordinary! Where can that foolish old woman have got +hold of this story? What’s come to her? She used to be a very +clear-minded—” + +“It is not she, it is the man—the liar!” Joan cried bitterly. “I tell +you I don’t understand the reason for it. I cannot understand, I don’t +believe there is any reason. I believe that it is his idea of humour—I +can’t even think that he wanted to annoy and shame and anger me as he +has, because we were utter strangers.” + +She stood at the window, looking out into the dull, respectable square. +She saw a man ascend the steps and ring on the hall door-bell, but he +did not interest her. + +“I shall find work to do,” she said, “soon. I am grateful to you +for—for taking me in, for giving me asylum here for a time—very, very +grateful. I know that you meant well when you brought that man and me +face to face last night—that man—” She paused. + +She could see him now, that man with eager and earnest pleading in his +eyes, with hands outstretched to her, as he told her of his love. And +seeing him in memory, there came into her cheeks that flush that he had +seen and remembered, and into her eyes the dewy, softness that banished +all haughtiness, and made her for the moment the tender woman that she +was. + +“So,” she said, “so I shall find work to do, and I will go out again +and earn my living and—” + +“There will be no need!” the General said. + +“I cannot stop here and live on your charity!” + +“There will be no need,” he repeated. + +“Mr. Rankin,” announced a servant. The door had opened, and the man she +had been watching came in. + +He shook hands with the General. + +“Joan, this is Mr. Rankin. Rankin, this is Miss Joan Meredyth.” + +She turned to him and bowed slightly. + +“You will allow me to congratulate you, Miss Meredyth. Believe me, it +is a great happiness to me that at last, after much diligent seeking, I +have, thanks to the General here, found you. General—you have told +her?” He broke off, for there was a puzzled look in the girl’s face. + +“Told her nothing—nothing,” said the General; “that’s your business.” + +Strangely, their words aroused little or no curiosity in her mind. What +was it she had been told or not told, she did not know. Somehow she did +not care. She saw a pair of pleading eyes, she saw the colour rise in a +man’s cheeks. She saw an outstretched hand, held pleadingly to her, and +she had repulsed that hand in disdain. + +But Mr. Rankin was talking. + +“Your uncle, on his way back to this country, died on board ship. His +only son was killed, poor fellow, in the War. There was no one else, +the will leaves everything to you unconditionally. Through myself he +had purchased the old place, Starden Hall, only a few months before his +death, and it was his intention to live there. So the house and the +money become yours, Miss Meredyth. There is Starden, and the income of +roughly fifteen thousand a year, all unconditionally yours.” + +And listening, dazed for the moment, there came into her mind an +unworthy thought—a thought that brought a sense of shame to her, yet +the thought had come. + +Did that man—last night—know of this, of this fortune when he had told +her that he loved her? + +A few days had passed, days that had found Joan fully occupied with the +many matters connected with her inheritance. + +To-day she and the old General were talking in the drawing-room of the +General’s house. + +“Of course, if you prefer it and wish it, my dear.” + +“I do!” said Joan. “I see no reason why Lady Linden should be in any +way interested in me and my affairs. I prefer that you should tell her +nothing at all. I was very fond of Marjorie, she is a dear little +thing, and Lady Linden was very kind to me once, that is why I wrote to +her. But now I would sooner forget it all. I shall go down to Starden +and live.” + +“Alone?” + +“I have no one, so I must be alone! Mr. Rankin says that all the +business formalities will be completed this week, and there will be +nothing to keep me. Mrs. Norton, the housekeeper at Starden, says the +house is all ready, so I thought of going down at the beginning of next +week!” + +“Alone?” the old man repeated. + +“Since I am alone, I must go alone.” + +“My dear, I am an old fellow, and likely to be in the way, but if—my +society—would—” + +Joan smiled, and the smile transfigured her. It brought tenderness and +sweetness to the young face that adversity had somewhat hardened. + +“No, I won’t be selfish, dear,” she said gently. “You would hate it; +you are at home here, and you have all you want. There you would be +unhappy and uncomfortable; but I do thank you very, very gratefully.” + +“But you can’t go alone, child. Why bless me, there’s my niece Helen +Everard. She’s a widow, her husband’s people live close to Starden at +Buddesby. If only for a time, let me arrange with her to go with you.” + +“If you like,” she said. + +“I’ll write to her at once,” the General said, and Joan nodded, little +dreaming what the sending of that letter might mean to her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL + + +For a while the unrighteous may bask in the sunshine of prosperity, but +there comes a time of reckoning, more especially in the City of London, +and things were at this moment shaping ill for Mr. Philip Slotman. + +He stood at the door of the general office and surveyed his clerks. +There were five of them; at the end of the week there would be but two, +he decided. Next week probably there would be only one. + +“Hello, Slotman!” It was a business acquaintance, who had dropped in to +discuss the financial position. + +“Things all right? + +“Nothing to complain about,” said Slotman, who did not believe in +crying stinking fish. Credit meant everything to him, and it was for +that reason he wore very nice clothes and more jewellery than good +taste warranted. + +In Mr. Slotman’s inner office he and his friend, Mr. James Bloomberg, +lighted expensive cigars. + +“So the pretty typist has gone, of course?” said Bloomberg. + +Slotman started. “You mean—?” + +“Miss Meredyth; I’ve heard about her.” + +“About her. What?” + +Bloomberg drew at his cigar. “Of course you know she’s come into money, +a pot of money and a fine place down in the country. Uncle died, left a +will—that sort of thing. Rankin acts for me, a sound man. I was talking +to him the other day, and your name cropped up.” + +“Go on!” said Slotman. The cigar shook between, his finger and thumb. +“My name cropped up?” + +“And Rankin was interested, as a young lady he was acting for had just +come into a pot of money and a fine place down in Kent, and he had +heard that she used to be employed by you. Ah, ha!” Bloomberg laughed. +“You oughtn’t to have let her slip away, old man. She was as pretty as +a peach, and now with some hundreds of thousands she will be worth +while, eh?” + +“I suppose so,” Slotman said, apparently indifferently. “And did you +hear the name of the place she had come into?” + +“I did. Something—Den—all places in Kent are something or other—Den. +Oh, Starden! That’s it! Well, I must go. But tell me, what’s your +opinion about those Calbary Reef Preferentials?” + +Ten minutes later Slotman was alone, frowning at thought. If it were +true, then indeed the luck had been against him. Even without money he +had been willing, more than willing to marry Joan, in spite of the +past, of which he knew nothing, but suspected much. Yes, he would have +married her. + +“She got hold of me,” he muttered, “and I can’t leave off thinking of +her, and now she is an heiress, and Heaven knows I want money. If I had +a chance, if—” He paused. + +For a long while Mr. Philip Slotman sat in deep thought. About Joan +Meredyth there was a mystery, and it was a mystery that might be well +worth solving. + +“I’ll hunt it out,” he muttered. “I’ll have to work back. Let me see, +there was that old General—General—?” + +He frowned, Ah! he had it now, for his memory was a good one. + +“General Bartholomew! That was the name,” Slotman muttered. “And that +is where I commence my hunt!” + + + + +CHAPTER XV +“TO THE MANNER BORN” + + +Starden Hall was one of those half-timbered houses in the possession of +which Kent and Sussex are rich. It was no great mansion, but a +comfortable, rambling old house, that had been built many a generation +ago, and had been added to as occasion required by thoughtful owners, +who had always borne in mind the architecture and the atmosphere of the +original, and so to-day it covered a vast quantity of ground, being but +one storey high, and about it spread flower gardens and noble park-land +that were delights to the eye. + +And this place was hers. It belonged to her, the girl who a few short +weeks ago had been earning three pounds a week in a City office, and +whose nightmare had been worklessness and starvation. + +Helen Everard watched the girl closely. “To the manner born,” she +thought. And yet there was that about Joan that she would have altered, +a coldness, an aloofness. Too often the beautiful mouth was set and +hard, never cruel, yet scornful. Too often those lustrous eyes looked +coldly out on to a world that was surely smiling on her now. + +“There’s something—” the elder woman thought, for she was a clever and +capable woman—a woman who could see under the surface of things, a +woman who had loved and suffered, and had risen triumphant over +misfortunes, which had been so many and so dire that they might have +crushed a less valiant spirit. + +General Bartholomew had explained briefly: + +“The child is alone in the world. There is something I don’t quite +understand, Helen. It is about a marriage—” The old gentleman paused. +“Look here, I’ll tell you. I had a letter from Lady Linden, an old +friend, and she begged me to find Joan and bring her and her young +husband together again.” + +“Then she is married?” + +“No, that is, I—I don’t know. ’Pon my soul, I don’t know—can’t make +head or tail of it! She says she isn’t, and, by George! she isn’t a +girl who would lie; but if she isn’t—well, I’m beaten, Helen. I can’t +make it out. At any rate, I did bring her and the lad, and a fine lad +he is too, George Alston’s son, together. And he left the house without +seeing me, and afterwards the girl told me that he was practically a +stranger to her, and that there had never been any marriage at all. At +the same time she asked me not to write to Lady Linden, and she said +that it was no business of hers, which was true, come to that. And +so—so now she’s come into this money, and she is utterly alone in the +world, and wants to go to Starden to live—why, my dear—” + +“I see,” Helen said. “I shall be glad to go there for a time you know; +it’s Alfred’s country.” + +“I remembered that.” + +“John Everard is living at Buddesby with his sister Constance. They are +two of the dearest people—the children, you know, of Alfred’s brother +Matthew.” + +“Yes—yes, to be sure,” said the old gentleman, who was not in the +slightest degree interested. + +“And they will be nice for your Joan Meredyth to know,” said Mrs. +Everard. + +“That’s it, that’s it! Take her about; let her see people, young +people. Make her enjoy herself, and forget the past. I don’t know what +the past held. Joan is not one to make confidants; but I fancy that her +past, poor child, has held more suffering than she cares to talk about. +So try and make her forget it. Get the Everards over from Buddesby, or +take her there; let her see people. But you know, you know, my dear. +You’re a capable woman!” + +Yes, she was a capable woman, far more capable than even General +Bartholomew realised. Clever and capable, kindly and generous of +nature, and the girl interested her. It was only interest at first. +Joan was not one to invite a warm affection in another woman at the +outset. Her manner was too cold, too uninviting, and yet there was +nothing repellent about it. It was as if, wounded by contact with the +world, she had withdrawn behind her own defences. She, who had suffered +insult and indignity, looked on all the world with suspicious, shy +eyes. + +“I will break down her reserve. I think she is lovable and sweet when +once one can force her to throw aside this mask,” Helen Everard +thought. + +So they had come to Starden together. + +Joan had said little when she had first looked over the place; but +Helen, watching her, saw a tinge of colour come into her cheeks, and +her breast rise and fall quickly, which proved that Joan was by no +means so unmoved as she would appear. + +It was her home, the home of her people. It was to-day almost as it had +been a hundred years ago, and a hundred years before that, and even a +hundred years earlier still. + +The low-pitched, old-fashioned rooms, with the mullioned windows, the +deep embrasures, the great open, stone-slabbed hearths, with their +andirons and dog-grates, the walls panelled with carved linen-fold oak, +darkened by age alone and polished to a dull, glossy glow by hands that +would work no more. + +Through these rooms, each redolent of the past, each breathing of a +kindly, comfortable home-life, the girl went, looking about her with +eyes that saw everything and yet seemed to see nothing. + +“You like it, dear?” Helen asked. + +“It is all wonderful, beautiful!” Joan said, and yet she spoke with a +touch of sadness in her voice.... “How—how lonely one might be here!” +she added. + +“You—you must not think of loneliness; you will never be lonely, my +dear. If you are, it will be of your own choice!” + +“Who knows?” Joan smiled sadly. She was thinking of a man who had told +her that he loved her. There had been more than one, but the one man +stood out clear and distinct from all others; she could even remember +the words he had used. + +“If, in telling you that I love you, I have sinned past all +forgiveness, I glory in it, and I take not one word of it back.” + +Yet how could he love her? How could he, when he had insulted her, when +he had used her name, as he had, when he had humiliated and shamed her, +how could he profess to love her? And they had met but three times in +their lives. + +“Joan, dear,” Helen Everard said, “Joan!” + +“Yes? I am sorry, I—I was thinking.” Joan looked up. + +Helen had come into the room, an open letter in her hand. + +“I wrote to John and Constance Everard, my nephew and niece,” Helen +said. “I told them I was here with you, and asked them to come over. +They are coming to-morrow, dear. I think you will like them.” + +“I am sure I shall,” Joan said; but there was no enthusiasm in her +voice, only cold politeness that seemed to chill a little. + +“I glory in it,” she was thinking, “and take not one word of it back.” +She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and turned away. + +“What time will they be coming, Helen?” she asked, for she had made up +her mind. She would think no more of this man, and remember no more of +his speeches. She would wipe him out of her memory. Life for her would +begin again here in Starden, and the past should hold nothing, nothing, +nothing! + + + + +CHAPTER XVI +ELLICE + + +Buddesby, in the Parish of Little Langbourne, was a small place +compared with Starden Hall. Buddesby claimed to be nothing more than a +farmhouse of a rather exalted type. For generations the Everards had +been gentlemen farmers, farming their own land and doing exceedingly +badly by it. + +Matthew, late owner of Buddesby, had taken up French gardening on a +large scale, and had squandered a great part of his capital on glass +cloches, fragments of which were likely to litter Buddesby for many a +year to come. + +John, his son, had turned his back on intensive culture and had gone +back to the old family failing of hops. The Everard family had probably +flung away more money on hops than any other family in Kent. + +The Everards were not rich. The shabby, delightful old rooms, the +tumble-down appearance of the ancient house, the lack of luxuries +proved it, but they were exceedingly content. + +Constance was a slim, pale, fair-haired girl with a singularly sweet +expression and the temper, as her brother said often enough, of an +angel. John Everard was big and broad, brown-haired, ruddy +complexioned. He regarded every goose as a swan, and had unlimited +belief in his land, his sister, and the future. There was one other +occupant of Buddesby, a slight slender, dark-haired girl, with a thin, +olive face, a pair of blazing black eyes, and a vividly red-lipped +mouth. + +Eight years ago Matthew Everard had brought her home after a brief +visit to London. He had handed her over to eighteen-year-old Constance. + +“Look after the little one, Connie,” he had said. “There’s not a soul +in the world who wants her, poor little lass. Her father’s been dead +years; her mother died—last week.” He paused. “I knew them both.” That +was all the information he had ever given, so Ellice Brand had come to +Buddesby, one more mouth to feed, one more pair of feet to find shoes +for. + +She had many faults; she was passionate and wilful, defiant and +impatient of even Connie’s gentle authority. But there was one who +could quell her most violent outburst with a word—one who had but to +look at her to bring her to her sane senses, one whom she would, +dog-like, have followed to the end of the world, from whom she would +have accepted blows and kicks and curses without a murmur, only that +Johnny Everard was not in the habit of bestowing blows and curses on +young ladies. + +Constance was twenty-six, John, the master of Buddesby, was a year +younger, and Ellice was eighteen, her slender body as yet childish and +unformed, her gipsy-like face a little too thin. But there was beauty +there, wonderful and startling beauty that would one day blossom forth. +It was in the bud as yet, but the bud was near to opening. + +They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at +Buddesby. It was eight o’clock, and John had been afield for a couple +of hours and had come back with his appetite sharp set. + +They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely +duties since soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing +of the breakfast-bell. + +“A letter from Helen,” Constance said. + +“Helen? Oh, she’s got to Starden then?” said John. + +“And wants us to come over, dear.” + +“Of course! We’ll go over next week some time. I’m busy now with—” + +“It wouldn’t be kind not to go at once.” + +“Who is Helen?” demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and +then at John. “Who is she?” A tinge of colour came into her cheeks. + +Connie saw it, and sighed a little. She knew this girl’s secret, knew +it only too well. Many an hour of anxiety and worry it had caused her. + +“Helen is our aunt by marriage,” she said. + +“Oh!” Ellice said, “I thought—” + +John laughed. He had a jolly laugh, a great hearty laugh that did one +good to hear. + +“What did you think she was, gipsy girl?” he asked, for “gipsy” was his +pet name for the little dark beauty. + +“Did you think she was some young and lovely damsel who was eager to +meet me again?” + +“I should hate her if she was!” the girl said, whereat John laughed +again. + +“Write to Helen, Con,” he said as he rose from the table, “and say +we’ll come over to-morrow.” He paused, frowning, at thought. “I’ll +manage it somehow. I’ll drive you over in the trap. It would be useful +to have a car; I don’t know why I put off getting one.” + +Constance did, and she smiled. “Wait till next year, dear.” + +He nodded. “Yes, next year we’ll get one. Meanwhile write to Helen, and +tell her we’ll be over to-morrow afternoon.” + +“And I?” Ellice asked. + +John looked at her. “Why—no, child, you’ll stop at home and look after +the house, eh?” He nodded to them and went out. + +“Is she there—alone?” Ellice asked. + +“Who, dear?” + +“This Helen, your aunt. Is it usual to call your aunt just plain +Helen?” + +“No, I suppose it isn’t, and she is not there alone, as you ask. She is +living with a girl who has just come into a great deal of money—Miss +Joan Meredyth.” + +“What is she like?” the girl asked quickly. + +Constance smiled. + +“I don’t know, dear. You see, I have never seen her.” + +“Then I hope,” Ellice said between her clenched teeth, “I hope she is +ugly, ugly as sin!” + +“I think,” said Constance gently, “that you are very silly and +foolish!” + +Yet when the morrow came it was Ellice and not Constance who sat beside +John in the trap, and was driven by him the six odd miles to Starden. +For Constance had one of “her headaches.” It was no imaginary ailment, +but a headache that prostrated her and filled her with pain, that made +every sound an agony. She lay in her room, the blinds drawn, and all +the household hushed. + +“I’ll write that we’ll go to-morrow, dear,” John said. + +“No, go to-day. I should be glad, Johnny. Go to-day and take Ellice, I +am so much better alone; and by the time you come home perhaps I shall +have been able to sleep it off.” + +So Johnny Everard drove Ellice over to Starden that afternoon. + +Helen Everard received them in the drawing-room. She was fond of Johnny +Everard and his sister. This dark-faced girl she did not know, though +she had heard of her. And now she looked at her with interest. It was +an interesting face, such a face as one does not ordinarily see. + +“One day, if she lives, she will be a beautiful woman,” Helen thought. +“To-day she is a gawky, passionate, ill-disciplined child; and I am +afraid, terribly afraid, she is very much in love with that great, +cheery, good-looking nephew of mine.” + +“Come,” she said, “Joan is in the garden. I promised that when you came +I would take you to her. You have heard about her of course?” Helen +added to John. + +“Only a little, that she is an heiress, and has come into Starden.” + +“She was very poor, poor child, and I think she had a hard and bitter +time of it. Then the wheel of fortune took a turn. Her uncle died, and +left her Starden and a great deal of money. So here she is.” + +Helen felt a hand grip her arm, and turned to look down into a thin +face, in which burned a pair of passionate eyes. + +“Is she—pretty?” the girl asked. + +“I think,” Helen said slowly, “that she is the most beautiful woman I +have ever seen.” + +Unlike his usual self, John Everard was very silent and thoughtful as +he drove home later that evening. Helen had said that Joan Meredyth was +the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. He agreed with her +whole-heartedly. She had received him and Ellice kindly, yet without +much warmth, and now as he drove home in the light of the setting sun +Johnny Everard was thinking about this girl, going over all that had +happened, remembering every word almost that she had uttered. + +“She is very beautiful, wonderfully beautiful,” he thought. And perhaps +he uttered his thoughts aloud, for the girl, as silent as himself, who +sat beside him, started and looked up into his face, and into the +passionate, rebellious heart of her there came a sudden wave of jealous +hatred. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +UNREST + + +Lady Linden patted the girl’s small white hand. + +“Yes, child,” she said comfortably, “Colonel Arundel and I had a nice +long talk last night, and you may guess what it was about. He and I +were boy and girl together, there’s no better blood in the kingdom than +the Arundel’s—what was I saying? Oh yes, we decided that it would be a +good plan to have a two years’ engagement, or better still, none for +eighteen months, and then a six months’ engagement. During that time +Tom can study modern scientific farming and that sort of thing, you +know, and then when you and he are married, he could take over these +estates. I am heartily sick of Bilson, and I always fancy he is robbing +me—what did you say, child?” + +“Nothing, auntie.” + +“Well, you ought to be a very happy little girl. Run away.” + +But Marjorie lingered. “Aunt, you haven’t heard anything of—of Hugh?” +she asked. + +“Hugh—Hugh Alston? Good gracious, no! You don’t think I am going to run +after the man? I am disgusted with Hugh. His duplicity and, worse +still, his obstinate, foolish, unreasoning behaviour, have annoyed me +more than anything I ever remember. But there, my dear child, it is +nothing to do with you. I have quite altered my opinion of Hugh Alston. +You were right and I was wrong. Tom Arundel will make you a better +husband, and you will be as happy as the day is long with him.” + +“I shan’t!” Marjorie thought as she turned away. It was wrong, and it +was unreasonable, and she knew it; but for the last four or five days +there had been steadily growing in Marjorie’s brain, an Idea. + +Stolen fruits are sweetest, stolen meetings, moonlit assignations, shy +kisses pressed on ardent young lips, when the world is shrouded in +darkness and seems to hold but two. All these things make for romance. +The silvery moonlight gives false values; the knowledge that one has +slipped unseen from the house to meet the beloved one, and that the +doing of it is a brave and bold adventure, gives a thrill that sets the +heart throbbing and the young blood leaping—the knowledge that it is +forbidden, and, being forbidden, very sweet, appeals to the young and +romantic heart. + +But when that same beloved object, looking less romantic in correct +evening dress, is accepted smilingly by the powers that be, and is sate +down to a large and varied, many coursed dinner, then Romance shrugs +her disgusted shoulders and turns petulantly away. + +It was so with Marjorie. When the idea first came to her, she felt +shocked and amazed. It could not be! she said to herself. “I love Tom +with all my heart and soul, and now I am the happiest girl living.” + +But she was not, and she knew it. It was useless to tell herself that +she was the happiest girl living when night after night she lay awake, +staring into the darkness and seeing in memory a face that certainly +did not belong to Tom Arundel. + +Hugh Alston had commenced work on the restoration of certain parts of +Hurst Dormer. He had busied himself with the work, had entered +whole-heartedly into all the plans, had counted up the cost, and then, +realising that all his enthusiasm was only forced, that he was merely +trying to cheat himself, he lost interest and gave it up. + +“I’ll go to London,” he said. “I’ll go and see things, and try and get +thoughts of her out of my mind.” So he went, and found London even more +uninteresting than Hurst Dormer. + +He had promised that he would never molest her, never annoy her with +his visits or his presence, and he meant religiously to keep his word, +and yet—if he could just see her! She need not know! If he could from a +distance feast his eyes on her for one moment, on a sight of her, what +harm would he do her or anyone? + +Hugh Alston did not recognise himself in this restless dissatisfied, +unhappy man, who took to loitering and wandering about the streets, +haunting certain places and keeping a sharp lookout for someone who +might or might not come. + +So the days passed. He had gladdened his eyes three times with a view +of old General Bartholomew. He had seen that ancient man leaning on his +stick, taking a constitutional around the square. + +And that was all! He passed the house and watched, yet saw no sign of +her. He came at night-time, when tell-tale shadows might be thrown on +the blinds, but saw nothing, only the shadow of the General or of his +secretary, never one that might have been hers. + +And then he slowly came to the conclusion that Joan Meredyth could no +longer be there. It had taken him nearly a week to come to that +decision. + +That Joan had left General Bartholomew’s house he was certain, but +where was she? He had no right to enquire, no right to hunt her down. +If he knew where she was, how could it profit him, for had he not +promised to trouble her no more? + +Yet still for all that he wanted to know, and casting about in his mind +how he might find her, he thought of Mr. Philip Slotman. + +It was possible that if she had left the General’s she had gone back to +take up her work with Slotman again. + +“I’ll risk it,” he thought, and went to Gracebury and made his way to +Slotman’s office. + +It was a sadly depleted staff that he found in the general office. An +ancient man and a young boy represented Mr. Philip Slotman’s one-time +large clerical staff. + +“Mr. Slotman’s away, sir, down in the country—gone down to Sussex, +sir,” said the lad. + +“To Sussex? Will he be away long?” + +“Can’t say, sir; he may be back to-morrow,” the boy said. “At any rate, +he’s not here to-day.” + +“I may come back to-morrow. You might tell him that Mr. Alston called.” +And Hugh turned away. + +Another disappointment. He realised now that he had built up quite a +lot of hope on his interview with Slotman. + +“Shall I wait till to-morrow, or shall I go back to-day?” Hugh +wondered. “This is getting awful. I don’t seem to have a mind of my +own, I can’t settle down to a thing. I’ve got to get a grip on myself. +How does the old poem go: ‘If she be fair, but not fair to me, what +care I how fair she be?’ That’s all right; but I do care, and I can’t +help it!” + +He had made his aimless way back to the West End of London. It was +luncheon time, and he was hesitating between a restaurant and an hotel. + +“I’ll go back to the hotel, get some lunch, pack up and leave by the +five o’clock train for Hurst Dormer,” he decided, and turned to hail a +taxicab. + +And, turning, he came suddenly face to face with the girl who was ever +in his thoughts. + +She had been helping a middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman out of a cab, +and then, as she turned, their eyes met, and into Joan Meredyth’s +cheeks there flashed the tell-tale colour that proved to him and to all +the world that this chance meeting with him meant something to her +after all. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +“UNGENEROUS” + + +Hugh Alston had raised his hat, and she had given him the coolest of +bows. He was turning away, true to his promise to trouble her no more, +and her heart seemed to cry out against it suddenly. + +If she could have believed that he had been here of deliberate intent, +to find her, to see her, she would have felt cold anger against him; +but it was an accident, and Joan knew suddenly that for some reason she +was unwilling to let him go. + +What she said she hardly knew, something about the unexpectedness of +meetings that were common enough in London. At any rate she spoke, and +was rewarded by the look that came into his face. A starving dog could +not have looked more gratitude to one who had flung him a bone than +Hugh Alston, starving for her, thanked her with his eyes for the few +conventional words. + +Before he could realise what had happened, she had introduced him to +her companion. + +“Helen, this is Mr. Alston—whom I—I know,” she said. + +“Alston.” Helen Everard congratulated herself afterwards that she had +given no sign of surprise, no start, nothing to betray the fact that +the name was familiar. + +Here was the man then whom Lady Linden believed to be Joan’s husband, +the man whom Joan had denied she had married, and who she had stated to +General Bartholomew was scarcely more than a stranger to her. + +And, looking at him, Helen knew that if Hugh Alston and she met again, +he would certainly not know her, for he had no eyes for anything save +the lovely cold face of the girl before him. + +“Oh, Joan,” she said, “there is one of those bags I have been wanting +to get for a long time past. Excuse me, Joan dear, will you?” And Helen +made hurriedly to a shop hard by, leaving them together. + +Joan felt angry with herself now it was too late. She ought to have +given him the coldest of cold bows and then ignored him; but she had +been weak, and she had spoken, and now Helen had deserted her. + +“I will say good-bye, Mr. Alston, and go after my friend.” + +“No, wait—wait. I want to speak to you, to thank you.” + +“To thank me?” She lifted her eyebrows. “For what?” + +“For speaking to me.” + +“That sounds very humble, doesn’t it?” She laughed sharply. + +“I am very humble to you, Joan!” + +“Mr. Alston, do you realise that I am very angry with myself?” she said +coldly. “I acted on a foolish impulse. I ought not to have spoken to +you.” + +“You acted on a generous impulse, that is natural to you. Now you are +pretending one that is unworthy of you, Joan.” + +“I do not think you have any right to speak to me so, nor call me by +that name.” + +“I must call you by the name I constantly think of you by. Joan, do you +remember what I said to you when we last met?” + +“No, I—” She flushed suddenly. To deny, was unworthy of her. “Yes, I +remember.” + +“It is true, remember what I said. I take not one word of it back. It +is true, and will remain true all my life.” + +“My friend—will be wondering—” + +“Joan, be a little merciful.” + +And now for the first time he noticed that she was not dressed as he +had seen her last. There was a suggestion of wealth, of ample means +about her appearance. Clothes were the last thing that Hugh thought of, +or noticed. Yet gradually Joan’s clothes began to thrust themselves on +his notice. She was well dressed, and the stylish and becoming clothes +heightened her beauty, if possible. + +“Joan, I have a confession to make.” + +She bent her head. + +“I couldn’t act unfairly or deal in an underhand way with you.” + +“I thought differently!” she said bitterly. + +“I remembered my promise made to you at General Bartholomew’s, yet I +came to London in the hope of seeing you, that was all that brought me +here. I would not have spoken to you if you had not spoken to me first. +I only wanted just to see you. I wonder,” he went on, “that I have not +been arrested as a suspicious character, as I have been loitering about +General Bartholomew’s house for days, but I never saw you, Joan!” + +“I was not there!” + +“No, I gathered that at last. You will believe that I had no intention +of annoying you or forcing myself on your notice. I wanted to see you, +that was all, and so when I had made up my mind that you were not +there, I went to the City Office where I saw you last.” + +Her face flushed with anger. + +“You have taken then to tracking me?” she said angrily. + +“I am afraid it looks like it, but not to annoy you, only to satisfy my +longing to see you. Just now you said I sounded humble. I wonder if you +could guess how humble I feel.” + +“I wonder,” she said sharply, “if you could guess how little I believe +anything you say, Mr. Alston? I am sorry I spoke to you. It was a +weakness I regret. Now I will say good-bye. You went to Slotman’s +office, and I suppose discussed me with him?” + +“I did not; he was not there. I was glad afterwards he was not. I don’t +like the man.” + +“It does not matter. In any event Mr. Slotman could not have helped +you; he does not know where I am living.” + +“Won’t you tell me?” + +“Why should I, to be further annoyed by you?” + +“I think you know that I will not annoy you. Won’t you tell me, Joan?” + +“I—I don’t see why I should. Remember, I have no wish to continue +our—our acquaintance; there is no reason you should know.” + +“Yet if I knew I would be happier. I would not trouble you.” + +“Surely it does not matter. I am living in the country, then—in Kent, +at Starden. I—I have come into a little money.” She looked at him +keenly. She wondered did he know, had he known that night when he had +told her that he loved her? + +“I am glad of it,” he said. “I could have wished you had come into a +great deal.” + +“I have!” she said quietly. + +“I am truly glad,” he said. “It was one of the things that troubled me +most, the thought of you—you forced to go out into the world to earn +your living, you who are so fine and exquisite and sensitive, being +brought into contact with the ugly things of life. I am glad that you +are saved that—it lightens my heart too, Joan.” + +“Why?” + +“Haven’t I told you? I hated the thought of you having to work for such +a man as Slotman. I am thankful you are freed from any such need.” + +She had wronged him by that thought, she was glad to realise it. He had +not known, then. + +“My uncle died. He left me his fortune and the old home of our family, +which he had recently bought back, Starden Hall, in Kent. I am living +there now with Mrs. Everard, my friend and companion, and now—” + +While she had been waiting to be served with a bag that she did not +particularly require, Helen Everard watched them through the +shop-window. She watched him particularly. + +“I like him; he looks honest,” she thought. “It is all strange and +curious. If it were not true what Lady Linden said, why did she say it? +If it is true, then—then why—what is the cause of the quarrel between +them? Will they make it up? He does not look like a man who could treat +a woman badly. Oh dear!” Helen sighed, for she had her own plans. Like +every good woman, she was a born matchmaker at heart. She had a deep +and sincere affection for John Everard. She had decided long ago that +she must find Johnny a good wife, and here had been the very thing, +only there was this Mr. Hugh Alston. + +She had been served with the bag, it had been wrapped in paper for her, +and now Helen came out. She had lingered as long as she could to give +this man every chance. + +“I am afraid I have been a long time, Joan,” she began. + +Hugh turned to her eagerly. + +“Mrs.—Everard,” he said, “I have been trying to induce Miss Meredyth to +come and have lunch with me.” + +“Oh!” Joan cried. The word lunch had never passed his lips till now, +and she looked at him angrily. + +“I suggest Prince’s,” he said. “Let’s get a taxi and go there now.” + +“Thank you, I do not require any lunch,” Joan said. + +“But I do, my dear. I am simply famished,” said Helen. + +It was like a base betrayal, but she felt that she must help this +good-looking young man who looked at her so pleadingly. + +“And it is always so much nicer to have a gentleman escort, isn’t it?” + +“You can’t refuse now, Joan,” Hugh said. + +Joan! The name suggested to Helen that Joan had not spoken quite the +truth when she had told General Bartholomew that she and this man were +practically strangers. A strange man does not usually call a young girl +by her Christian name. + +“As you like,” Joan said indifferently. She looked at Hugh resentfully. + +“I do not consider it is either very clever or very considerate,” she +said in a low voice, intended for him alone. + +“I am sorry, but—but I couldn’t let you go yet. You—you don’t +understand, Joan!” he stammered. + +She shrugged her shoulders; she went with them because she must. She +could not create a scene, but she would take her revenge. She promised +herself that, and she did. She scarcely spoke a word during the +luncheon. She ate nothing; she looked about her with an air of +indifference. Twice she deliberately yawned behind her hand, hoping +that he would notice; and he did, and it hurt him cruelly, as she hoped +it might. + +But she kept the worst sting for the last. + +“Please,” she said to the waiter, “make out the bills separately—mine +and this lady’s together, and the gentleman’s by itself.” + +“Joan!” he said, as the waiter went his way, and his voice was shocked +and hurt. + +“Oh really, you could hardly expect that I would wish you to spend any +of your—eight thousand a year on me!” + +Hugh flushed. He bent his head. His eight thousand a year that once he +had held out as a bait to her, and yet, Heaven knew, he had not meant +it so. He had only meant to be frank with her. + +He was hurt and stung, as she meant he should be, and seeing it, her +heart misgave her, and she was sorry. But it was too late, and she must +not confess weakness now. + +There was a cold look in his face, a bitterness about his mouth she had +never seen before. When he rose he held out his hand to Mrs. Everard; +he thanked her for coming here with him, and then he gave Joan the +coldest of cold bows. He held no hand out to her, he had no speech for +her. Only one word, one word that once before he had flung at her, and +now flung into her face again. + +“Ungenerous!” he said, so that she alone could hear, and then he was +gone, and Helen looked after him. And then, turning, she glanced at +Joan, and saw that there were tears in the girl’s grey eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX +THE INVESTIGATIONS OF MR. SLOTMAN + + +“And who the dickens,” said Lady Linden, “is Mister—Philip +what’s-his-name? I can’t see it—what’s his name, Marjorie?” Lady Linden +held out the card to the girl. + +“It—it is—Slotman, auntie,” Marjorie said. + +“Don’t sniff, child. You’ve got a cold; go up to my room, and in the +medical—” + +“I haven’t a cold, auntie.” + +“Don’t talk to me. Go and get a dose of ammoniated tincture of quinine. +As for this Mr. Slotman—unpleasant name—what the dickens does he want +of me?” + +Marjorie did not answer. + +Slotman was being shewn into the drawing-room a few moments later. He +was wearing his best clothes and best manner. This Lady Linden was an +aristocratic dame, and Mr. Slotman had come for the express purpose of +making himself very agreeable. + +“Oily-looking wretch!” her ladyship thought. “Well?” she asked aloud. + +“I am grateful to your ladyship for permitting me to see you.” + +“Well, you can see me if that’s all you have come for.” + +“No!” he said. “If—if I—” He paused. + +“Oh, sit down!” said Lady Linden. “Well, now what is it you want? Have +you something to sell? Books, sewing machines?” + +“No, no!” He waved a deprecating hand. “I am come on a matter that +interests me greatly. I am a financier, I have offices in London. Until +lately I was employing a young lady on my staff.” + +“Well?” + +“Her name was Meredyth, Miss Joan Meredyth.” + +“I don’t want to hear anything at all about her,” said Lady Linden. +“Why you come to me, goodness only knows. If you’ve come for +information I haven’t got any. If you want information, the right +person to go to is her husband!” + +“Her—her husband!” Mr. Slotman seemed to be choking. + +“You seem surprised,” said Lady Linden. “Well, so was I, but it is the +truth. If you are interested in Miss Meredyth, the proper person to +make enquiries of is Mr. Hugh Alston, of Hurst Dormer, Sussex. Now you +know. Is there anything else I can do for you?” + +Slotman passed his hand across his forehead. This was unexpected, a +blow that staggered him. + +“You—you mean, your ladyship means that Miss Meredyth is recently +married.” + +“Her ladyship means nothing of the kind,” said Lady Linden tartly. “I +mean that Miss Meredyth has for some very considerable time been Mrs. +Hugh Alston. They were married, if you want to know—and I don’t see why +it should any longer be kept a secret—three years ago, in June, +nineteen eighteen at Marlbury, Dorset, where my niece was at school +with Miss Meredyth. Now you know all I know, and if you want any +further information, apply to the husband.” + +“But—but,” Slotman said, “I—” He was thinking. He was trying to +reconcile what he had heard in his own office when he had spied on Hugh +Alston and Joan, when on that occasion he had heard Hugh offer marriage +to the girl as an act of atonement. How could he offer marriage if they +were already married? There was something wrong, some mistake! + +“But what?” snapped her ladyship, who had taken an exceeding dislike to +the perspiring Mr. Slotman. + +“Is your ladyship certain that they were married? I mean—” he fumbled +and stammered. + +Lady Linden pointed to the door. “Good afternoon!” she said. “I don’t +know what business it is of yours, and I don’t care. All I know is that +if Hugh Alston is a fool, he is not a knave, so you have my permission +to retire.” + +Mr. Slotman retired, but it was not till some hours had passed that he +finally left the neighbourhood of Cornbridge. He had been making +discreet enquiries, and he found on every side that her ladyship’s +story was corroborated. + +For Lady Linden talked, and it was asking too much of any lady who was +fond of a chat to expect her to keep silent on a matter of such +interest. Lady Linden had discussed Hugh Alston’s marriage with Mrs. +Pontifex, the Rector’s wife, who in turn had discussed it with others. +So, little by little, the story had leaked out, and all Cornbridge knew +it, and Mr. Slotman found ample corroboration of Lady Linden’s story. + +Not till he was in the train did Mr. Slotman begin to gather together +all the threads of evidence. “I should not describe Lady Linden as a +pleasant person,” he decided, “still, her information will prove of the +utmost value to me. On the whole I am glad I went.” He felt satisfied; +he had discovered all that was discoverable, so far as Cornbridge was +concerned. + +“Married in eighteen, June of eighteen,” he muttered, “at Marlbury, +Dorset. I’ll bet she wasn’t! She may have said she was, but she +wasn’t!” He chuckled grimly. He was beginning to see through it. “I +suppose she told that tale, and then it got about, and then the fellow +came and offered her marriage as the only possible way out. I’d like to +choke the brute!” + +Slotman slept that night in London, and early the following morning he +was on his way to Marlbury. He found it a little quiet country town, +where information was to be had readily enough. It took him but a few +minutes to discover that there was a school for young ladies, a school +of repute, kept by a Miss Skinner. It was the only ladies’ school in or +near the town, and so Mr. Slotman made his way in that direction, and +in a little time was ushered into the presence of the headmistress. + +“I must apologise,” he said, “for this intrusion.” + +Miss Skinner bowed. She was tall and thin, angular and severe, a +typical headmistress, stern and unyielding. + +“I am,” Slotman lied, “a solicitor from London, and I am interested in +a young lady who a matter of three years ago was, I believe, a pupil in +this school.” + +“Indeed?” + +“Miss Joan Meredyth,” said Slotman. + +“Miss Meredyth was a pupil here at the time you mention, three years +ago. It was three years ago that she left.” + +“In June?” Slotman asked. + +“I think so. Is it important that you know?” + +“Very!” + +“I will go and look up my books.” In a few minutes Miss Skinner was +back. + +“Miss Meredyth left us in the June of nineteen hundred and eighteen,” +she said. + +“Suddenly?” + +“Somewhat—yes, suddenly. Her father was dead; she was leaving us to go +to Australia.” + +“So that was the story,” Slotman thought, “to go to Australia.” + +“During the time she was here, may I ask, did she have any visitors? +Did, for instance, a Mr. Hugh Alston call on her?” + +“Mr. Alston, I remember the name. Certainly he called here, but not to +see Miss Meredyth. He came to see Miss Marjorie Linden, who was, I +fancy, distantly related to him. I am not sure, Mr. Alston certainly +called several times.” + +“And saw Miss Meredyth?” + +“I think not. I have no reason to believe that he did. Miss Linden and +Miss Meredyth were close friends, and of course Miss Linden may have +introduced him. It is quite possible.” + +“Thank you!” said Slotman. He had found out all that he wanted to know, +yet not quite. + +For the next few hours Philip Slotman was a busy man. He went to the +church and looked up the register. No marriage such as he looked for +had taken place between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in June, nineteen +eighteen, nor any other month immediately before or after. No marriage +had taken place at the local Registrar’s office. But he was not done +yet. Six miles from Marlbury was Morchester, a far larger and more +important town. Thither went Philip Slotman and pursued his enquiries +with a like result. + +Neither at Marlbury, nor at Morchester had any marriage been registered +in the name of Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in the year nineteen +eighteen; and having discovered that fact beyond doubt, Philip Slotman +took train for London. + + + + +CHAPTER XX +“WHEN I AM NOT WITH YOU” + + +A fortnight had passed since Johnny Everard’s first visit to Starden, +and during that time he had been again and yet again. He had never +taken Ellice with him since that first time. + +Two days after the first visit he had driven Constance over, and +Constance and Joan Meredyth had become instant friends. + +“You’ll come again and often; it is lonely here,” Joan had said. “I +mean, not lonely for me, that would be ungrateful to Helen, but I know +she is very fond of you, and she will like you to come as often as +possible, you and your brother.” + +“Con,” Johnny said as he drove her home that evening, “don’t you think +we might run to a little car, just a cheap two-seater? It would be so +useful. Look, we could run over to Starden in less than half an hour. +We can be there and back in an hour if we wanted to, and Helen would be +so jolly glad, don’t you think?” + +Constance smiled to herself. + +“We haven’t much money now, Johnny,” she said. “Last year’s hops +were—awful!” + +“They are going to be ripping this year. I’ve got that blight down all +right,” he said cheerily. + +“Yes, dear; well, if you think—” She hesitated. + +“Oh, we can manage it somehow,” he said hopefully. + +Constance looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. + +“It will be useful for you to run over to Starden to see Helen—won’t +it?” + +“Yes, to see Helen. She’s a good sort, one of the best, dear old Helen! +Isn’t it ripping to have her near us again?” + +“She could always have come to Buddesby if she had wanted to.” + +“Oh, there isn’t much room there!” + +“But always room enough for Helen, Johnny. You haven’t told me what you +think of Joan Meredyth.” + +She watched him out of the corners of her eyes. He stared straight +ahead between the ears of the old horse. + +“Joan Meredyth,” he repeated, and she saw a deep flush come stealing +under the tan of his cheeks. “Oh, she’s handsome, Con. She almost took +my breath away. I think she is the loveliest girl I ever saw.” + +“Yes, and do you—” + +“And do I admire her? Yes, I do, but I could wish she was just a little +less cold, a little less stately, Con.” + +“Perhaps it is shyness. Remember, we are strangers to her; she was not +cold and stately to me, Johnny.” + +“Ah!” Johnny said, and went on staring straight ahead down the road. + +“Did Helen say much to you, Con?” + +“Oh, a good deal!” + +“About”—Johnny hesitated—“her?” + +“Yes, a little; she thinks a great deal of her. She says that at first +Joan seemed to hold her at arm’s length. Now they understand one +another better, and she says Joan has the best heart in the world.” + +“Yet she seems cold to me,” said Johnny with a sigh. + +Still, in spite of Joan’s coldness, he found his way over to Starden +very often during the days that followed. He had picked up a small +secondhand car, which he strenuously learned to drive, and thereafter +the little car might have been seen plugging almost daily along the six +odd miles of road that separated Buddesby from Starden. + +And each time he got the car out a pair of black eyes watched him with +smouldering anger and passion and jealousy. A pair of small hands were +clenched tightly, a girl’s heart was aching and throbbing with love and +hate and undisciplined passions, as though it must break. + +But he did not see, though Constance did, and she felt troubled and +anxious. She had understood for long how it was with Ellice. She had +seen the girl’s eyes turned with dog-like devotion towards the man who +was all unconscious of the passion he had aroused. But she saw it all +in her quiet way, and was anxious and worried, as a kindly, gentle, +tender-hearted woman must be when she notices one of her own sex give +all the love of a passionate heart to one who neither realises nor +desires it. + +So, day after day, Johnny drove over to Starden, and when he came Helen +would smile quietly and take herself off about some household duty, +leaving the young people together. And Joan would greet him with a +smile from which all coldness now had gone, for she accepted him as a +friend. She saw his sterling worth, his honour and his honesty. He was +like some great boy, so open and transparent was he. To her he had +become “Johnny,” to him she was “Joan.” + +To-day they were wandering up and down the garden paths, side by side. + +The garden lay about them, glowing in the sunshine of the early +afternoon. Beyond the high bank of hollyhocks and the further hedge of +dark yew, clipped into fantastic form, one could catch a glimpse of the +old house, with its steep sloping roof, its many gables, its whitened +walls, lined and crossed by the old timbers. The hum of the bees was in +the air, heavy with the fragrance of many flowers. + +And Joan was thinking of a City office, of a man she hated and feared, +a man with bold eyes and thick, sensual lips. And then her thoughts +drifted away to another man, and she seemed to hear again the last word +he had spoken to her—“Ungenerous.” And suddenly she shivered a little +in the warm sunlight. + +“Joan, you are not cold. You can’t be cold,” Johnny said. + +She laughed. “No, I was only thinking of the past. There is much in the +past to make one shiver, I think, and oh, Johnny, I was thinking of you +too!” + +“Of me?” + +She nodded. “Helen was telling me how keen and eager you were about +your farm, how difficult it was to get you to leave it for an hour.” +She paused. “That—that was before you came here, the first time—and +since then you have been here almost every day. Johnny, aren’t you +wasting your time?” She looked at him with sweet seriousness. + +“I am wasting my time, Joan, when—when I am not with you!” he said, and +his voice shook with sudden feeling, and into his face there came a +wave of colour. “To be near you, to see you—” He paused. + +Down the garden pathway came a trim maidservant, who could never guess +how John Everard hated her for at least one moment of her life. + +“A gentleman in the drawing-room, miss, to see you,” the girl said. + +“A gentleman to see me? Who?” + +“He would not give a name, miss. He said you might not recognise it. He +wishes to see you on business.” Joan frowned. Who could it be? Yet it +was someone waiting, someone here. + +“I shall not be long,” she said to Johnny, and perhaps was glad of the +excuse to leave him. + +“I will wait till you come back, Joan.” + +She smiled and nodded, and hastened to the house and the drawing-room, +and, opening the door, went in to find herself face to face with Philip +Slotman. + + +Philip Slotman, of all living people! She stared at him in amaze, +almost doubting the evidence of her sight. What did he here? How dared +he come here and thrust himself on her notice? How dared he send that +lying message by the maid, that she might not recognise his name? + +“You’ve got a nice place here, Joan,” he said with easy familiarity. +“Things have looked up a bit for you, eh? I notice you haven’t said you +are glad to see me. Aren’t you going to shake hands?” + +“Explain,” she said quietly, “what you mean by coming here.” + +If she had given way to senseless rage, and had demanded how he +dared—and so forth, he would have smiled with amusement; but the cool +deliberation of her, the quiet scorn in her eyes, the lack of passion, +made him nervous and a little uncomfortable. + +“I came here to see you—what else, Joan?” + +“Uninvited,” she said. “You have taken a liberty—” + +“Oh, you!” he shouted suddenly. “You’re a fine one to ride the high +horse with me! Who the dickens are you to give yourself airs? You can +stow that, do you hear?” His eyes flashed unpleasantly. “You can stow +that kind of talk with me!” + +“You came here believing, I suppose, that I was practically friendless. +You knew that I had no relatives, especially men relatives, so you +thought you would come to continue your annoyance of me. Would you mind +coming here?” + +He went to the window wonderingly. The window commanded a wide view of +the garden. Looking out into the garden he could see a man, a very tall +and very broad young man, who stood with muscular arms folded across a +great chest. The young man was leaning against an old rose-red brick +wall, smoking a pipe and obviously waiting. The most noticeable thing +about the young man was that he was exceptionally big and of powerful +build and determined appearance. Another thing that Slotman noticed +about him was that he was not Mr. Hugh Alston, whom he remembered +perfectly. + +“Well?” + +“That gentleman is a friend of mine, related to the lady who lives with +me. If I call on him and ask him to persuade you to go and not return, +he will do so.” + +“Oh, he will, and what then?” + +“I don’t understand you—what then? Why did you come here uninvited? Why +did you send an untruthful message by my servant—that I would not +recognise your name?” + +“Trying to bluff me, aren’t you?” Slotman said. He looked her in the +eyes. “But it won’t come off, Joan; no, my dear, I’ve been too busy of +late to be taken in by your airs and defiance!” He laughed. “I’ve been +making quite a round, here, there, and everywhere, and all because of +you, Joan—all because of you! Among other places I’ve been to,” he went +on, seeing that she stood silent and unmoved, “is Marlbury You remember +it, eh? A nice little town, quiet though. I had a long talk with Miss +Skinner—remember her, don’t you, Joany?” + +Her eyes glittered. “Mr. Slotman, I am trying to understand what this +means. Is it that you are mad or intoxicated? Why do you come here to +me with all these statements? Why do you come here at all?” + +“Marlbury,” he continued unmoved, “a nice, quiet little place. I spent +some time in the church there, and at the Council offices, looking for +something, for something I didn’t find, Joany—and didn’t expect to find +either, come to that, ha, ha!” He laughed. “No, never expected to find, +but, to make dead sure, I went to Morchester, and hunted there, Joany, +and still I didn’t find what I was looking for and knew I shouldn’t +find!” + +“Mr. Slotman!” + +“You aren’t curious, are you? You won’t ask what I was looking for, +perhaps you can guess!” He took a step nearer to her. “You can guess, +can’t you, Joany?” he said. + +“I am not attempting to guess. I can only imagine that you are not in +your sane senses. You will now go, and if you return—” + +“Wait a moment. What I was looking for at Marlbury and Morchester and +did not find—was evidence of a marriage having taken place in June, +nineteen eighteen, between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth. But there’s +no such evidence, none! Ah, that touches you a bit, don’t it? Now you +begin to understand why I ain’t taken in by your fine dignity!” + +“You—you have been looking for—for evidence of a marriage—my marriage +with—what do you mean?” + +Her face was flushed, her eyes brilliant with anger. + +“I mean that I am not a fool, though I was for a time. You took me in—I +am not blaming you”—he paused—“not blaming you. You were only a girl, +straight out of school. You didn’t understand things, and the man—” + +“What—do—you—mean?” she whispered. + +“You left Miss Skinner’s, said you were going to Australia, didn’t you? +But you didn’t go. Oh no, you didn’t go! You know best where you went, +but there’s no proof of any marriage at Marlbury or Morchester. Now—now +do you begin to understand?” + +She did understand, a sense of horror came to her, horror and shame +that this man should dare—dare to think evil of her! She felt that she +wanted to strike him. She saw him as through a mist—his hateful face, +the face she wanted to strike with all her might, and yet she was +conscious of an even greater anger, a very passion of hate and +resentment against another man than this, against the man who had +subjected her to these insults, this infamy. She gripped her hands +hard. + +“You—you will leave this house. If you ever dare to return I will have +you flung out—you hear me? Go, and if you ever dare—” + +“No, no you don’t!” he said. “Wait a moment. You can’t take me in now!” +He laughed in her face. “If I go I’ll go all right, but you’ll never +hear the end of it. You’re someone down here, aren’t you? I have heard +about you. You’re a Meredyth, and the Meredyths used to hold their +heads pretty high about here. But if you aren’t careful I’ll get +talking, and if I talk I’ll make this place too hot to hold you. You +know what I mean. I hate threatening you, Joan, only you force me to do +it.” His voice altered. “I hate threatening, and you know why. It is +because I love you, and I am willing to marry you—in spite of +everything, you understand? In spite of everything!” + +Joan threw out her hand and grasped at the edge of the table. + +“My friend out there—am I to call for him? Are you driving me to do +that? Shall I call him now?” + +“If you like,” Slotman said. “If you do, I’ll have something to tell +him of a marriage that never took place in June, nineteen eighteen, and +of a man who came to my office to see you, and offered to marry you—as +atonement. Oh yes, I heard—trust me! I don’t let interviews take place +in my offices that I don’t know anything about!” + +He was silent suddenly. There was that in her face that worried him, +frightened him in spite of himself—a wild, staring look in her eyes; +the whiteness of her cheeks, the whiteness even of her lips. There was +a tragic look about her. He had seen something like it on the stage at +some time. He realised that he might be goading her too far. + +“I’ll go now,” he said. “I’ll go and leave you to think it all out. You +can rely on me not to say anything. I shan’t humble you, or talk about +you—not me! A man don’t run down the girl he means to make his wife, +and that’s what I mean—Joan! In spite of everything, you understand, my +girl?” He paused. “In spite of everything, Joan, I’ll still marry you! +But I’ll come back. Oh, I’ll come back, I—” He paused. He suddenly +remembered the denuded state of his finances, yet it did not seem an +auspicious moment just now to ask her for financial help. + +“I’ll write,” he thought. He looked at her. + +“Good-bye, Joan. I’ll come back; you’ll hear from me soon. Meanwhile, +remember—not a word, not a word to a living soul. You’re all right, +trust me!” + +Meanwhile Johnny Everard wandered about the sweet, old-world garden, +and did not appreciate its beauties in the least. He was waiting, and +there is nothing so dreary as waiting for one one longs to see and who +comes not. + +But presently there came a maid, that same maid who had earned Johnny’s +temporary hatred. + +“Miss Meredyth wished me to say, sir, that she would be very glad if +you would excuse her. She’s been taken with a bad headache, and has had +to go to her own room to lie down.” + +“Oh!” said Johnny. The sun seemed to shine less brightly for him for a +few moments. “I’m sorry. All right, tell her I am very sorry, and—and +shall hope to see her soon!” + +Ten minutes later Johnny Everard was driving back along the hot +high-road, utterly unconscious that the car was running very badly and +misfiring consistently. + +In her own room Joan sat, her elbows on the dressing-table, her eyes +staring unseeingly out into a garden, all glowing with flowers and +sunlight. + +She was not thinking of Johnny Everard; his very existence had for the +time being passed from her memory. She was thinking of that man, and of +what he had said, the horror and the shame of it. And that other +man—Hugh Alston—had brought this upon her—with his insulting lie, his +insolent, lying statement, he had brought it on her! Because of him she +was to be subjected to the shame and humiliation of such an attack as +Slotman had made on her just now. + +“Oh, what—what can I do?” she whispered. “And he—he dared to call me—me +ungenerous! Ungenerous for resenting, for hating him for the position +he has put me into. Why did he do it? Why, why, why?” she asked of +herself frantically, and receiving no answer, rose and for a time paced +the room, then came back to the table and sat down once again. + +Slotman had said he would return, that she would hear. She could +imagine how that the man, believing her good name in his power, and at +his mercy, would not cease to torment and persecute her. + +What could she do? To whom could she turn? She thought of Johnny +Everard for a fleeting moment. There was something so big and strong +and honest about him that he reminded her of some great, noble, clean +dog, yet she could not appeal to him. Had he been her brother—that +would have been different—but how explain to him? No, she could not. +Yet she must have protection from this man, this Slotman. Lady Linden, +General Bartholomew, Helen Everard, name after name came into her mind, +and she dismissed each as it came. To whom could she turn? And then +came the idea on which she acted at once. Of course it must be he! + +She rose and sought for pen and paper, and commenced a letter that was +difficult to write. She crushed several sheets of paper and flung them +aside, but the letter was written at last. + + +“Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have +subjected me to insult and annoyance past all bearing, I ask you to +meet me in London at the earliest opportunity. I feel that I have a +right to appeal to you for some protection against the insults to which +your conduct has exposed me. I write in the hope that you may possibly +possess some of the generosity which you have several times denied that +I can lay claim to. I will keep whatever appointment you may make at +any time and any place, + +“JOAN MEREDYTH.” + + +And this letter she addressed to Hugh Alston at Hurst Dormer, and +presently went out, bareheaded, into the roadway, and with her own +hands dropped it into the post-box. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI +“I SHALL FORGET HER” + + +Restless and unhappy, Hugh Alston had returned to Hurst Dormer, to find +there that everything was flat, stale, and unprofitable. He had an +intense love for the home of his birth and his boyhood, but just now it +seemed to mean less to him than it ever had before. He watched moodily +the workmen at their work on those alterations and restorations that he +had been planning with interested enthusiasm for many months past. Now +he did not seem to care whether they were done or no. + +“Why,” he demanded of the vision of her that came to him of nights, +“why the dickens don’t you leave me alone? I don’t want you. I don’t +want to remember you. I am content to forget that I ever saw you, and I +wish to Heaven you would leave me alone!” + +But she was always there. + +He tried to reason with himself; he attempted to analyse Love. + +“One cannot love a thing,” he told himself, “unless one has every +reason to believe that it is perfection. A man, when he is deeply in +love with a woman, must regard her as his ideal of womanhood. In his +eyes she must be perfection; she must be flawless, even her faults he +will not recognise as faults, but as perfections that are perhaps a +little beyond his understanding—that’s all right. Now in the case of +Joan, I see in her nothing to admire beyond the loveliness of her face, +the grace of her, the sweet voice of her and—oh, her whole personality! +But I know her to be mean-spirited and uncharitable, unforgiving, +ungenerous. I know her to be all these, and yet—” + +“Lady Linden, sir, and Miss Marjorie Linden!” + +They had not met for weeks. Her ladyship had driven over in the large, +comfortable carriage. “Give me a horse or, better still, two +horses—things with brains, created by the Almighty, and not a thing +that goes piff, piff, piff, and leaves an ungodly smell along the +roads, to say nothing of the dust!” + +So she had come here behind two fine horses, sleek and overfed. + +“Hello!” she said. + +“Hello!” said Hugh, and kissed her, and so the feud between them was +ended. + +“You are looking,” her ladyship said, “rotten!” + +“I am looking exactly as I feel. How are you, Marjorie?” He held the +small hand in his, and looked kindly, as he must ever look, into her +pretty round face. Because she was blushing with the joy of seeing him, +and because her eyes were bright as twin stars, he concluded that she +was happy, and ascribed her happiness, not unnaturally considering +everything, to Tom Arundel. + +“As the cat,” said Lady Linden, “wouldn’t go to Mahomed—” + +“The mountain, you mean!” Hugh said. + +“Oh, I don’t know. I knew it was a cat, a mountain or a coffin that one +usually associates with Mahomed. However, as you didn’t come, I came—to +see what on earth you were doing, shutting yourself up here in Hurst +Dormer.” + +“Renovations.” + +“They don’t agree with you. I expect it’s the drains. You’re doing +something to the drains, aren’t you?” + +“Yes, I believe—” + +“Then go and get a suitcase packed, and come back with us to +Cornbridge.” + +He would not hear of it at first; but Lady Linden had made up her mind, +and she was a masterful woman. + +“You’ll come?” + +“Really, I think I had better—not. You see—” + +“I don’t see! Marjorie, go out into the garden and smell the flowers. +Keep away from the drains.... You’ll come?” she repeated, when the girl +had gone out. + +“Look here, I know what is in your mind; if I come, it will be on one +condition!” Hugh said. + +“I know what that condition is. Very well, I agree; we won’t mention +it. Come for a week; it will do you good. You’re too young to pretend +you are a hermit!” + +“You’ll keep that condition; a certain name is not to be mentioned!” + +“I am no longer interested in the—young woman. I shall certainly not +mention her name. I think the whole affair—However, it is no business +of mine, I never interfere in other people’s affairs!” said Lady +Linden, who never did anything else. + +“All right then, on that condition I’ll come, and it is good of you to +ask me!” + +“Rot!” + +Hugh sent for his housekeeper. + +“I am going to Cornbridge for a few days. I’ll leave you as usual to +look after everything. If any letters—come—there will be nothing of +importance, I may run over in a couple of days to see how things are +going on. Put my letters aside, they can wait.” + +“Very good, sir!” said Mrs. Morrisey. And the first letter that she +carefully put aside was the one that Joan Meredyth had written, after +much hesitation and searching of mind, in her bedroom that afternoon at +Starden. + +And during the days that followed Joan watched the post every morning, +eagerly scanned the few letters that came, and then her face hardened a +little, the curves of her perfect lips straightened out. + +She had made a mistake; she had ascribed generosity and decency to one +who possessed neither. He had not even the courtesy to answer her +letter, in which she had pleaded for a meeting. She felt hot with shame +of herself that she had ever stooped to ask for it. She might have +guessed. + +A week had passed since Slotman’s visit, and since she had with her own +hands posted the letter to Hugh Alston. A week of waiting, and nothing +had come of it! This morning she glanced through the letters. Her eyes +had lost their old eagerness; she no longer expected anything. + +As usual, there was nothing from “Him,” but there was one for her in a +handwriting that she knew only too well. She touched it as if it were +some foul thing. She was in two minds whether to open and read it, or +merely return it unopened and addressed to Philip Slotman, Esq., +Gracebury, London, E.C. But she was a woman. And it takes a +considerable amount of strength of will to return unopened and unread a +letter to its sender, especially if one is a woman. + +What might not that letter contain? Apology—retraction, sorrow for the +past, or further insolent demands, veiled threats, and a repetition of +proposals refused with scorn and contempt—which was it? Who can tell by +the mere appearance of a sealed envelope and the impress of a postmark? + +Joan put the letter into her pocket. She would debate in her mind +whether she would read it or no. + +“A letter from Connie, dear,” said Helen. “She is coming over this +afternoon and bringing Ellice Brand with her. Joan, it is a week or +more since Johnny was here.” + +“Yes, about a week I think,” said Joan indifferently. She was thinking +meanwhile of the letter in her pocket. + +Helen looked at her. She wanted to put questions; but, being a sensible +woman, she did not. She had a great affection for Johnny. What woman +could avoid having an affection and a regard for him? He was one of +those fine, clean things that men and women, too, must like if they are +themselves possessed of decency and appreciation of the good. + +Yes, she was fond of Johnny, and she had grown very fond of late of +this girl. She looked under the somewhat cold surface, and she +recognised a warm, a tender and a loving nature, that had been +suppressed for lack of something on which to lavish that wealth of +tenderness that she held stored up in her heart. + +Quite what part Hugh Alston had played in the life of Joan, Helen did +not know. But she hoped for Johnny. She wanted to see these two come +together. She was not above worldly considerations, for few good women +are. It would be a fine thing for Johnny, with his straitened income +and his habit of backing losers—from an agricultural point of view; but +the main thing, as she honestly believed, was that these two could be +very happy together. So she wondered a little, and puzzled a little, +and worried a little why Johnny Everard should suddenly have left off +paying almost daily visits to Starden. + +“I like Connie, and I shall be glad to see her,” said Joan. + +“I wish Johnny were coming instead of—” + +“So do I!” said Joan heartily. “I like him, I think, even more than I +like Connie. There is something so—so honest and straight and good +about him. Something that makes one feel, ‘Here is a man to rely on, a +man one can ask for help when in distress.’ Sometimes—” She paused, +then suddenly she rose, and with a smile to Helen, went out. + +So there had been no quarrel, why should there have been? Certainly +there had not been. Joan had spoken handsomely of Johnny, and she had +said only what was true. + +“I shall tell Connie exactly what Joan said, and probably Connie will +repeat it to Johnny,” Helen thought, which was exactly what she wished +Connie would do. + +In her own room Joan hesitated a moment, then tore open the envelope, +and drew out Mr. Philip Slotman’s letter. + + +“MY DEAR JOAN (her eyes flashed at the insolent familiarity of it). +Since my visit of a week ago, when you received me so charmingly, I +have constantly thought of you and your beautiful home, and you cannot +guess how pleased I am to feel that the wheel of fortune had taken a +turn to lift you high above all want and poverty.” + + +She went on reading steadily, her lips compressed, her face hard and +bitter. + + +“Unfortunately of late, things have not gone well with me. It is almost +as if, when you went, you took my luck away with you. At any rate, I +find myself in the immediate need of money, and to whom should I appeal +for a timely loan, if not to one between whom and myself there has +always been warm affection and friendship, to say the least of it? That +I am in your confidence, that I know so much of the past, and that you +trust in me so completely to respect all your secrets, is a source of +pleasure and pride to me. So knowing that we do not stand to one +another in the light of mere ordinary friends, I do not hesitate to +explain my present embarrassment to you, and ask you frankly for the +loan of three thousand pounds, which will relieve the most pressing of +my immediate liabilities. Secure in the knowledge that you will +immediately come to my aid, as you know full well I would have come to +yours, had the positions been reversed, I am, my dear Joan, + +“Yours very affectionately, +“PHILIP SLOTMAN.” + + +The letter dropped from her hands to the carpet. Blackmail! Cunningly +and cleverly wrapped up, but blackmail all the same, the reference to +his knowledge of what he believed to be her past! He knew that she was +one who would read and understand, that she would read, as is said, +between the lines. + +Three thousand pounds, to her a few short weeks ago a fortune; to her +now, a mere row of figures. She could spare the money. It meant no +hardship, no difficulty, and yet—how could she bring herself to pay +money to the man? + +She would not do it. She would return the letter, she would write +across it some indignant refusal, and then—No, she would think it over, +take time, consider. She was strong, and she was brave—she had faced an +unkindly world without losing heart or courage. Yet this was an +experience new to her. She was, after all, only a woman, and this man +was assailing that thing which a woman prizes beyond all else—her good +name, her reputation, and she knew full well how he might circulate a +lying story that she would have the utmost difficulty in disproving +now. He could fling mud, and some of it must stick! + +Charge a person with wrongdoing, and even though it be definitely +proved that he is innocent, yet people only remember the charge, the +connection of the man’s name with some infamy, and forget that he was +as guiltless as they themselves. + +Joan knew this. She dreaded it; she shuddered at the thought that a +breath should sully her good name. She was someone now—a Meredyth—the +Meredyth of Starden. Three thousand pounds! If she paid him for his +silence—silence—of what, about what? Yet his lies might—She paced the +room, her brain in a whirl. What could she do? Oh, that she had someone +to turn to. She remembered the unanswered letter she had sent to Hugh +Alston, and then her eyes flashed, and her breast heaved. + +“I think,” she said, “I think of the two I despise him the more. I +loathe and despise him the more!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII +JEALOUSY + + +Joan and Constance Everard had taken a natural and instinctive liking +for one another. But to-day it seemed to Connie that Joan was silent, +less friendly, more thoughtful than usual. Her mind seemed to be +wondering, wrestling perhaps with some problem, of which Constance knew +nothing, and so it was. + +“What shall I do? Shall I send this man the money he demands, or shall +I refuse? And if I refuse, what then?” + +She knew that mud sticks, and she dreaded it, feared it. A threat of +bodily pain she could have borne with a smile of equanimity, but this +was different. She was so sensitive, so fine, so delicate, that the +thought of scandal, of lies that might besmirch her, filled her with +fear and shame and dread. It was weak perhaps, it was perhaps not in +accord with her high courage, and yet frankly she was afraid. + +“I shall send the money.” She came to the decision suddenly. Connie was +speaking to her, about her brother, Joan believed, yet was not certain. +Her thoughts were far away with Slotman and his letter and his demand. + +“I shall send the money.” And having made up her mind, she felt instant +relief. Yes, cowardly it might be, yet would it not be wiser to silence +the man, to pay him this money that she might have peace, that scandal +and shame might not touch her? + +“I wanted him to come with us this afternoon, but he could not. It is +the hops!” Connie sighed. “You don’t know what a constant dread and +worry hops can be, Joan. There is always the spraying. Johnny is +spraying hard now. Of course we are not rich, and a really bad hop +season is a serious thing.” + +“Of course!” Joan said. Yes, she would send the money. She would send +the man a cheque this very day, as soon as the visitors were gone. + +“I think she is worried about something,” Connie thought. “It cannot be +that she and Johnny have had a disagreement, yet for the last week he +has been worried, different—so silent, so quiet, so unlike himself. I +wonder—?” + +She had brought the dark-eyed slip of a girl with her to-day, and from +a distance Ellice sat watching the girl whom she told herself she +hated—this girl who had in some strange way affected and bewitched +Johnny, Johnny who belonged to her, Johnny whom she loved with a +passionate devotion only she herself could know the depth of. How she +hated her, she thought, as she sat watching the calm, beautiful, +thoughtful face, with its strange, dreamy, far-away look in the big +grey eyes. + +She realised her beauty; she could not blind herself to it. She felt +she must admire it because it was so apparent, so glowing, so +obtrusive; and because she did admire it, she felt that she hated the +owner of it the more. + +“Why can’t she leave Johnny alone? I’ve known him all these years, and +it seems as if he had belonged to me. He never looked at any other +girl, and now—now—she is here with all her money and her looks—and he +is bewitched, he is different.” + +Helen rose; she wanted a few quiet words with Connie. + +“I want to show you something in the garden, Connie,” she said. “I know +Joan won’t mind.” And so the two went out and left Joan alone with the +girl, who watched her silently. + +Out in the garden Helen and Constance had what women love and hold so +dear—a heart-to-heart talk, an exchange of secrets and ideas. + +“Do you think she cares for him?” + +“I don’t know, dear; but do you think he cares for her?” + +“I am certain of it!” + +“She spoke of him very nicely to-day. She said—” Helen repeated Joan’s +exact words. + +So they talked, these two in the garden, of their hopes and of what +might be, unselfish talk of happiness that might possibly come to those +they loved, and in the drawing-room Ellice Brand eyed this girl, her +rival, whom she hated. + +“Will you excuse me?” Joan said suddenly. “There is a letter I must +write. I have just remembered that the post goes at five, so—” + +“Of course!” + +She laughed sharply when Joan had gone out. “If he were here, it would +be different. She would be all smiles and graciousness, but I am not +worth while bothering about.” + +Joan wrote the cheque. It was for a large sum, the largest cheque not +only that she had ever drawn, but that she had ever seen in her life. +But it would be money well spent; it would silence the slanderous +tongue. + + +“I am sending you the money you demand. I understand your letter +thoroughly. I am neither going to defend myself, nor excuse myself to +you. I of course realise that I am paying blackmail, and do so rather +than be annoyed and tormented by you. Here is your money. I trust I +shall neither hear of you nor see you again. + +“JOAN MEREDYTH.” + + +And this letter Joan posted with her own hand in the same post-box into +which she had dropped that letter more than a week ago, the letter to a +man who was without chivalry and generosity. She thought of him at the +moment she let this other letter fall. + +Yes, of the two she despised him and hated him the more. + +And then when the letter was posted and gone beyond recall, again came +the self-questionings. Had she done right? Had she not acted foolishly +and weakly, to pay this man money that he had demanded with covert +threats? And too late she regretted, and would have had the letter back +if she could. + +“I have no one, not a soul in the world I can turn to. Even Helen is +almost a stranger,” the girl thought. “I cannot confide in her. I seem +to be so—so alone, so utterly alone.” She twisted her hands together +and stood thoughtful for some moments in the roadway where she turned +back through the garden gate to the house. + +“I feel so—so tired,” she whispered, “so tired, so weary of it all. I +have no one to turn to.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII +“UNCERTAIN—COY” + + +Mr. Tom Arundel, cheerful and happy-go-lucky, filled with an immense +belief in a future which he was sure would somehow shape itself +satisfactorily, felt a little hurt, a little surprised, just a little +disenchanted. + +“I can’t think what’s come over her. She used to be such a ripping +little thing, so sweet and good-tempered, and now—why she snaps a +chap’s head off the moment he opens his mouth. Goo-law!” said Tom. +“Supposing she grows up to be like her aunt—maybe it is in the blood!” + +The prospect seemed to overwhelm him for a moment. Certainly of late +Marjorie had been uncertain, coy, and very hard to please. Marjorie had +suffered, and was suffering. She was contrasting Tom with Hugh, and +Hugh with Tom, and it made her heart ache and made her angry with +herself for her own previous blindness. And, womanlike, being in a very +bad temper with herself, she snapped at the luckless Tom like an +ill-conditioned terrier, and he never approached her but that she, +metaphorically, bared her pretty white teeth, ready to do battle with +him. + +“Rum things, girls—never know how to take ’em! She don’t seem like the +same,” thought Tom. “I wonder—” + +There had been a breeze, a distinct breeze. Perhaps Tom, anxious to +propitiate Lady Linden, had been a little more servile than usual. He +did not mean to be servile. Alluding to his attitude afterwards to +Marjorie, he called it “Pulling the old girl’s leg.” And when Marjorie +had turned on him, her eyes had flashed scorn on him, her little body +had quivered and shaken with indignation. + +“If you think it clever currying favour with aunt by—by crawling to +her,” she cried, “then I don’t! If you want to—to keep my respect, +you’ll have to act like a man, a man with self-respect! I—I hate to see +you cringing to aunt, it makes me detest you. What does it matter if +she has money? Do you want her money? Do you want her money more than +you want me?” + +“Goo-law, old girl, I—” + +“Don’t talk to me!” cried Marjorie. “Be a man, or I shall hate you!” +And she had left him rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and wondering at +the ways of women and of Marjorie Linden in particular. + +“Blinking little spitfire, that’s what she is!” he thought. “If she +means to grow like the old girl, then—then—Hello, here’s old Alston!” + +Hugh could give Tom Arundel a matter of eight years, and therefore Tom +regarded him as elderly. “A decent old bird!” was his favourite +estimate. + +“Hello!” said Hugh. “What’s the matter? Not been rowing, have you? Tom, +not rowing with the little girl, eh?” + +Hugh’s face was serious, for he had caught a glimpse of Marjorie a +while ago hurrying through the garden, and the look on her face had +sent him to find Tom. + +“Not worrying—her or rowing her?” + +“No, goodness knows I haven’t said a word, but she flew at me and bit +me!” + +“Did what?” + +“Metaphorically, of course,” said Tom. “I say, Alston, do you think +Marjorie is going to grow like her aunt?” + +“Look here,” said Hugh, and he gripped Tom by the shoulder with such +strength that Tom was surprised and a little pained. “Look here, I +don’t know what Marjorie is going to grow like, but I know this—that +she is the sweetest, most tender-hearted, dearest little soul, loyal +and true and straight, and because you’ve won her love, my good lad, +you ought to go down on your knees and thank Heaven for it. She’s worth +ten, fifty, a hundred of you and of me. A good woman—and Marjorie is +that—a good woman, I tell you, is better, infinitely better, than the +finest man that walks; and you are not that, not by a long way, Tom +Arundel. So if you’ve offended the child, go after her. Ask her to +forgive you and ask her humbly. You hear me? Ask her deucedly humbly, +my lad! And listen to this—if you bring one tear to her eyes, one tear, +one little stab to that tender heart of hers, if you—you bring one +breath of sorrow and sadness into her life, I’ll break your confounded +neck for you! Have you got that, Tom Arundel?” + +A final shake that made Tom’s teeth rattle, and Hugh turned and strode +away to find Marjorie. Tom Arundel stared after him. + +“Well, I—hang me! Hang me if I don’t believe old Alston’s in love with +her himself!” + +Hugh Alston had meant to run over to Hurst Dormer and see how things +were getting on there, and incidentally to collect any letters that +might have come for him. But the days passed, and Hugh did not go. Lady +Linden required her fat horses for her own purposes. Marjorie’s own +little ancient car had developed a serious internal complaint that had +put it definitely out of commission, so there was no means of getting +to Hurst Dormer unless he walked, or wired to his man to bring over his +own car, but Hugh did not trouble to do that. They did not want him +there, everything would be all right, so Joan’s letter, with others, +was propped up on the mantelpiece in his study and dusted carefully +every morning; and Joan watched the post in vain, and with a growing +sense of anger and humiliation in her breast. + +But of this Hugh knew nothing. He was watching Marjorie and Tom. +Somehow his sacrifice did not seem to have brought about the happy +results that he had hoped for. + +So Hugh, though he had little understanding of women, felt yet that +things were not as they should be and as Marjorie of course could not +possibly be to blame, it must be Tom Arundel, and to Tom he addressed +himself forcibly. + +Tom listened resentfully. “Look here, Alston, I don’t know what the lay +is,” he said. “I don’t know what’s the matter. I am not conscious of +having offended her. If I have, I am sorry—why goo-law, I worship the +ground the little thing treads on!” + +And Hugh, looking Tom straight in the eyes, knew that he was speaking +the truth. + +“Good!” he said. “I’m glad to hear it, and she’s worth it!” + +“And—and it hurts me, by George it does, Alston,” Tom said, “the way +she cuts up rough with me. And now you go for me bald-headed, as if I’d +behaved like a pig to her. Why goo-law, man, I’d lie down and let her +jump on me. I’d go and drown myself if it would cause her any—any +amusement.” + +There was a distinct suggestion of tears in the boy’s eyes, and Hugh +turned hastily away. + +“Marjorie dear,” he was saying a while later, “what’s wrong? Tell me +all about it. Tell your old friend Hugh, and see if he can put things +right.” + +“There is nothing—nothing wrong, Hugh!” Marjorie gasped. “Nothing! +Nothing in the world!” And she belied her statement by suddenly sobbing +and hiding her face against his shoulder. + +“There, there—there!” he said, feeling as awkward as a man must feel +when a woman cries to him. He patted her shoulder with the +uncomfortable feeling that he was behaving like an idiot. + +“It—it is nothing!” she gasped. “Hugh, it is really nothing!” + +“Tom’s a good lad, one of the best—clean through and through!” + +“Yes, I know he is, and—and oh, I do know it, Hugh, and it isn’t Tom’s +fault!” + +“Your aunt’s been worrying you?” + +“No, it is not that—oh, it is nothing, nothing in the world. It is only +that I am a—a—little fool, an ungrateful, silly, little fool!” + +And Hugh was frankly puzzled. + +“You’re going to be as happy as the day is long, little girl,” he said. +“Tom loves you, worships the ground you walk on; I think you’re going +to be the happiest girl alive. Dry your tears, dear, and smile as you +used to in the old days!” He stooped over her and pressed a kiss on her +shining hair; and there came to her a mad, passionate longing to lift +her arms and clasp them about his neck and confess all, confess her +stupidity and her blindness and her folly. + +“It is you—you are the man I love. It is you I want—you all the time!” +She longed to say it, but did not, and Hugh Alston never knew. + +Hurst Dormer looked empty, and seemed silent and dull after Cornbridge. +No place was dull and certainly no place was silent where Lady Linden +was, and coming back to Hurst Dormer, Hugh felt as if he was then +entering into a desert of solitude and silence. + +“Everything has been quite all right,” said Mrs. Morrisey. “The men +have got on nicely with their work. Lane has taken advantage of your +being away to give the car a thorough overhaul, and—and I think that is +all, sir. There are a few letters waiting for you. I’ll get them.” + +From whom this letter? Whose hand this? He wondered. He had never seen +“Her” writing before, yet instinct told him that this was hers. + +Two minutes later Hugh Alston was behaving like a lunatic. + +“Mrs. Morrisey! Mrs. Morrisey! When did this letter come?” + +“Oh, that one, sir? It came ten days ago—the very day you left, the +same evening.” + +“Then why—why in the name of Heaven—” he began, and then stopped +himself, for he remembered that he had ordered no letters should be +sent on. + +“I hope it is not important, sir?” + +“Important!” he said. “Oh no, not at all, nothing important!” Again he +read— + + +“Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have +subjected me to insult and annoyance, past all bearing, I ask you to +meet me in London at the earliest opportunity...” + + +At the earliest opportunity! And those words had been written eleven +days ago; and she had underscored the word “earliest” three times. +Eleven days ago! “I feel I have a right to appeal to you for +protection....” + +She had written that, an appeal to him, and he had not until now read +the written words. + +What was she thinking of him? What could she think of his long silence? + +He could not blame Mrs. Morrisey. There was only himself to blame, no +one else! And there had he been, cooling his heels at Cornbridge and +interfering with other folks’ love affairs, and all the time Joan—Joan +was perhaps wondering, watching, waiting for the answer that never +came. + +He wanted to send a frantic telegram; but he did nothing of the kind. +He wrote instead. + + +“I have been away. Only a few minutes ago did your letter reach me. I +am at your service in all things. Heaven knows I bitterly regret the +annoyance that you have been caused through me. You ask me to meet you +in London. Do you not know that I will come most willingly, eagerly. I +am writing this on the evening of Tuesday. You should receive my letter +on Wednesday, probably in the evening; but in case it may be delayed, I +suggest that you meet me in London on Thursday afternoon”—he paused, +racking his brain for some suitable meeting place—“at four o’clock, in +the Winter Garden of the Empire Hotel. Do not trouble to reply. I shall +be there without fail, and shall then be, as I am now, and will ever +be, + +“Yours to command, +“HUGH ALSTON.” + + +This letter he wrote hurriedly, and raced off with it to catch the +post. + +Seven, eight, ten days ago since Joan had written that letter, and +there had come no reply. The man had ignored her, had treated her with +silent contempt. The thought made her face burn, brought a sense of +miserable self-abasement to her. She had pleaded to him for help, and +he had treated her with silence and contempt. + +Well, what did it matter? She hated him. She had always hated him. She +laughed aloud and bitterly at her own thoughts. “Yes,” she repeated to +herself, “I hate him. I feel nothing but scorn and contempt for him. I +am glad he did not answer my letter. I hope that I shall never see him +again. If we do meet, by some mischance, then I shall pass him by.” + +Several times this morning Helen had looked curiously at Joan. For +Helen was in a secret that as yet Joan did not share. It was a little +conspiracy, with Helen as the prime mover in it. + +“I am sure that there never was anything between Joan and that Hugh +Alston. It was some foolish tittle-tattle, some nonsense, probably +hatched by that stupid old talkative Lady Linden.” + +Two days ago had come a letter for Helen Everard, with an Australian +stamp on it. It was from Jessie, her only sister, urging her to come +out to her there, reminding her of an old promise to make a home in +that distant land with her and her children. And Helen knew she must +go. She wanted to go, had always meant to go, for Jessie’s boys were +very dear to her. Yet to leave Joan alone in this great house, so +utterly alone! + +Last night Helen had driven over quietly to Buddesby, and she and +Constance had had a long talk. + +“I can’t leave Joan alone. I have written to Jessie, telling her that I +shall start in three months. I have said nothing to Joan yet; but, +Connie, I can’t leave her alone!” + +“Helen, do you think she could care for Johnny enough to become his +wife?” + +“I believe she is fond of him. I will not say that I think she is +desperately in love, but she likes him and trusts him, as she must; and +so, Connie, I hope it may come about. Joan will make an ideal wife. He +is all a woman could wish and hope for, the truest, dearest, +straightest man living, and so—Connie—I hope—” + +“I will talk to him to-night, and I will suggest that he comes over +to-morrow and puts his fate to the test. I know he loves her.” + +And to-day Johnny Everard should be here, if he had listened to his +sister’s advice, and that was a thing that Johnny ever did, save in the +matter of hops. + +There was a look of subdued eagerness, of visible nervousness and +uncertainty, about Mr. John Everard that day. And Helen saw it. + +“Joan’s in the garden, John,” she said. + +“Yes, I—” He fumbled nervously with his hands. + +“Helen, I have been talking to Con, at least Con’s been talking to me!” + +“Yes, dear?” + +“And she—she says—Con tells me that there is a chance for me—just a +chance, Helen. And, Helen, I don’t want to spoil my chance, if I have +one, by rushing in. You understand?” + +“I think,” Helen said, “that Joan would like you the better and admire +you the more for being brave enough to speak out.” + +“That’s it! I’ve got to speak out. You know I love her!” + +“I do, dear.” + +“But she doesn’t love me. It is not likely; how could she? Look at me, +a great ugly chap—how could such a girl care for me?” + +“I think any girl might very easily care for you, Johnny!” + +“An ugly brute like me? A farmer. I am nothing more, Helen, and—and—” + +“Johnny, she is in the garden. Go to her; take your courage in both +your hands. Remember— + +‘He either fears his fate too much. + Or his deserts are small, +That dares not put it to the touch, + To gain or lose it all.’” + + +“I’ll go!” Johnny Everard said. “I can but lose, eh? That’s the worst +that can happen to me—lose. But, by Heaven! if I do lose, it is going +to—to hurt, and hurt badly. Helen dear, wish me luck!” + +She put both her hands on his broad shoulders and kissed him on the +forehead. She felt to him as a mother might. + +“From my heart, Johnny, I wish you luck and fortune and happiness,” she +said. + +Joan was at the far end of the wide, far-spreading garden. She was +seated on a bench beside a pool where grew water-lilies, and where in +the summer sunshine the dragon-flies skimmed on the placid surface of +the green water—water that now and again was broken into a ripple by +the quick twist of the tail of one of the fat old carp that lived their +humdrum, adventureless years in the quiet depths. + +She sat here, chin in hand, grey eyes watching the pool, yet seeing +nothing of its beauties, and her thoughts away, away with a man who had +insulted her, had brought trouble and shame and anger to her—a man to +whom she had appealed, and had appealed in vain; a man dead to all +manhood, a man she hated—yes, hated—for often she told herself so, and +it must be true. + +And then suddenly she heard the fall of a footstep on the soft turf +behind her, and, turning, looked into the face of a man whose eyes were +filled with love for her. + +So for one long moment they looked at one another, and the colour rose +in the girl’s cheeks, and into her eyes there came a wistful regret. +For she knew why this man was here. She knew what he had to say to her, +to ask of her, here by the green pool. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV +“—TO GAIN, OR LOSE IT ALL” + + +“Take your courage in both hands” Helen had said to him, and he was +doing so; but Johnny Everard knew himself for a coward at this moment. + +He felt tongue-tied, more than usually awkward, terribly and shamefully +nervous. Yet the grey eyes were on his face, and he knew that he must +speak, must put all to the hazard. And he knew also that if to-day he +lost her, it would be the biggest and the blackest sorrow of his life, +something that he would never live down, never forget. + +Oh, it was worth fighting for, worth taking his courage in both hands +for, this girl with the sweet, serious face and the tender mouth, the +great, enquiring, yet trusting grey eyes. He had seen her cold, +stately, a little unapproachable, but he had never seen scorn in those +eyes. He had never seen the red lips curled with contempt. He knew +nothing of her in this guise, as another man did. + +And now the girl seemed to be all woman, tender, sympathetic, and the +courage came to him; he sate himself beside her and took her hand in +his, and it gave him hope that she did not draw it away. + +What he said, how he said it, how he stumbled over his story of love +and devotion he never knew. But it was an honest story, a story that +did him honour, and did honour too to the woman he told it to. + +“I love you, dear. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. I +know you are high above me. I know what I am, an unlovely sort of +fellow, rough and—and not fit to touch your hand—” for, being deeply in +love, his opinion of himself had naturally sunk to zero. The perfection +of the beloved object always makes an honest man painfully conscious of +his own inferiority and unworthiness. And so it was with Johnny +Everard, this day beside the green pool. And the slim, cool hand was +not withdrawn. + +“Johnny, what are you asking me? Why have you come here to me? What do +you want—of me?” she asked, yet did not look him in the face, but sat +with eyes resting on the placid water. + +“Just to tell you that—to tell you how I love you, Joan.” + +Another man had told her that; the echo of his words came back to her +from the past. How often those words of his had come back; she could +never forget them. Yet she told herself that she hated him who had +uttered them, hated him, for was he not a proved craven? + +_(“If, in telling you that I love you, is a sin fast all forgiveness, I +glory in it. I take not one word of it back.”)_ + +And now another, a worthier, better man, was telling her the same +story, holding her hand, and, she knew, looking into her face; yet her +eyes did not meet his. + +And, listening to him, her heart grew more bitter than ever before to +the man who had uttered those words she would never forget, bitter +against him, yet more against herself. For she was conscious of shame +and anger—at her woman’s weakness, at the folly of which her woman’s +heart was capable. + +“I know I am not fit for you, not good enough for you, Joan. There +isn’t a man living who would be—but—I love you—dear, and with God’s +help I would try to make you a happy woman.” + +Manly words, honest and sincere, she knew, as must be all that this man +said and did—a man to rely on, a very tower of strength; a man to +protect her, a man to whom she could take her troubles and her secrets, +knowing full well that he would not fail her. + +And while these thoughts passed in her mind she sat there silently, her +hand in his, and never thought to draw it away. + +“Joan, will you be my wife, dear? I am asking for more than I could +ever deserve. There is nothing about me that makes me worthy of that +great happiness and honour, save one thing—my love for you.” + +“And yet,” she said, and broke her silence for the first time, “there +is one question that you do not ask me, Johnny.” + +“One question?” + +“You do not ask me if I love you!” + +“How can I ask for the impossible, the unlikely? There is nothing in me +for such a girl as you to love.” + +“There is much in you for any woman to love. There is honesty and truth +and bravery, and a clean sweet mind. I know all that, I know that you +are a good man, Johnny. I know that; but oh, I do not love you!” + +“I know,” he said sadly. “I know that.” And his hand seemed to slip +away from hers. + +“And you would not—not take me—Johnny, without love?” she asked, and +her voice trembled. + +“Joan, I—I don’t understand. I am a foolish, dense fellow, dear, and I +don’t understand!” + +She turned to him, and now her eyes met his frankly, and never had he +seen them so soft, so tender, so filled with a strange and wonderful +light, the light that is born of tenderness and sympathy and +kindliness. + +“Would you make me your wife, Johnny, knowing that I—I do not love you +as a woman should love the man she takes for her husband.” + +“I—I would try to teach you, dear. I would try to win a little of your +heart.” + +“And that would content you, Johnny?” + +“It must. I dare not ask too much, and I—I—love you so!” + +_(“I glory in it. I take not one word of it lack!”)_ + +Hateful words, words she could never forget, that came back to torture +and fill her with a sense of shame. Strange that they were dinning in +her memory, even now. + +_(“I glory in it. I take not one word back!”)_ + +And then suddenly she made a gesture, as to fling off remembrance. She +turned more fully to him, and her eyes met his frankly. + +“I do not love you, dear, as a woman should love the man she mates +with; but I like you. I honour you and trust you, and if—if you will +take me as I am, not asking for too much, not asking, dear, for more +than I can give—” + +“Joan,” he said, “my Joan!” + +She bent her head. + +“If you will take me—as I am, not asking for more than I can give, +then—then I will come to you, if you will have it so. But oh, my dear, +you are worth more than this, far more than this!” + +He lifted her hand and held it to his lips, the only embrace that in +his humility he dare offer her. And even while she felt his lips upon +her hand, there came back to her memory eyes that glowed with love and +passion, a deep voice that shook with feeling— + +_(“I glory in it, and take not one word of it back!”)_ + + + + +CHAPTER XXV +IN THE MIRE + + +Women, chattering over their tea in the lounge of the Empire Hotel, +followed the tall restless young man with their eyes. He was worth +looking at, so big and fine, and bronzed, and so worried, so +anxious-looking, poor fellow. + +Four o’clock, a quarter past, half past. She would not come. Of course +she would not come; he had offended past all forgiveness in taking so +long to reply to her appeal. Hugh Alston cursed the unlucky star that +he must have been born under. + +Two middle-aged women, seated at a small table, taking their tea after +strenuous shopping at the sales, watched him and discussed him frankly. + +“Evidently here to meet someone!” + +“And she hasn’t come!” + +“You can see how disappointed he looks, poor fellow.” + +“Too bad of her!” + +“My dear, what some men can see in some women...” + +“And a girl who would keep a man like that waiting deserves to lose +him.” + +“I hope she does. See, he’s going now. I hope she comes later and is +disappointed.” + +“Oh no, I think that must be she. What a handsome girl, but how cold +and proud looking!” + +She had come, even as he was giving up in despair. As he turned to +leave, she came, and they met face to face. + +The two amiable busybodies sipped their tea and watched. + +“My dear, she didn’t even offer him her hand—such a cold and stately +bow. They can’t be lovers, after all!” + +“I don’t think I ever saw a more lovely girl!” + +“But icily cold. That pink chiffon I bought at Robinson’s will make up +into a charming evening dress for Irene, don’t you think?” + +“I am afraid I am late,” Joan said, and her voice was clear and cold, +expressionless as a voice could be. + +“Surely I deserve that at least, after the unforgivable delay in +answering your letter.” + +“Yes,” she said, “you—you were a long time answering.” And suddenly she +realised what that delay had meant. + +Yesterday, if his answer had come, perhaps she would not have done as +she had done. But it was done now, past recall. + +“I was away. I found Hurst Dormer irksome and lonely. Lady Linden came +over; she invited me to stay at Cornbridge,” he explained. “So I went, +and no letters were forwarded. Yours came within a few hours of my +leaving. I hope you understand that if I had had it—” + +“You would have answered it before, Mr. Alston? Yes, I am glad to feel +the neglect was not intentional.” + +“Intentional!” + +“I—I thought, judging from the manner in which we last parted, and what +you then said to me, that you—you preferred not to—see me again.” + +“I was hurt then, hurt and bitter. I had no right to say what I said. I +ask you to accept my apologies, Joan.” + +She started a little at the sound of her name, but did not look at him. + +“Perhaps you were right. I have thought it over since. Yes, I think I +acted meanly; it was a thing a woman would do. That is where a woman +fails—in small things—ideas, mean ideas come to her mind, just like +that one. A man would not think such things. Yes, I am ashamed by the +smallness of it. You said ‘ungenerous.’ I think a better expression +would have been ‘mean-spirited.’” + +“Joan!” + +“But we need not discuss that. We owe one another apologies. Shall we +take it that they are offered and accepted?” + +He nodded. “Tea?” he asked, “or coffee?” For the hotel servant had come +for his orders. + +“Tea, please,” she said; “and—and this time I will not ask for the +bill.” The faintest flicker of a smile crossed her lips, and then was +gone, and he thought that in its place a look of weariness and +unhappiness came into the girl’s face. + +She had sent for him to ask his help. His letter had only reached her +that morning, and when she had read it, she had asked herself, “Shall I +go? Shall I see him?” And had answered “No! It is over; I do not need +his help now. I have someone else to whom I must turn for help, someone +who will give it readily.” + +And yet she had come—that is the way of women. And because she had +come, she would still ask his help, and not ask it of that other. For +surely he who had brought all this trouble on to her should be the one +to clear her path? + +The waiter brought the tea, and Hugh leaned back and watched her as she +poured it out. And, watching her, there came to him a vision of the +bright morning room at Hurst Dormer, a vision of all the old familiar +things he had known since boyhood: and in that vision, that day-dream, +he saw her sitting where his mother once had sat, and she was pouring +out tea, even as now. + +A clearer, stronger vision this than any he had had in the old days of +Marjorie. He smiled at the thought of those dreams, so utterly broken +and dead and wafted away into the nothingness of which they had been +built. + +“You sent for me to help you?” + +“Yes!” A tinge of colour rose in her cheeks and waxed till her cheeks +and even her throat were flooded with a brilliant, glorious flush, and +then, suddenly as it had come, it died away again, leaving her whiter +than before. + +“I wanted your help. I felt that I had a right to ask it, seeing that +you—you—” + +“Have caused you trouble and annoyance? You wrote that,” he said. + +She bowed her head. + +“What you did, has brought more trouble, more shame, more annoyance to +me than I can ever explain. I do not ask you to tell me why you did +it—it was cruel and mean, unmanly; but you did it. And it can never be +undone, so I ask for no reasons, no explanations. They—they do not +interest me now. You have brought me trouble and—even danger—and so I +turned to you, to ask your help. I have the right, have I not the +right—to demand it?” + +“The greatest right on earth,” he said. “Joan, how can I help you?” + +But she did not answer immediately, for the answer would be difficult. + +“When you played with a woman’s name,” she said, “you played with the +most fragile, the most delicate and easily breakable thing there is. Do +you realise that? A woman’s fair name is her most sacred possession, +and yet you played with mine, used it for your own purpose, and so have +brought me to shame and misery.” + +“Joan,” he leaned towards her, “how—how—tell me how?” + +“Three days ago,” she said quietly, “I submitted and paid three +thousand pounds blackmail, rather than that your name and mine, linked +together, should be dragged in the mire!” + +It was almost as though those white hands of hers had struck him a +heavy blow between the eyes. Hugh sat and stared at her in amaze. + +Her words seemed obscure, scarcely possible to understand, yet he had +gathered in the sense of them. + +“Three days ago I submitted and paid three thousand pounds blackmail +rather than your name and mine, linked together, should be dragged in +the mire.” + +A girl might well shrink to tell a man what she must tell him, to go +into explanations that were an offence to the purity of her mind. Yet, +listening to her, looking at her, at the pale, proud young face, white +as marble, Hugh Alston knew that he had never admired and reverenced +her as he did now. + +“The story that you told of our marriage, that lie that I can never +understand, passed from lip to lip. Many have heard it; it has caused +many to wonder. I do not ask why you uttered it. It does not matter +now, nothing matters, save that you did utter it, and it has gone +abroad. Then one day you came to the office where I was employed, and +the man who employed me put his private room at your disposal, knowing +that by means of some spyhole he had contrived he could hear all that +passed between us. And then you offered me marriage—by way of +atonement. Do you remember? You offered to—to atone by marrying me.” + +“In my mad, presumptuous folly, Joan!” + +“And it was overheard; the man heard all. He did not understand—how +should he? His vile mind grasped at other meanings. He went down to +Marlbury and to Morchester to make enquiries, to look for an entry in a +register that was never made. He went to General Bartholomew and then +Cornbridge, where he saw Lady Linden, and heard from her all that she +had to tell, and then—then he came to me. He told me that he knew the +truth, and that if I would marry him he would forgive—forgive +everything!” + +Hugh Alston said nothing. He sat with his big hands gripped hard, and +thinking of Philip Slotman a red fury passed like a mist before his +eyes. + +“I told him to go, and then came a letter from him, a friendly letter, +a letter that could not cause him any trouble. He assured me of his +friendship and of his—silence, you understand, his silence—and asked me +as a friend to lend him three thousand pounds. It was blackmail—oh, I +knew that. I hesitated, and did not know what to do. There was none to +whom I could turn—no one. I had no friend. Helen Everard is only a +friend of a few short weeks. I felt that I could not go to her, I felt +somehow that she would never understand. And then—then at last, +because, I suppose, I am a woman and therefore a coward, and because I +was so alone—so helpless—I sent the money.” + +“Oh, that I—” + +“Remember,” she said, “remember I had written to you, asking your help. +I had waited days, and no answer had come. I had no right to believe +that I could ask your help.” + +“Joan, Joan, didn’t you know that you could? Have you forgotten what I +told you once—that stands true to-day as then, will stand true to the +last hour of my life. I have brought shame and misery on you, God +forgive me—yet unintentionally, Joan.” He leaned forward, and grasped +at her hand and held it, though she would have drawn it free of him. “I +told you that I loved you that night. I love you now—my love for you +gives me the right to protect you!” + +“You have no rights, no rights,” she said, and drew her hand away. + +“Because you will not give me those rights. I asked you to marry me +once. I came to you, thinking in my small soul that I was doing a fine +thing, offering atonement—my—my very words, atonement—for the evil I +had unwittingly done. And you refused to accept the prize!” He laughed +bitterly. “You refused with scorn, just scorn, Joan. You made me +realise that I had but added to my offence. I—I to offer you marriage, +in my lordly way, when I should have sued on my knees to you for +forgiveness, as I would sue now, humbly and contritely, offering love +and love alone—love and worship and service to the end of my days, as +please Heaven I shall sue, Joan.” + +“You cannot!” she said quietly. “You cannot, and if you should, the +answer will be the same, as then!” + +“Because you can never forgive?” + +“Because I have no power to give what you would ask for!” + +“Your love?” + +She did not answer. She turned her face away, for she knew she could +not in truth say “No” to that, for the knowledge that she had been +trying to stifle was with her now, the knowledge that meant that she +could not love the man whose wife she had promised to be. + +“My—my hand—” she said. + +And he, not understanding for the moment, looked at her, and then +suddenly understanding came to him. + +“You—you mean?” + +“You—you did not answer my letter, and I—I waited,” she said, and her +voice was low and muffled. There was no pride in her face now; all its +hardness, all its bitterness and scorn were gone. + +“I waited and waited—and thought—hoped,” she said, “and nothing came. +And yesterday a man—a man I like and admire, a fine man, a good man, +honest and noble, a man who—who loves me better than I deserve, came to +me—and—and so to-day it is too late! Though,” she cried, with a touch +of scorn for herself, “it would have made no difference—nothing would +have made any difference. You—you understand that I scarcely know what +I am saying!” + +“You have given your promise to another man?” he asked quietly. + +“Yes!” + +“And you do not love him?” + +“He’s a man,” she cried, “a man who would not make a jest of a woman’s +name.” + +“And even so, you do not love him, because that would not be possible.” + +“You have no right to say that,” and she wrenched her hand free. + +“I have the right, the right you gave me.” + +“I—I gave you no right.” + +“You have. You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart. +You do not love that man, because you love me!” + +Back into the white face came all the hardness and coldness that he so +well knew. She rose; she looked down on him. + +“It is—untrue. I do not. I have but one feeling for you +always—always—the same, the one feeling. I despise you. How could I +love a thing that I despise?” + +And, knowing that it was a lie, she dared not meet the scrutiny of his +eyes, and turned quickly away. + +“Joan!” he said. He would have followed her, but then came the waiter +with his bill, and he was forced to stay, and when he reached the +street she was gone. + +“I quite thought that they were going to make it up, and then it seemed +that they quarrelled again,” one of the ladies at the other table said. + +The other nodded. “I think that they do not know their own minds, young +people seldom do. I wish I had bought three yards more of that cerise +ninon. It would have made up so well for Violet, don’t you think?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI +MR. ALSTON CALLS + + +Mr. Philip Slotman sat in his office; he was slowly deciphering a +letter, ill-written and badly spelled. + + +“DEAR SIR, + +“According to promise I am writing to you hopeing it finds you as it +leaves me at present. Dear sir, having some news I am writing to tell +you saime. Yesterday Mr. John Everard of Buddesby was here and him and +Miss Jone was in the garden for a long time. I seen them from my +window, but could not get near enuff to hear. Anyhow I see him kissing +her hand. Laiter, after he had gone, I seen Miss Jone and Mrs. Everard +together, and listened as best I could. From what I heard I imadgined +that Miss Jone and Mr. John Everard is now engaged to be married, which +Mrs. Everard seems very pleased to hear. + +“This morning Miss Jone gets a letter and the postmark is Hurst Dormer, +like you told me to look out for. She is now gone to London. Please +send money in accordance with promise and I will write and tell you all +the news as soon as there is any more. + +“Youres truley, + “MISS ALICE BETTS.” + + +The door opened, a boy clerk came in. Slotman thrust the letter he had +been reading into an open drawer. + +“What is it? What do you want?” + +“A gentleman to see you, sir. Mr. Alston from—” + +“I can’t see him!” Slotman said quickly. “Tell him I am out, and that—” + +“I am already here, and you are going to see me.” Hugh Alston came in. +“You can go!” to the boy, who hesitated. “You hear me, you can go!” + +Hugh closed the door after the lad. + +“You’re not going to be too busy to see me this morning, Slotman, for I +have interesting things to discuss with you.” + +“I am a busy man,” Slotman began nervously. + +“Very!” said Hugh—“very, so I hear.” + +He stepped into the room, and faced Slotman across the paper-littered +table. + +“I have been hearing about some of your enterprises,” he said, and +there was that in his face that caused Mr. Slotman a feeling of +insecurity and uneasiness. “One of them is blackmail!” + +“How dare—” Slotman began, with an attempt at bluster. + +“That’s what I am here for; to dare. You have been blackmailing a young +lady whose name we need not mention. You have obtained the sum of three +thousand pounds from her, by means of threats. I want that money—and +more; I want a declaration from you that you will never molest her +again; for if you do—if you do—” + +Hugh’s face was not good to see, and Mr. Slotman quivered uneasily in +his chair. + +“The—the money was lent to me. Miss Meredyth worked for me, and—and I +went to her, explaining that my business was in a precarious condition, +and she very kindly lent me the money. And I haven’t got it, Mr. +Alston. I’ll swear I haven’t a penny of it left. I could not repay it +if I wanted to; it—it was a friendly loan.” + +Slotman leaned back in his chair; he looked at Hugh. + +“You have done me a cruel wrong, Mr. Alston,” he said, in the tone of a +deeply injured man. “Miss Meredyth worked for me, and while she was +here I respected her, even more.” He paused. “At any rate I respected +her. She attracted me, and, I will confess it, I fell in love with her. +She was poor; she had nothing then to tempt a fortune hunter, and thank +Heaven I can say I was never that. I asked her to be my wife, no man +could do more, no man could act more honourably. You’ll admit that, eh? +You must admit that?” + +“And she refused you?” + +“Not—not definitely. It was too good an offer for a girl in her +position to refuse without consideration.” + +“You lie!” + +Slotman shifted uneasily. “I cannot force your belief.” + +“You’re right, you can’t. Well, go on—what more?” + +“She came into this money; my proposal no longer tempted her. She then +refused me, even though I told her that the past—her past—would be +forgotten, that I would never refer to it.” + +“What past?” Hugh shouted. + +“Hers and yours,” Slotman said boldly. “A supposed marriage that never +took place, her sudden disappearance from her school in June, nineteen +hundred and eighteen, when that marriage was supposed to have been +celebrated—but never was. Her story of leaving England for Australia—an +obvious lie, Mr. Alston. All those things I knew. All those things I +can prove—against her—and against you—and—and—” Slotman’s voice +quivered. He leaped to his feet and uttered a shout for help. + +The blood-red mist was before Hugh’s eyes, and out of that mist +appeared a vision of a face, an unpleasant face, with starting eyes and +gaping mouth. + +This he saw, and then his vision cleared, and with a shudder he +released his hold on the man’s throat, and Philip Slotman subsided +limply into his chair. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII +THE WATCHER + + +Helen Everard’s pleasant face was beaming. Her smile expressed complete +contentment and satisfaction, for everything was going as everything +should go. Johnny was an accepted lover, Joan’s future would be +protected; she herself would be left free to make her long journey to +the dear ones at the other side of the world. All was well! + +Joan had been to London yesterday, had rushed off with scarcely a word, +and had returned at night, tired and seemingly dispirited. + +Joan, quiet and calm, smiled at Helen and kissed her good morning, but +spoke hardly at all. + +“You had a tiring day in Town yesterday, dear?” + +“Very!” + +“Shopping?” + +“No!” + +Helen asked no more questions. She thought of Hugh Alston. Could it be +anything to do with him? She could never quite understand the position +of Hugh Alston. Of course the talk about a marriage having taken place +years ago between Hugh Alston and Joan was absurd, was ridiculous. Joan +was proving the absurdity of it even now by accepting Johnny. + +“Connie is coming over this afternoon to see you, Joan,” she said. “She +sent me a note over yesterday by a boy. Johnny has told her of course, +and Connie is delighted beyond words. She sends you her dear love.” + +“Thank you!” Joan said calmly. + +“Of course,” Helen hesitated, “the marriage need not be long delayed. +You see—” She paused, and then went into explanations about Jessie and +the children out in Australia, and her own promise to go to them. + +“So this afternoon I want you and Connie to have a long, long talk,” +Helen said. “There will be so much for you to discuss. Connie is the +business man, you know. Poor Johnny is hopeless when it comes to +discussing things and—and arrangements. Of course, dear, you quite +understand that Johnny is not well off.” + +“I know, but that does not matter.” + +“I know, but even though Johnny is one of the finest and straightest +men living, it will be better if in some way your own money is so tied +up that it belongs to you and to you only. Johnny himself would wish +it. He doesn’t want to touch one penny of your money!” + +“I am sure of that.” Joan rose. She went out into the garden. She +wanted to get away from Helen’s well-meant, friendly, affectionate +chatter about the future, and about money and marriage. She went to the +bench beside the pool and sat there, staring at the green water. + +“It was true,” she whispered to herself, “all true, what I said. I—I do +despise him. How could I love a thing that I despised; and I do despise +him!” + +It was not of Johnny Everard she was thinking. + +“He said—he said that he had a right, that my love for him gave him the +right! How dared he?” A deep flush stole into her cheeks, and then died +out. + +She rose suddenly with a gesture of impatience. + +“It is a lie! It is wrong, and it is nonsense. I am engaged to marry +Johnny Everard, and there is no finer, better man living! I shall never +see that other man again. Yesterday he and I parted for good and for +always, and I am glad—glad!” And she knew even while she uttered the +words that she was very miserable. + +Connie Everard drove the pony-trap over to Starden. She brought with +her a boy who would drive it back again. Later in the afternoon Johnny +would drive the car over for her and take her back. + +Connie, having attended carefully to her toilet, descended to the +waiting pony-trap, and found, to her surprise and a little to her +annoyance, that Ellice was already seated in the little vehicle. + +“Ellice, dear, I am sorry, but—” + +“You don’t want to take me, Connie; but, all the same, I am going. I +want to see—her!” + +“Why?” + +“I want to see her,” the girl said. A dusky glow of sudden passion came +into her face. “I want to see her. There is no harm, is there?” She +laughed shrilly. “I shan’t hurt her by looking at her. I want to see +her again, the woman that he loves.” There was a shake in her voice, a +suggestion of passionate tears, but the child held herself in check. + +“Ellice, darling, it will be better if you—” + +“If I don’t go. I know, but I am going. You—you can’t turn me out, +Connie. I am too strong; I shall cling to the sides of the cart.” + +There was a look, half of laughter, half of defiance, in the girl’s +eyes. + +“Connie, I am going, and nothing shall prevent me!” + +Connie sighed, and stepped into the cart and took up the reins. “Very +well, dear!” she said resignedly. + +“You are angry with me, Connie?” + +“Why should you want to go to Starden?” + +“I want to see her again. I want to—to understand, to—to know things.” + +“What do you mean, to understand, to know things?” + +“I want to watch her!” + +“Ellice, you will make me angry presently. Ellice,” Connie added +suddenly, “I suppose you don’t intend to make a scene, and make +yourself foolish and—and cheap?” + +“I shall say nothing. I only want to watch and to try and understand.” + +“I think you are acting foolishly and wrongly, Ellice. I think you are +a very foolish child!” + +“I wish,” Ellice said, and said it without passion, but with a deep +certainty in her voice, “I wish that I were dead, Connie.” + +“You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself,” said Connie, who +could think of nothing better to say. + +She made one more attempt when Starden was reached. + +“Ellice, child, why not go back with Hobbins?” + +“I am coming with you,” Ellice said. + +“You—you will not—I mean you will—not be silly or rude to—” + +Ellice drew herself up with a childish dignity. “I shall not forget +that I am a lady, Connie,” she said, and said it with such stateliness +and such dignity that Connie felt no inclination to laugh. + +Helen frowned. She was annoyed at the sight of Ellice, frankly she did +not like the girl. Helen was a good, honest woman who liked everything +that was good and honest. Ellice Brand might be good and honest, but +there was something about the girl that was beyond Helen’s ken. She was +so elfin, so gipsy-like, so different from most girls Helen knew, and +had known. + +During the long afternoon, when they sat for a time in the garden, or +in the shady drawing-room, Joan was aware of the fixed and intent gaze +of a pair of dark eyes. Strangely and wonderfully dark were those eyes, +and they seemed to possess some magnetic power, a power of making +themselves felt. More than once in the middle of saying something to +Helen or to Connie, Joan found herself at a loss for words, and +impelled by some unknown force to turn her head and look straight into +those eyes that blazed in the little white face. + +Why did the girl stare at her so? Why, Joan wondered? A strange, +elfin-like child, a bud on the point of bursting into a wondrous +beauty, Joan realised, and realised too that there was enmity in the +dark eyes that stared at her so mercilessly. + +“Ellice, child, go out into the garden,” Helen said presently. “Come +with me, we will leave Connie and Joan to have a little talk. Come, +there are lots of things to see. This is a wonderful garden, you +know—far, far better than Buddesby.” + +“It isn’t,” Ellice said quietly. “There’s no garden in the world like +Buddesby garden, and no place in the world like Buddesby, but I will +come with you if you want me to.” + +“A strange girl!” Joan said. + +“A very dear, good, lovable, but passionate child,” Connie said. “Now +let us talk of you and Johnny, Joan, of the future. Helen has told you +that—that she—” + +“She wishes to leave us soon? Yes.” + +“And so,” Connie slipped her hand into Joan’s, “the marriage need not +be long delayed.” + +“Whenever—he wishes it,” Joan said, and for her life she could not put +any warmth into her voice, and Connie, who noticed most things, noticed +the chill coldness of it. + +“And yet she must love Johnny, or she would not marry him,” Connie +thought. + +“I leave everything to you, and to Helen and to him.” + +It seemed almost as if Joan had a strange disinclination to utter +Johnny’s name. Johnny sounded so babyish, so childlike, so +affectionate, yet she felt that she could not speak of him as “John.” +It would sound hard and crude in the ears of those who loved him, and +called him by the more tender name. + +It was another shock to Connie later when Johnny came. She watched for +the greeting between these two, and felt shocked and startled when +Johnny took Joan’s hand and held it for a moment, then lifted it to his +lips. No other kiss passed between them. + +And Connie felt her own cheeks burning, and wondered why. + +How strange! Lovers, and particularly accepted lovers, always kissed! + +There was that about Johnny that for the first time in her life almost +irritated Connie. She watched him, and saw that his eyes were following +Joan with that look of strange, dog-like devotion that Connie +remembered with a start she had herself surprised in Ellice’s eyes +before now. + +And as she watched, so watched another, herself almost forgotten as she +sat in a corner of the room. The big black eyes were on these two, +drifting from the face of one to the face of the other, taking no heed, +and no count of anything else but of these two affianced lovers. + +Very clearly and almost coldly Joan had expressed her own wishes. + +“If you wish the marriage to take place soon, I am content. I would +like it to—to be—not very soon—not just yet,” she added, and seemed to +be speaking against her own will, and as though in opposition to her +own thoughts. “Still, whatever you arrange, I will willingly agree to. +I prefer to leave it all to you, Helen, and you, Connie, and—and you, +Johnny. But it might take place just before Helen goes away. That would +be time enough, would it not?” + +“It was the very thing I was going to suggest,” Helen said. “In three +months’ time then, Joan.” + +Joan bowed her head. “In three months’ time then,” she said. + +They were all three very silent as Johnny drove the little car back to +Buddesby that evening. The sun was down, but the twilight lingered. +Ellice sat crushed in between Johnny’s big bulk and Connie, and she +would not have changed places with the queen on her throne. + +“There’s Rundle with that horrible lurcher dog of his,” said Johnny, +and spoke more to make conversation than anything else. + +They could see the man, the village poacher, slouching along under a +hedge with the ever-faithful dog close at heel. + +“A horrible, fierce-looking beast,” said Connie. “It fights with every +dog in the place, and—” + +“But it loves him; it loves its master,” Ellice said passionately. “It +would die for its master, wouldn’t it?” + +“Why, I daresay it would, Gipsy,” Johnny said. “But why so excited +about it, little girl?” + +“If you—if you,” Ellice said, “had the offer of two dogs, the one +splendid, a thoroughbred deerhound, graceful, beautiful, fine to look +at, but cold and with no love to give its master, and the other—a +hideous beast like Rundle’s lurcher—but a beast who could love and die +for its master, and dying lick the hand of the master it loved, glad +and grateful to—to die for him—which would you have, which would you +have, Johnny?” + +Johnny was hardly listening. He was looking down the dusky road and +seeing in imagination a face, the most beautiful, wonderful face that +his world had ever held. + +“I don’t know, Gipsy girl,” he said. “I don’t know!” + +“No!” Ellice said; and her voice shook and quavered in an unnatural +laugh. “You don’t know, Johnny; you don’t know!” + +And Connie, who heard and understood, shivered a little at the sound of +the girl’s laughter. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII +“HE DOES NOT LOVE ME NOW” + + +“Tom,” said Lady Linden, “is by no means a fool, Marjorie.” + +“No, aunt.” + +“He has ideas. I don’t say that they are brilliant, but he gets the +germ of a plan into his brain. And now I will tell you what he suggests +about Partridge’s cottage and land when the lease falls in.” + +Lady Linden proceeded to explain Tom Arundel’s idea, and Marjorie sat +and stared out into the garden and thought of Hugh. + +Was he at Hurst Dormer now? If not, where was he? What was he doing? +What was he thinking about? Did he still love her, or had he fallen in +love with Joan? And, if he had, would he marry Joan? and if not. + +“So there you see, and what do you think of that?” asked Lady Linden, +coming to the end of her remarks. + +“I think it would be very nice!” + +“Very nice!” Lady Linden snorted. “Very nice! What a feeble remark. My +good Marjorie, do you take no intelligent interest in anything? Upon my +word, now I come to look back I wonder at myself, I do indeed. I wonder +at myself to think that a man like Hugh Alston, an intellectual, +deep-thinking man, a man with common-sense and plenty of it—what was I +saying? Oh yes, I wonder at myself for ever hoping or believing that a +man like Hugh could fall in love with a silly little donkey like you. +And yet men do, even clever men—I’ve known several quite clever men +fall in love with perfect fools of women. But I was wrong, and you are +right. I see it now. Tom Arundel is the man for you; you are fitted for +one another. He is not quite a fool, but you are. He’s not clever +enough to be annoyed by your folly. Hugh, on the other hand, would +positively dislike you after a month. There! don’t howl, for goodness’ +sake—don’t snivel, child! Run away and play with your doll” + +“Patience!” said Lady Linden, when her niece went out—“I have the +patience of ten Jobs rolled into one. She’s a good little soul, but an +awful idiot! And bless my wig!” added her ladyship, who did not wear +one, but her own luxuriant hair, “what’s that hopeless idiot of a +Perkins doing with those standard roses?” She sallied out, battle in +her eyes, to tell Perkins, the under-gardener, something about the +culture of roses, and incidentally to point out what her opinion of +himself was in plain and straightforward language. + +Meanwhile, Marjorie had hurried out. It was not true! She was not so +stupid and so silly that Hugh could never have fallen in love with her. +Why, he had fallen in love with her! He had wanted her for his wife, +and she—she in her blindness and her folly, in her stupidity, which her +aunt had but now been flinging in her teeth, had not realised that he +was the one man in her world, the only man, and that she loved him as +never, never could she love Tom Arundel or anyone else. + +The little ancient disreputable car had been repaired by Rodding, the +village handyman, who by some conjuring trick had made it run again. +Marjorie started it. + +She had made up her mind. She would go to Hurst Dormer, she would see +Hugh and—and quite what she would do she did not know. Everything was +on the knees of the gods, only she knew that she was very unhappy, a +very miserable, unhappy, foolish girl, who had got what she had asked +for, and found that she did not want it now she had it. + +Piff, piff, paff, paff went the car, and Marjorie rolled off with a +succession of jerks, leaving behind an odoriferous cloud of smoke and +exhaust gases that lay like a blue mist along the drive, and presently +made Lady Linden cough and speak in uncomplimentary terms of motoring +and motorists generally. + +On to Hurst Dormer Marjorie plugged, sad at heart, realising her folly. + +“It is my fault,” she felt miserably; “it is all my fault, and I am not +fair to Tom. He doesn’t understand me. I see him look at me sometimes, +and I don’t wonder at it. He doesn’t understand me a bit; he has every +right to—to think—I love him, and I don’t—I don’t. I love Hugh!” + +It was an hour later that Marjorie put in an appearance at Hurst +Dormer. + +Hugh was there, and Hugh was in. It brought relief. She wanted to cry +with the relief she felt. + +Over the tea-table, where she poured out the tea from the old silver +Anne teapot, she looked at him, and saw many changes that one not +loving him, as she knew she did now, might have missed. The cheery +frank smile was there yet, but it had lost much of its happiness. His +eyes were no less kind, but they had a tired look about them, a wistful +look. Oh, that she might cheat herself into believing that their +wistfulness was for her! But Marjorie was not the little fool her aunt +called her. She was a woman, and was gifted with a woman’s +understanding. + +“He does not love me now, not as he did. I had my chance, and I said +no, and now—now it is gone for ever.” + +And he, leaning back in his chair, watched her pouring out the tea as +he had a few days ago watched another pouring out tea in a London +hotel. The sight of Joan performing that domestic duty had brought to +him then a vision of this same old room, this very old teapot, that his +mother had used. And now, seeing Marjorie here, pouring out the tea, +the only vision, the only remembrance that it brought to him was the +memory of another girl pouring out tea in a London hotel. + +“Hugh, have you seen her—Joan?” + +He started—started at the sound of the name that was forever in his +thoughts. + +“Yes, dear,” he said simply, for why should he lie to this child? + +“Oh!” she said. “Oh, and—and Hugh, she and you—” She paused, she held +her face down that he might not see it. + +“Joan Meredyth,” he said slowly, “and I met in Town a few days ago. She +told me then, that she is engaged to be married.” + +“Oh!” Marjorie said, and her heart leaped with a new-born hope. + +“And I,” Hugh went on, “am worried and anxious about her.” + +“Hugh!” + +“I can’t worry you, little girl. It is nothing in which you could help; +it is my fault, my folly!” + +“Mine!” she said. + +“No, it is mine. The whole idea was mine; I shoulder the blame of it +all. It has succeeded in what we attempted. You are all right, you and +Tom. I’ve made a lovely mess of everything else. But that does not +matter so much. What we wanted, we won, eh?” He smiled at her, little +dreaming that she had only won dead-sea fruit. + +“Why are you worried and anxious about Joan?” + +“I am not going to tell you, dear. I can’t very well. Besides, you +couldn’t help. You are happy, you are all right. Tom is in high favour +with her ladyship, so that’s good, and you—you and Tom are happy, eh?” + +“Yes,” she said miserably. + +“He’s a good fellow, Marjorie. Make allowances for him. He’ll need ’em, +he’s no angel; but he means well, and he’s a good clean, honest man, is +Tom Arundel, and you’ll be a happy girl when you are his wife; please +God!” he added, and put his hand on her shoulder, and did not notice +that she was weeping silently. + +He drove her back to Cornbridge in the moonlight, and left her at the +gates of the Manor House. “Little girl,” he said, “in this life there’s +a good deal of give and take. Don’t expect too much, and don’t be hurt +if you don’t get everything that you ask for. Remember this—I—I cared +for you very much.” “Cared!” she thought. “Cared?” He spoke in the +past—Cared!” + +“But I gave you up because you loved another man; you loved a man more +worthy than I am. I wouldn’t have stood aside if I had felt that the +other man was not good enough, that he was a waster and would not make +you happy; but I knew Tom better than that. Stick to him, don’t ask for +too much. Believe always that he loves you, and that he is built of the +stuff that keeps straight and true, and so, God bless you, dear!” + +He kissed her frankly as a brother might, and sat there watching her up +the drive to the house. He did not guess that when she gained the house +she slipped in by a garden door and ran up to her own room to indulge +in that relief that a woman may ever find when the grief is not too +black and too bitter, the relief of tears. + +“I am worried about her,” Hugh thought to himself; but “her” to him +meant Joan, not Marjorie. + +When he said, “I am worried about her,” he meant that he was worried +about Joan. If he said, “She would have liked this,” “She” would mean +Joan. + +“I am worried about her and that blackguard Slotman,” he thought. +“There is something about that man—snake—toad—something uncanny. She’s +there; she has money and he’s out for money. If I can sit here and tell +myself that I have scared Slotman from offending and annoying her +again, I am an idiot. When there’s money to be gained, a man like +Slotman will want a lot of scaring off it.” + +A week had passed since Marjorie’s visit. + +Hugh sent for his housekeeper, Mrs. Morrisey. + +“Mrs. Morrisey, I am going to London.” + +“Oh, Mr. Alston, when the men are—” + +“The men are all right. I have to go to London on business.” + +“Very queer and restless he’s been,” Mrs. Morrisey thought. “I never +known him like it before. When I thought he was in love with that +pretty little Miss Linden and wanting to marry her, he was not a bit +like he is now. He kept cheerful and smiling, and now; forever on the +move. No sooner does he get here than back to London he wants to go.” + +“Shall you be away for long, sir?” + +“I don’t know,” said Hugh. “Perhaps; perhaps not, I can’t say.” + +“I see. Very good, sir. I’ll see to things, of course. And about +letters, perhaps you won’t want them forwarded as you didn’t last time, +and—” + +“I shall want every letter forwarded, the very hour it arrives,” said +Hugh quickly. + +“Very good, sir. Where shall I send them to?” + +“I don’t know yet. I’ll wire you an address.” + +Yes, he must go to London. He could not go and watch Joan at Starden, +but he could go to London and watch Mr. Philip Slotman. + +“What I’ll do is this—I’ll have a watch kept on that man. There are +private detective chaps who’ll do it for me. If he goes down to +Starden, I’ll be after him hot-foot. And if he does go there to annoy +and insult Joan—I’ll break his neck!” he added, with cheerful decision. + +“And she—she is going to marry another man, a man she doesn’t love—she +can’t love. I know she cannot love.” He added aloud: “Joan, you don’t +love him, my darling, you know you don’t. You dared not stay and face +me that day. Your words meant nothing. You may think you despise me, +but you don’t: you want to, my dear, but you can’t; and you can’t +because, thank God, you love me! Oh, fool! Cheer yourself up, slap +yourself on the back. It doesn’t help you. She may love you as you +boast, but she’ll never marry you. She wants to hate you, and she’ll +keep on wanting to hate, and I believe—Heaven help me—that her will is +stronger than her heart. But—but anyhow, that brute Slotman shan’t +worry her while I can crawl about.” + +He was driven to the station the following morning. And now he was in +the train for London. + +“I’ll find out a firm of detectives and put ’em on Slotman,” he +thought, “but first I’ll go and have a look round. What’s the name of +the place?—Gracebury.” + +At the entrance to Gracebury, which as everyone knows is a cul-de-sac +of no considerable extent, Hugh stopped his taxi and got out. He walked +down the wide pavement till he came to the familiar door. + +“I’ll see him,” he thought. “I’ll go in and have a few words with him, +just to remind him that his neck is in jeopardy.” + +He went up the stone steps and paused. + +The door of Mr. Philip Slotman’s office was closed. On the door was +pasted a paper, stating that a suite of three offices was to let. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX +“WHY DOES SHE TAKE HIM FROM ME?” + + +“Why—why—why?” Ellice asked herself. Why should this woman who did not +love him wish to take him away from her, who worshipped the ground he +trod on, who looked up to him as the best, the finest of all God’s +created creatures? + +That Joan Meredyth did not love John Everard no one understood more +clearly than Ellice Brand. She had watched them when they were +together, she had watched the girl apart; and the watcher’s body might +be that of a child, but her eyes were the eyes of a woman, as was her +heart too. + +“Why should she take him from me?” she asked herself, and all her being +rose in passionate revolt and resentment. + +“Perhaps she does not know that I love him. Perhaps she looks on me +only as a child—a silly, foolish, infatuated child. But I am not! I am +not!” Ellice cried. “I am not! I love him. I loved him when I was a +baby, when I came here eight years ago, and now I am eighteen and a +woman, and I have never changed and never shall!” + +During the days that followed the announcement of Joan Meredyth’s +engagement to John Everard, Connie watched the girl. She felt troubled, +anxious, and yet scarcely could say why. She knew the girl’s passionate +nature. Connie almost dreaded something reckless even tragic. She was +more worried than she could say and of course she could not consult +Johnny. There was no one to consult but Helen, and Helen did not +understand Ellice in the least. Helen was inclined to look down on +Ellice from her superior height as a wayward, wilful, foolish +child—nothing more. + +“Send her away. I suppose she is really too old to go to school now, +Connie. How old is she, sixteen?” + +“Eighteen.” + +“She has the heart and the body of a child.” + +“And the soul of a woman!” + +“Sometimes, Connie dear,” said Helen sweetly, “you make me almost +angry. You actually seem to be siding with this foolish little thing!” + +Connie sighed. “In—in some ways I do. She loves him so, and I know it. +I can’t be hard-hearted, I can’t blind myself to the truth. Of course, +I know that Johnny’s marriage with Joan is the best thing in the world +for both of them, but—” + +“But just because a stupid, self-willed girl of eighteen believes +herself deeply in love with Johnny—Oh, Connie, do be your own +reasonable self.” + +Johnny Everard, blind as most men are, did not notice how quiet and +reserved Ellice had grown of late, how seldom she spoke to him, how +when he spoke to her she only answered him in brief monosyllables, and +how never came a smile now to her red lips, and certainly never a smile +into her great dark eyes. + +He did not see what Connie saw—the heaviness about those eyes, the +suggestion of tears during the night, when she came down silently to +her breakfast. She had changed, and yet he did not see it, and if he +had seen it might never guess at the cause. + +And Connie too, always kindly and gentle, always sweet and unselfish; +during these days the girl’s unselfishness was something to wonder at. + +She had always loved Ellice; she had understood the child as none other +had. And now there seemed to be a bond between them that drew them +closer. + +Three years ago Johnny had bought a bicycle for Ellice. She had been +going daily then to Miss Richmond’s school at Great Langbourne, three +miles away, and he had bought the bicycle that she might ride to school +and back again. Since she had left school the bicycle had remained +untouched and rusted in one of the outhouses, but now Ellice had got +the machine out and cleaned it and put new tyres on it. + +Deep down in her mind was a plan, as yet not wholly formed, a desperate +venture that one day she might embark on, and the old bicycle was part +of that plan, for she would need it to carry out the plan. She had not +decided yet, not even if she would ever carry it out, but she might. + +Day after day saw her on the road; more often than not her way lay +towards Starden village. She would ride the six and a half miles to +Starden, wait there for a time, and then ride back. She never called at +Starden Hall. Helen knew nothing of these trips. + +Connie watched the girl with misgivings and doubts, and Ellice knew +that the elder girl was watching her. + +“Connie, I want to speak to you,” she said quietly one morning. + +“Yes, darling?” + +Ellice slipped her small brown hand into Connie’s. + +“I—I know that you are worrying, dear, that you are anxious—and for +me.” + +Connie nodded, tears came into her eyes. + +“I want you to understand, Connie, that I—I promise you I will do +nothing—nothing, I will never do anything unless I come to you first +and tell you. I promise you that I will do nothing—nothing that I +should not do, nothing mad and foolish and wrong, unless I come to you +first and tell you just what I am going to do.” + +“Thank you, dear, for telling me this. It lifts a great weight and a +great anxiety from my heart. Thank you, dear—oh, Ellice darling, I +thought once that it would be a fine thing for him, but now—now I could +wish it otherwise!” + +Another moment and the girl was in her arms, clasping her passionately, +and kissing her passionately and gratefully. + +Then suddenly Ellice broke away, and a few minutes later was riding +hard down the road to Starden. + +It was always to Starden that she rode. Always she passed the great +gates of Starden Hall, yet never even glanced at them. She rode into +the little village, propped her bicycle against the railings that +surrounded the old stocks that stood on the village green, and there +sat on a seat and watched the ducks in the green village pond and the +children playing cricket. Then, after waiting perhaps an hour, she +would mount and ride slowly back to Buddesby again. + +It was the programme that she carried out this morning. It was twelve +o’clock when she came in sight of Buddesby village, a mile distant as +yet. + +“Missy! Missy!” Someone was calling. Ellice slowed down and looked +about her. On the bank beside the road a man sat, and he was nursing an +ugly yellow lurcher dog in his arms. + +“Missy!” the man called, and his voice was broken and harsh with +suffering. + +It was Rundle, the poacher, and his dog, and there was blood on +Rundle’s hand, blood trickling down from a wound in the dog’s side. The +man was holding the dog as he might have held a child. The big ugly +yellow head was against the man’s breast, and in its agony the dog was +licking the man’s rough hand. + +And watching, there came back to Ellice’s memory what she had said of +this man and his dog. + +“You’ll do something for me, missy, something as I—I can’t do myself!” +He shuddered. “Will you ride on to Taylor’s and ask him to come here +and bring—his gun?” + +“Why?” + +“I—I can’t do it myself!” + +“He might be cured.” + +“There’s only Mister Vinston, the Vet, and he wouldn’t look at this +poor tyke of mine. He hates him too bad for that, because Snatcher +killed one of them fancy poodle dogs of his two years ago; and Mr. +Vinston ain’t never forgot it—and never will. He wouldn’t do nothing to +save Snatcher, miss. Ask Taylor to come and bring his gun.” + +Ellice nodded. She stretched out her hand and touched the shaggy yellow +head, and in her eyes was infinite pity. Then she mounted the bicycle, +and rode like the wind to Buddesby. What she said to Mr. Ralph Vinston, +the smart young veterinary surgeon, only she and Mr. Ralph Vinston +knew. + +He had refused definitely and decidedly. “It’ll be a blessing to the +place if the beast dies,” he said. “You’d better take his message to +Taylor. The gun’s the best remedy for Rundle’s accursed dog, Miss +Ellice.” + +And then the girl had talked to him, had talked with flashing eyes and +heaving breast, and the end of it was that Ralph Vinston made a +collection of surgical instruments, bandages, and other necessaries, +bundled them into his little car, and was away down the road with +Ellice in company within ten minutes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX +“WAITING” + + +Hugh Alston had certainly not attempted anything in the way of +picturesque disguise. There was nothing brigandish or romantic about +the appearance of the very ordinary-looking young man who put in an +appearance at Starden village. + +Quite what his plans were, what he proposed doing and how he should do +it, Hugh had not the slightest idea. He mistrusted Slotman. He +experienced exactly the same feelings as would a man who, hearing that +there was a savage wild beast let loose where an immense amount of harm +may be done, puts a gun under his arm and sallies forth. + +Even if Joan had not the immense claim on him that she had, he believed +he would do exactly what he was doing now. He might be wrong about +Slotman, of course. The man might have cleared out and left the +country, but Hugh fancied that he had not. Here was a little gold-mine, +a young girl, rich and unprotected, a girl of whom this villain +believed certain things, which if true would give him a great power +over her. That they were not true, Slotman did not know, and he would +use his fancied knowledge to obtain his ends and to make Joan’s life +unbearable. + +So Hugh Alston was here in rough, shaggy tweeds, sitting on the +self-same seat beside the old stocks where most mornings Ellice Brand +came. + +“I’m here,” he said to himself, and pulled hard on his pipe. “I am +here, and here I am going to stay. Sooner or later, unless I am dead +out in my reckonings, that brute will turn up, and when he does he’ll +find me here ahead of and waiting for him.” + +“The Meredyths,” said Mrs. Bonner, “hev lived at Starden”—she called it +‘Sta-a-arden’—“oh, I wouldn’t like to say for how long, centuries +anyhow. Then for a time things got despirit with them, and the place +was sold. Bought it was by Mr. Gorridge, a London gentleman. Thirty +years he lived here. I remember him buying it; I would be about +eighteen then, just before I married Bonner. Master Roger I think it +was, anyhow one of ’em—the Meredyths I mean—went to Australia and kep’ +sheep or something there, and made money, and he bought the old place +back, Mr. Gorridge being dead and gone. You’ll see ’is tomb in the +church, Mr. Alston.” + +“Thank you,” Hugh said. “I’ll be sure to look for it.” + +“A wonderful expensive tomb, and much admired,” said Mrs. Bonner. + +“I am sure it must be in the best taste. And then?” + +“Oh, then Mr. Roger died at sea and left it all, Starden Hall and his +money, to Miss Joan Meredyth. And she lives there now, and I suppose +she’ll go on living there when she is married.” + +“When she is married,” he repeated. + +“To Mr. John Everard of Buddesby, a rare pleasant-spoken, nice +gentleman as no one can speak a word against. Passes here most days in +his car, he does—always running over from Buddesby, as is but +natcheral.” + +Starden Hall gates stood about a quarter of a mile out of Starden +village, and midway between the village and the Hall gates was Mrs. +Bonner’s clean, typically Kentish little cottage. + +Artists were Mrs. Bonner’s usual customers. The cottage was old, +half-timbered and hipped-roofed. The roof was clad with Sussex stone, +lichen-covered, and a feast of colour from grey and vivid yellow to the +most tender green. Mrs. Bonner herself was a comfortable body, built on +ample and generous lines, a born house manager, a born cook, and of a +cleanliness that she herself described as “scrutinous.” + +So Hugh, casting about for a retreat, had happened on Mrs. Bonner’s +cottage and had installed himself here—for how long he knew not, for +what purpose he scarcely even guessed at. Yet here he was. + +Mrs. Bonner had seen Philip Slotman, as she saw most things and people +that at one time or another passed within range of her windows. + +She recognised him from Hugh’s description. + +“It would be about best part of a fortnight ago,” she said. “He had +shammy leather gloves on, and was in Hickman’s cab. Hickman waited for +him at the hall gates and then took him back.” + +“And he’s not been here since?” + +“I fancy, but I ain’t sure, that I did see him one day in a car,” said +Mrs. Bonner; “but I couldn’t swear to it.” + +Twice he had seen “Her” from the window of Mrs. Bonner’s little +cottage, once a mere glimpse as she had flashed by in a car; the other +time she had been afoot, walking and alone. He had gazed on the slim +grace of her figure, himself hidden behind Mrs. Bonner’s spotless white +lace curtains. He had watched her, his soul in his eyes, the woman he +loved and who was not for him, could never be for him now, and there +fell upon him a sense of desolation, of loneliness, of utter +hopelessness. + +Three days had passed since his coming to Starden. He had seen Joan +twice, he had seen the man she was to marry. Once he had caught a +glimpse of John Everard hurrying to Starden Hall in his little car, he +himself had been standing by Mrs. Bonner’s gate. Everard had turned his +head and glanced at him, with that curiosity about strangers that all +dwellers in rustic places feel. + +“An artist, I suppose,” Johnny thought as he drove on. + +Hugh watched him down the road; he had seen Everard’s glance at him, +and had summed him up. The man was just what he would have imagined, a +man of his own stamp, no Adonis—just an ordinary, healthy, clean-living +Englishman. + +“I rather like the look of him,” thought Hugh. “He seems all right.” +And then he smiled at his thoughts a trifle bitterly. “By every right +on earth I ought to hate him.” + +Johnny drove his small car to the doors of the Hall. + +“Joan,” he said, “come out. Come out for a spin—the car’s running +finely to-day. Come out, and we’ll go and have lunch at Langbourne or +somewhere. What do you say?” His face was eager. “You know,” he added, +“you have never been out with me in my car yet.” + +“If you would like me to.” + +“Go and get ready then, and I’ll tell Helen,” he said. “We shan’t be +back to lunch.” + +Hugh had been on his way to the village when he saw Everard in his +little car. He went to the village because, if he went in the opposite +direction, it would take him to the Hall gates, and he did not wish to +go there. He did not wish her to see him, to form the idea that he was +here loitering about for the purpose of seeing her. + +Sooner or later he knew she must be made aware of his presence, then he +hoped for an opportunity to explain, but he would not seek it yet. So +he made his way to the village, stopped to give pennies to small +white-haired children, patted the shaggy dusty heads of vagrant dogs, +and finally came to anchor on the seat beside the railed-in stocks. + +And there on that same seat sat a small, dark-eyed maiden, whose rusty +bicycle reclined against the railings. She had been here yesterday for +fifteen minutes or so. He and she had occupied the seat without the +exchange of a word, according to English custom. + +Hugh looked at her. Because he regarded one woman as the embodiment of +all that was perfect and graceful and beautiful, it did not blind him +to beauty in others. He saw in this girl what those blinder than he had +not yet recognised—the dawning of a wonderful, a radiant and glowing +beauty. And because he had a very sincere and honest appreciation of +the beautiful, she interested him, and he smiled. He lifted his hat. + +The girl stared at him; she started a little as he raised his hat. She +gave the slightest inclination of her head. It was not encouraging. + +Hugh sat down. He was thinking of the man he had seen a while ago—a +clean, honest, open-faced man, a man he felt he could like, and yet by +every reason ought to hate. + +The girl was studying his profile. + +She had the suspicion that is inherent in all shy wild things, and yet, +looking at him, she felt that this man was no dangerous animal to be +feared and avoided. + +Turning suddenly, he caught her glance and smiled. + +“You live here?” + +“No!” + +“Yet you—oh, I see, you are staying here—” + +“No, I live at Little Langbourne.” + +He smiled, having no idea where Little Langbourne might be. + +They talked—of nothing, of the ducks and geese on the green, of the +weather, of the sunshine, of the ancient stocks. + +“You are staying here?” she asked. + +“Yes, at Mrs. Bonner’s.” + +“Oh, then you are an artist?” + +“Nothing so ornamental, I am afraid. No—quite a useless person.” + +“If you are not an artist, and have no friends here, do you not find it +a little dull?” + +“Yes, but I am a patient animal. I am waiting, you see.” + +“Waiting—for what?” + +Hugh smiled. “For something that may happen, and yet may not. I am +waiting in case it does. Of course you don’t understand, little girl, +I—I mean—I am sorry,” he apologised. “I was forgetting, thinking of a +friend, another girl I know.” + +“I am not offended. Why should I be? I am a girl and—and not very big, +am I?” She rose and smiled at him, and held out her hand. + +“Thank you,” Hugh said. He took her hand and held it. “I think you are +generous.” + +“For not being offended by a silly thing like that!” She laughed and +turned to get the bicycle. But it had slipped, the handle-bar had +become wedged in the railings; it took all Hugh’s strength to persuade +the handle-bar to come out. + +“I am afraid you can’t ride it like this, the bar’s got twisted. If you +have a spanner—” + +“I haven’t,” said Ellice. + +“Then if you will permit I will wheel it into the village. There’s a +cycle shop there, and I’ll fix it up for you.” + +So, he wheeling the bicycle, and she beside him, they crossed the green +and came to the village street. And down the road came a little +grey-painted car, which Johnny Everard was driving with more pride than +he had ever experienced before. + +“Why, hello!” thought Johnny. “What on earth is Ellice doing here, and +who is the fellow she is with? He’s the man I saw at Mrs. Bonner’s gate +and—” + +He turned his head and glanced at Joan. He was going to say something +to her, something about the unexpectedness of seeing Ellice here, but +Johnny Everard said nothing. He was startled, for Joan’s face was +white, and her lips were compressed. And in Joan’s brain was dinning +the question. “He here—what does he do here? Has he come here to +torment me further, to pester and plague and annoy me with his speeches +that I will never listen to? How dare he come here?” + +He had seen her, had paused. He lifted his hand to his hat and raised +it, but Joan stared straight before her. + +It was the cut direct, and there came a dusky red into Hugh’s face as +he realised the fact. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI +“IF YOU NEED ME” + + +Naturally enough, Johnny Everard, seeing Ellice, would have stopped. He +had his foot on the clutch and was feeling for the brake when Joan +realised his intention. + +“Please drive on! Please drive straight on!” + +And Johnny, receiving his instructions, obeyed them without hesitation. +Another moment, and Joan regretted. But it was too late, the car had +gone on; the two figures, the man and the girl with the bicycle, were +left behind. It was too late—and the girl felt almost shocked by what +she had done. + +But Joan’s temper was on edge, the day had lost any beauty that it +might have held for her. She wanted to get back, she wanted to be +alone, she wanted to decide, to think things out for herself. + +Johnny looked at her. This was beyond his understanding. What had +happened? Was it the man who had caused Joan to look so white and +angry, or was it Ellice? + +It could hardly be the man after all, for she had evidently not known +him. She had not recognised him in any way. + +Johnny was not good at guess-work. Here was something beyond him. If it +were Ellice, then why should the sight of Ellice upset Joan? And why—it +came to him suddenly—had Joan cut Ellice? + +For in cutting the man Joan had also cut the girl, and had not thought, +the girl meaning little or nothing to her. + +“Johnny, I—I—don’t think me unkind—or ungracious—but—I would like to go +back soon. I don’t mean—” She paused. “Let’s go back by way of +Bennerden.” + +It meant that she did not want to go back by the same road with the +chance of seeing those two again. + +Ellice’s cheeks were burning, and her eyes were bright with anger. Joan +Meredyth had cut her, and it seemed to her that Johnny had aided and +abetted. + +Then she happened to glance at Hugh Alston, and intuition prompted her. + +“I think you know her,” she said quickly. + +“Yes, I—I know her.” + +“And she was not pleased to see you?” + +“Apparently not!” he laughed, but the laughter was shaky. “Here we are! +We’ll soon get the bicycle fixed up.” + +Ellice stood watching him while with a borrowed spanner he adjusted the +handle-bars. + +What did this man know of Joan, and why had Joan cut him dead? Perhaps +they were old lovers, perhaps a thousand things? Ellice shrugged her +shoulders. It was nothing to her. If she must fight this woman, this +rich, beautiful woman for her love’s sake, she would not fight with +underhand weapons. There would be no digging in pasts, for Ellice. + +“Thank you,” she said. “You have been very kind!” Again she held out +her hand to him, and gave him a frank and friendly smile. “I hope that +we shall meet again.” + +“I think,” he said, “that we shall often meet again.” + +He stood and watched the graceful little figure of her as she sped +swiftly down the road, then turned and walked slowly back towards Mrs. +Bonner’s cottage. + +So Joan had seen him, and had cut him dead. + +“If I was not so dead sure, so dead certain sure that Slotman will turn +up eventually, I would clear out,” Hugh thought to himself. “I’d go +back to Hurst Dormer and stick there, whether I wanted to or not.” + +Ellice, pedalling homeward, went more slowly now she was clear of the +village. She wanted to think it all over in her mind, and arrived at +conclusions. At first she had thought that Joan Meredyth and Johnny too +had deliberately cut her dead. But that was folly; they had cut her, +but then in this matter she had not counted. She was gifted with plenty +of common-sense. Connie’s teaching and precept had not gone for nothing +with the girl. + +“Joan Meredyth knows that man, and he knows her.” + +Half a mile out of Little Langbourne, Ellice put on the brake and +alighted. + +“How is Snatcher?” she asked. + +Rundle touched his hat. A big and fearsome-looking man was Rundle. +Village mothers frightened small children into good behaviour by +threatening them that Rundle would come and take them away—a name to +conjure with. Little Langbourne only knew peace and felt secure when +Rundle was undergoing one of his temporary retirements from activity, +when, as a guest of the State, he cursed his luck and the gamekeepers +who had been one too many for him. + +But there was nothing fearsome about the Rundle who faced little Ellice +Brand. There was a smile on the man’s lips, in his eyes a look of +intense gratitude. + +Ragged and disreputable person that he was, he would have lain down and +allowed this little lady to wipe her feet on him, did she wish it. + +“How is Snatcher?” + +“Fine, missy!” he said. “Fine—fine!” His eyes glistened. “Snatcher’s +going to pull through, missy. ’Twas a car did hit he,” he added, “and I +saw the chap who was in it. I saw him, and I saw him laugh when +Snatcher went rolling over in the dust. I’ll watch out for that man, +missy.” + +“Tell me about Snatcher!” + +“Leg broke, and a terrible cut from a great flint; but he’ll pull +through—thanks to you!” + +“To Mr. Vinston, you mean!” + +Rundle shook his head. “To you. He wouldn’t ’a come for me, nor +Snatcher; he hates my poor tyke. But he’s put Snatcher right for all +that, and because you made him do it, and I don’t wonder!” Rundle +looked at her. “I don’t wonder,” he added. “There’s be few men who +wouldn’t do what you’d tell ’em to.” + +“Now,” said Ellice, “you are talking absurdly. Of course I just shamed +Mr. Vinston into doing it. I’d like to come and see Snatcher, Rundle.” + +“The queen wouldn’t be as welcome,” he said simply. + +Helen expressed no surprise at the unseasonable return of Joan and +Johnny from their trip. There was no accounting for Joan’s moods; the +main and the great thing was, it was due to no quarrel between them. + +Johnny stayed to lunch. After it, Joan left him with Helen and went to +her own room. She wanted to be alone, she wanted to think things out, +to decide how to act, if she were to act at all. + +“He called me ungenerous—three times,” she said, “ungenerous and—and +now I know that I am, I deserve it.” She felt as a child feels when it +has done wrong and longs to beg for forgiveness. In spite of her pride, +her coldness and her haughtiness, there was much of the child still in +Joan Meredyth’s composition—of the child’s honesty and the child’s +frankness and innocence and desire to avoid hurting others. + +“It was cruel—it was cowardly. But why is he here? What right has he to +come here when I—I told him—when he knows—that I, that Johnny and I—” + +And now, with her mind wavering this way and that way, anxious to +excuse herself and blame him one moment, condemning herself the next, +Joan took pen and paper and wrote hurriedly. + + +“I am sorry for what I did. It was inexcusable, and it was ungenerous. +I ask you to forgive me, it was so unexpected. Perhaps I have hurt +myself by doing it more than I hurt you. If I did hurt you, I ask your +forgiveness, and I ask you also, most earnestly, to go, to leave +Starden.” + + +She would have written more, much more, words were tumbling over in her +brain. She had so much more to say to him, and yet she said nothing. +She signed her name and addressed the letter to Hugh Alston at Mrs. +Bonner’s cottage. She took it out and gave it to a gardener’s boy. + +“Take that letter and give it the gentleman it is addressed to, if he +is there. If he is not there, bring it back to me.” + +“Yes, miss.” The boy pocketed the letter and a shilling, and went +whistling down the road. + +So she had written, she had confessed her fault and asked for +forgiveness—that was like Joan. One moment the haughty cold, proud +woman, the next the child, admitting her faults and asking for pardon. + +The letter had been duly delivered at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage, and, +coming in later, Hugh found it. + +“Bettses’ Bob brought it,” said Mrs. Bonner. “From Miss Meredyth at the +Hall,” she added, and looked curiously at Hugh. + +“That’s all right, thanks!” + +Mrs. Bonner quivered with curiosity. Who was this lodger of hers who +received letters from Miss Meredyth, when he had not even admitted that +he knew her? + +“Very funny!” thought Mrs. Bonner. + +Hugh read the letter. “I am sorry—for what I did.... I ask you to +forgive me.... Perhaps I have hurt myself more than I have hurt you +...” + +“Any answer to go back to the Hall?” + +“None!” + +“Ah!” Mrs. Bonner hesitated. “I didn’t know you knew Miss Meredyth.” + +“I am going out,” said Hugh. Avoid Mrs. Bonner while she was in this +curious mood, he knew he must. + +“If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it is secretiveness,” said Mrs. +Bonner, as she watched him up the road towards the village. + +Should he answer the letter? Hugh wondered. Or should he just accept it +in silence, as an apology for an act of rudeness? He hated that idea. +She might think that he did not forgive, that he bore malice and +ill-will. + +“No, I must answer it,” he decided, “but what shall I say?” He knew +what he wanted to say, he knew that he wanted to ask her to meet him, +and he knew only too well that she would refuse. + +“There is no sense,” said Hugh deliberately, “no sense whatever in +riding for a certain fall.” He was staring at a small flaxen-haired, +dirty-faced boy as he spoke. The boy grinned at him. + +“You have a sense of humour,” said Hugh, “and, no doubt, a sweet +tooth.” He felt in his pocket for the coin that the Starden children +had grown to expect from him. The boy took it, yelled and whooped, and +sped down the street to the sweetstuff shop. + +“But the fact remains,” said Hugh to himself, “there is no sense in +deliberately riding for a fall. If I asked her to meet me, she would +either refuse or ignore the request, so I shall not ask. Yet, all the +same, she and I will meet sooner or later, and when we meet, it will be +by accident, not by—” He paused. Outside the cycle-shop stood a small +two-seater car that had a familiar look to Hugh. As he glanced at the +car its owner came out of the shop with a can of petrol in his hand. + +He saw Hugh, looked him in the eyes, and nodded in friendly fashion. + +“A nice day!” he said. + +“Very!” + +“I have to thank you for helping my—” Johnny paused; he had almost said +sister, but of course Ellice was not his sister—“my little friend +yesterday, about the bike I mean.” + +“That’s nothing! Excuse interference on my part, but if you pour that +petrol into the radiator, you will probably develop trouble.” + +Johnny Everard laughed. “I am new to it, and I am always doing odd +things like that. Of course, that’s for water. Lawson over at Little +Langbourne generally sees to things for me.” + +Hugh nodded. He looked at the man standing but a few feet from him, the +man who was to gain that which Hugh coveted and desired most in the +world, looked at him and yet felt no dislike, no great enmity, no +furious hate. + +“It was very good of you to help the kiddie with her bike,” said +Johnny, as he splashed the petrol into the tank. “If you find yourself +at any time over at Little Langbourne, we’d be glad to see you. My +name’s Everard, my place is Buddesby.” + +“Thanks! It is very good of you, and I shan’t forget!” He nodded, +smiled, and walked on, then glanced back. He could see Johnny fumbling +with the car, and he smiled. + +“That’s my hated rival, and he seems a decent sort of chap.” + +An hour later he was back at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. + +“The post’s come in since you went, Mr. Alston,” said Mrs. Bonner, “and +there’s a letter for you.” + +It was a bulky envelope from Hurst Dormer. There was a note from Mrs. +Morrisey, to say that everything was going as it should go, and she +enclosed all the letters that had come by post. + +And the first letter that Hugh opened was one on pink paper, delicately +scented. How well he remembered that scent! How it brought back to him +a certain pretty little face, and a pair of sweet blue eyes. + +“Dear little maid,” he said. He read the letter, and stared at it in +astonishment and dismay. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII +THE SPY + + +It seemed to Hugh Alston that he had not read the letter aright; it was +so amazing, so disconcerting, that he felt bewildered. What on earth is +wrong? he thought, then he took the letter to the better light at the +window and read again. + + +“MY DEAR HUGH, + +“I have been over to Hurst Dormer three times in the car, each time +hoping and praying that I might find you; but you are never there now, +so I am writing, Hugh, hoping that you will get my letter. I know I +have no right to.” (This, Hugh noticed, had been carefully crossed +out.) “I want to see you so much. I want to ask your advice and help. I +don’t know what to do, and I am so unhappy, so wretched. Forgive me, +dear, for troubling you, but if—if only I could see you I am sure you +would help me, and tell me what it is right I should do. Ever and ever + +“Your loving, +“MARJORIE.” + + +“So unhappy, so wretched!” Hugh read, and it was this that had amazed +him. Here was a girl engaged to be married to the man she loved, the +man she had told him she could not live without, the man of her own +choice, of her own heart—he himself smoothed the way for her, had taken +away his own undesirable person, had stepped aside, leaving the field +to his rival, and now ... + +Hugh blinked at the letter. “What on earth should she be unhappy about? +She has had a quarrel with Tom perhaps, and she wants me to go and talk +to him like a Dutch Uncle. Poor little maid! I daresay it is all about +twopence! But it seems very real and tragic to her.” Hugh sighed. He +ought to stay here. This was his place, watching and keeping guard and +ward for Joan, yet Marjorie wanted him. + +“I’ll go. I can be there and back in a couple of days. I’ll go.” + +He had just time to write and catch the early outward mail from +Starden, to-day was Thursday. + + +“MY DEAR MARJORIE, + +“I have had your letter, and it has worried me not a little. I can’t +bear to think of you as unhappy, little girl. I shall come back to +Hurst Dormer, and shall be there to-morrow, Friday, early in the +afternoon. Send me a wire to say if you will come, or if you would +rather that I came to Cornbridge. + +“At any rate, be sure that if you are in any trouble or difficulty, or +are worried and anxious, you have done just the right thing in +appealing for help to + +“Your old friend, +“HUGH.” + + +He rang the bell for Mrs. Bonner. + +“Mrs. Bonner, I find I am obliged to go away for a time.” + +“You mean—” + +“No,” he said, “I don’t. I mean that my absence will be temporary. I +can’t say exactly how long I shall be away, but in the meantime I would +like to keep my rooms here.” + +Mrs. Bonner’s face cleared. “Oh yes,” she said, “ezackly, I see!” + +“I shall run up to Town to-night, and I will write you or wire you when +you may expect me back. It may be a week, it may be less; anyhow, I +shall come back.” + +“I am very glad to hear that, Mr. Alston,” said Mrs. Bonner heartily. + +“I shan’t take many things with me, just enough for the night. I’ll go +and pack my bag, and clear off to catch the six o’clock up train.” + +Why not go down to Hurst Dormer to-night, and send off this letter to +Marjorie from Town instead of posting it here? He could see to a few +things in Hurst Dormer on the morrow, see Marjorie, arrange her little +troubles and then be back here by Saturday; but as he was not sure of +his movements he left it that he would wire Mrs. Bonner his probable +time of returning. + +“One thing, I’ll be able to have a good clear-up when he’s gone,” Mrs. +Bonner thought. Forever her thoughts turned in the direction of soap +and water. The temporary absence of anyone meant to Mrs. Bonner an +opportunity for a good clean, and she had already started one that very +evening when there came a tapping on her door. + +“Now, whoever is that worriting this time of the night?” With sleeves +rolled up over bare and plump arms she went to the door. + +“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Bonner. I ’eard about you losing your lodger.” + +Mrs. Bonner stared into the darkness. + +“Oh, it’s you!” Judging by the expression of her voice, the visitor was +not a favoured one. + +“Yes, it’s me!” + +“Well, what do you want, Alice Betts?” + +“Oh, nothing. I thought I’d just call in friendly-like.” + +“Very good of you, only I’m busy cleaning up.” + +“Men do make a mess, don’t they? Fancy ’is going off like that. I +wonder if the letter had anything to do with it?” + +“Letter?” + +“Yes, the one Miss Joan give our Bob to bring ’im this afternoon.” + +“Ha!” said Mrs. Bonner. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” + +“Nor should I. I wonder what he is to her, don’t you?” + +“No, I don’t. I ain’t bothered my head thinking. It ain’t none of my +business, Alice Betts.” + +Alice Betts giggled. + +“Well, any’ow he’s gone,” she said, and Mrs. Bonner did not contradict +her. “And gone sudden.” + +“Very!” + +“Depend on it, it was the letter done it. Well, I won’t be keeping +you.” + +“No, I ain’t got no time for talking,” said Mrs. Bonner, and closed the +door. “A nosey Parker if ever there was one! Always shoving ’er saller +face where she ain’t wanted. I can’t abide that gel!” + +Miss Alice Betts hurried off to the Bettses’ cottage in Starden. + +“I got a letter to write in a ’urry. Give me a paper and envelope,” she +demanded. + + +“MISTER P. SLOTMAN, Dear sir,” Alice wrote. “This is to imform you, as +agreed, that Mister Alston has gone. Miss Jone writ him a letter, what +about cannot say, only as soon as he gets it, he packs up and leaves +Starden. I have been to Mrs. Bonner’s to make sure and find it is +correck, him having packed up and gone to London. So no more at present +from yours truely, MISS ALICE BETTS.” + + +And this letter, addressed to Mr. P. Slotman at the new address with +which he had furnished her, went out from Starden by the early morning +mail. + +After Mrs. Bonner’s comfortable but restricted cottage, it was good to +be back in the spacious old rooms of Hurst Dormer. Hugh Alston was a +home man. He had wired Mrs. Morrisey, and now he was back. To-night he +slept once again in his own bed, the bed he had slept in since boyhood. + +The following morning brought a telegram delivered by a shock-headed +village urchin. + + +“I will be with you and so glad to see you on Saturday—MARJORIE.” + + +Saturday, and he had hurried so that he might see her to-day. + +It was not till late Saturday afternoon that Marjorie came at last, and +Hugh had been fuming up and down, looking for her since early morning. +Yet if he felt any ill-temper at her delay it was gone at a sight of +the little face, so white and woebegone, so frankly miserable and +unhappy that his heart ached for the child. + +“Oh, Hugh, it is so good to see you again.” + +He kissed her. What else could he do? And then, holding her hand and +drawing it through his arm, he led her into the house. He rang the bell +for tea, for it was tea-time when she came. + +“You are going to have a good tea first, then you are going to tell me +all your troubles, and we are going to put them all straight and right. +And then—then, Marjorie, you are going to smile as you used to.” + +A faint smile came to her lips, her eyes were on his face. “Oh, Hugh, +if—if you knew how—how good it is to see you again and hear you speak +to me.” + +He put his hand on her shoulders. + +“It is always good to me to see you,” he said softly. “You’re one of +the best things in my world, Marjorie, little maid.” + +She bent her head, so that her soft cheek touched his hand, and what +man could draw his hand away from that caress? Not Hugh Alston. + +And now came Phipps with the tea, which he arranged on the small table +and retired. + +“It’s all right between them two,” he announced in the kitchen a little +later. “She’ll be missus here after all, I’ll lay ten to one.” + +“Law bless and save us!” said cook. “I thought it was off, and she was +going to marry young Mr. Arundel.” + +Ordinarily, Marjorie had the sensible appetite of a young country girl. +To-day she ate nothing. She sipped her tea, and looked with great +soulful, miserable eyes at Hugh. + +“And now, little girl, come, tell me.” + +“Oh, Hugh, not now. It is so difficult, almost impossible to tell you. +I wrote that letter days and days before I posted it, and then I made +up my mind all of a sudden to post it, and regretted it the moment +after.” + +“Why?” + +She shook her head. + +“There is something wrong between you and Tom? Tell me, girlie!” + +She was silent for a moment. “There is—everything wrong between Tom +and—and me. But it is my—my fault, not his. Oh, Hugh, it is all my +fault!” + +“How?” + +“I—I don’t love him!” the girl gasped. + +“Eh?” Hugh started. He sat back and stared at her. “Why—you—I—I +thought—” + +“So did I!” she cried, bursting into tears, “but I was wrong—wrong—all +wrong. I didn’t understand!” Her breast was heaving, there were sobs in +her throat, sobs she fought and struggled against. + +The dawn of understanding came to him. He believed he saw. She had +fancied herself in love with Tom, and now she knew she was not—how did +she know? For the simple reason that she found she was in love with +someone else. Now who on earth could it be? he wondered. + +“Won’t you tell me all about it, dear?” + +“I—I can’t. Don’t ask me—I ought not to have written, I ought not to +have come. I wish—I wish I had not. It is my fault, not Tom’s; he is +good and kind and—and patient with me, and I know I am unkind and cross +to him, and I feel ashamed of myself!” + +“Marjorie!” + +“Yes, Hugh?” She looked up. + +“Tell me the truth, dear,” he said gravely. “Do you realise that you +are not in love with Tom because you know now that you are in love with +someone else?” + +She did not answer in words, nodding speechlessly. + +“Is he a good man, dear?” + +“The best in the world, Hugh,” she said softly—“the finest, the +dearest, and best.” + +“That’s bad!” Hugh thought. “But I might have guessed that she would +say that, bless her little heart! Poor Tom!” He sighed. “So, after all, +this beautiful muddle I have made of things goes for nothing! Do you +care to tell me who he is, Marjorie?” + +“Don’t ask me—don’t ask me! I can’t tell you! I wish I hadn’t come. I +had no right to ask you to—to listen to me. I wish I hadn’t written +now!” + +He came across to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He bent and +kissed the bright hair. + +“Little girl, remember always that I am your old friend and your true +friend, who would help you in every way at any time. I am not of much +use, I am afraid; but such as I am, I am at your service, dear, always, +always! Tell me, what can I do? How can I help you?” + +“Nothing, nothing, you—you can’t help me, Hugh!” + +“Can I see Tom?” + +“No, oh no, you must not!” + +“Can I see—the other? Marjorie, does he know? Has he spoken to you—not +knowing perhaps of your engagement to Tom?” + +She shook her head. “He—he doesn’t know anything!” + +Silence fell on them. + +“Don’t think about it any more, you can’t help me. Hugh, where have you +been all this long time?” + +“I have been in Kent, at Starden.” + +“Is—is that where she—” + +“Joan? Yes! she lives there. I have been there, believing I can help +her, and I shall help her!” + +“You—you love her so?” + +“Better than my life,” he said quietly, and never dreamed how those +four words entered like a keen-edged sword into the heart of the girl +who heard them. + +She rose almost immediately. + +“I am a foolish, silly girl, and—and, Hugh, I want you to forget what I +told you. I shall forget it. I shall go back to—to Tom, and I will try +and be worthy of him, try and be good-tempered and—all he wants me to +be. Good-bye, Hugh!” + +It seemed to him that she had changed suddenly, changed under his very +eyes; the tenderness and the tears seemed to have vanished. She spoke +almost coldly, and with a dignity he had never seen in her before, and +then she went with scarce a look at him, leaving him sorely puzzled. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII +GONE + + +“DEAR JOAN, + +“I daresay you will wonder at not having heard from me for so long, but +I have been busy. Things have been going from bad to worse with me of +late, and I have been obliged to give up the old offices in Gracebury. +I often think of the days when we were so much together, as I daresay +you do. Naturally I miss you, and naturally I want to see you again. I +feel that you seemed to have some objection to my coming to your house. +That being so, I wish to consult your wishes in every way, and so I am +writing to suggest that you meet me to-morrow, that is Saturday night, +on the Little Langbourne Road. I daresay you will wonder why I am so +familiar with your neighbourhood, but to tell you the truth I am +naturally so interested in you that I have been down quietly several +times—motoring, just to look round and hear news of you from local +gossip, which is always amusing. I have heard of your engagement, of +course, and I am interested; but we will talk of that when we +meet—to-morrow night at the gate leading into the field where the big +ruined barn stands, about half a mile out of Starden on the Little +Langbourne Road at nine o’clock. This is definite and precise, isn’t +it? It will then be dark enough for you to be unobserved, and you will +come. I am sure you will come. You would not anger and pain an old +friend by refusing. + +“I hear that the happy man is a sort of gentleman farmer who lives at +Buddesby in Little Langbourne. If by any chance I should fail to see +you at the place of meeting, I shall put up at Little Langbourne, and +shall probably make the acquaintance of Mr. John Everard. + +“Believe me, +“Your friend, +“PHILIP SLOTMAN.” + + +It was a letter that all the world might read, and see no deep and +hidden meaning behind it, but Joan knew better. She read threat and +menace in every line. The man threatened that if she did not keep this +appointment he would go to Langbourne and find John Everard, and then +into John Everard’s ears he would pour out his poisoned, lying, +slanderous story. + +Better a thousand times that she herself should go to Johnny and tell +him the whole truth, hiding nothing. Yet she knew that she could not do +that; her pride forbade. If she loved him—then it would be different. +She could go to him, she could tell him everything, laying bare her +soul, just because she loved him. But she did not love him. She liked +him, she admired him, she honoured him; but she did not love him, and +in her innermost heart she knew why she did not love Johnny Everard, +and never would. + +But the letter had come, the threat was here. What could she do? to +whom turn? And then she remembered that hard by her own gate was a man, +the man to whom she owed all this, all her troubles and all her +annoyance and shame, but a man who would fight for and protect and +stand by her. Her heart swelled, the tears gathered for a moment in her +eyes. + +He had not answered the letter she had sent him a couple of days ago. +She had looked for an answer, and had felt disappointed at not +receiving one, though she had told herself that she expected none. + +For long Joan hesitated, pride fighting against her desire for help and +support. But pride gave way; she felt terribly lonely, even though she +was soon to be married to a man who loved her. To that man ought she to +turn, yet she did not, and hardly even gave it a thought. She had made +no false pretences to Johnny Everard. She had told him frankly that she +did not love him, yet that if he were willing to take her without love, +she would go to him. + +So now, having decided what she would do, Joan went to her room to +write a letter to the man she must turn to, the man who had the right +to help her. She flushed as the words brought another memory into her +mind; the flush ran from brow to chin, for back into her mind came the +words the man had uttered. Strange it was how her mind treasured up +almost all that he had ever said to her. + +_“You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart!”_ + +That was what he had said, and she would never forget, because she +knew—that it was true. + +She went to her own room, where was her private writing-table. She +found the room in the hands of a maid dusting and sweeping. + +“You need not go, Alice,” she said. “I am only going to write a +letter.” The girl went on with her work. + +“I did not think to appeal to you, yet I find I must appeal for help +that I know you will give, because but for you I should not need it. +I—” + +She paused. + +“Funny, miss, Mrs. Bonner’s lodger going off like that in such a hurry, +wasn’t it?” said the girl on her knees beside the hearth. + +Joan started. “What do you mean, Alice?” + +“The gentleman you gave our Bob a letter for—Mr. Alston,” said Alice +Betts. “Funny his going off like he did in such a hurry.” + +“Then you—you mean he is gone?” + +“Thursday night, miss.” + +Gone! A feeling of desolation and helplessness swept over Joan. + +Gone when she had counted so on his help! She remembered what she had +written: “I ask you earnestly to leave Starden,” and he had obeyed her. +It was her own fault; she had driven him away, and now she needed him. + +The girl was watching her out of the corner of her small black eyes. +She saw Joan tear up the letter she had commenced to write. + +“It was to him, she didn’t know he had gone,” Alice Betts thought, and +Alice Betts was right. + + +Mr. Philip Slotman had fallen on evil days, yet Mr. Philip Slotman’s +wardrobe of excellent and tasteful clothes was so large and varied that +poverty was not likely to affect his appearance for a long time to +come. + +Presumably also his stock of cigars was large, for leaning against the +gate beside the tumble-down barn he was drowning the clean smell of the +earth and the night with the more insinuating and somewhat sickly smell +of a fine Havannah. + +Some way down the road, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, stood a +large shabby car drawn up against a hedge, and in that car dozed a +chauffeur. + +Mr. Slotman took out his watch and looked at it in the dim light. + +It was past nine, and he muttered an oath under his breath. + +“She won’t be such a fool as not to come now that fellow’s gone!” he +thought, and he was right, for a few moments later she was there. + +“So you did come?” + +“I am here,” Joan said quietly. “You wish to speak to me?” + +“Don’t be so confoundedly hold-off! Aren’t you going to shake hands?” + +“Certainly not!” + +“Oh, very well!” he snarled. “Don’t then. Still putting on your airs, +my lady!” + +“I am here to hear anything you wish to say to me. Any threats that you +have to make, any bargain that you wish to propose. I thought when I +paid you that money—” + +“That money’s gone; it went in a few hours.” + +He felt savagely angry at her calmness, at her pride and superiority. +Why, knowing what he knew, she ought to be pretty well on her knees to +him. + +“Please tell me what you wish to see me about and let me go. It is +money, of course?” + +Her voice was level, filled with scorn and utter contempt, and it made +the man writhe in helpless fury. + +“Look here, stow that!” he said coarsely. “Don’t ride the high horse +with me. Remember I know you, know all about you. I know who you are +and what you are, and—and don’t—don’t”—he was stuttering and stammering +in his rage—“don’t think you can put me in my place, because you +can’t!” + +Joan did not answer. + +“If I want money I’ve got a right to ask for it! And I do. I’ve got +something to sell, ain’t I?—knowledge and silence. And silence is worth +a lot, my girl, when a woman’s engaged to be married, and when there’s +things in her past she don’t care about people knowing of. Yes, Miss +Joan Meredyth, my lady clerk on three quid a week was one person, but +Miss Meredyth of Starden Hall, engaged to be married to Mr. John +Everard of Buddesby, is another, ain’t she?” + +“Please say what you have to say,” she said coldly. “I do not wish to +stay here with you.” + +“But you are going to,” he said. “You are going to!” He reached out +suddenly and gripped her hand. He had expected that she might struggle; +it would have been human if she had, but she didn’t. + +“Please release my hand,” she said coldly. “I do not wish to stay here +with you!” She paused. “Tell me why you wish to see me!” + +He dropped her hand with a snarling oath. + +“Well, if you want to know, it is money, and this time it is good +money. I am up against it, and I’ve got to have money. I’ve been down +here several times, hunting round, listening to things, hearing things. +I heard about your engagement. I have heard about you. Oh, everyone +looks up to you round here—Miss Meredyth of Starden!” He laughed. “And +it is going to pay Miss Meredyth of Starden to shut my mouth, ain’t it? +June, nineteen eighteen, ain’t so long ago, is it? Mr. Hugh Alston—hang +him!—you set him on to me, didn’t you?” + +“So you have seen him?” + +“I saw him, curse him! He came and—and—” + +“Thrashed you?” Joan asked quietly “I thought he might!” + +“Stop it! Stop your infernal airs!” he almost shouted. “I am here for +money, and I want it, and mean to have it—five thousand this time!” + +“I shall not pay you!” + +“Oh, you won’t—you won’t! Then I go to Buddesby. I’ll have a little +chat there. I’ll tell them a few things about Marlbury and about a trip +to Australia that did not come off, and about a marriage that never +took place. I’ve got quite a lot to chat about at Buddesby, and I +shan’t be done when I’m through there either. There’s a nice little inn +in Starden, isn’t there? If one talked much there it would soon get +about the place!” + +Under cover of the darkness her cheeks flamed, but her voice was still +as cold and as steady as before. + +“Have you ever considered,” she asked quietly, “that what you think you +know, may not be true?” + +“It is true! And if it isn’t true, it is good enough for me; but it is +true!” + +“It is not!” + +He laughed. “It is—at any rate I think so, and others’ll think so. +It’ll want a lot of explaining away, Joan, won’t it? if even it isn’t +true. But I know better. Well, what about it—about the money?” + +“I shall consider,” she said quietly. “I paid you before, blackmail! If +I asked you if this was the final payment, and you said Yes. I know +that I need not believe you, so—so I shall consider. I shall take time +to think it over.” + +“Oh, you will?” + +“Yes!” + +Down the road came a cart. It lumbered along slowly, the carter +trudging at the horse’s head. Slotman looked at the slow-coming figure +and cursed under his breath. + +“When shall I hear?” + +“I shall think it over, decide how I shall act, whether I shall pay you +this money or not,” she said. “In a few days, this day week, not +before.” She turned away. + +“And—and if I go to Buddesby and get talking?” + +“Then of course I pay you nothing!” she said calmly. + +That was true. Slotman gritted his teeth. Two minutes later the carter +trudging on his way passed a solitary man smoking by a gate, and far +down the road a woman walked quickly towards Starden. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV +“FOR HER SAKE” + + +Into Hugh Alston’s life had come two women, women he had loved, both +now engaged to be married to other men, and Hugh Alston was a sorely +worried and perplexed man about both of them. + +“I’ll go to Cornbridge to-morrow,” said Hugh, and he went. + +“Where,” asked Lady Linden, “the dickens have you been?” + +“In the country!” + +“Isn’t your own country good enough for you?” She looked at him +shrewdly. She saw the worry in his face; it was too open and too honest +to make concealment of his feelings possible. + +Marjorie welcomed him with tearful gladness in her eyes. She said +nothing, she held his hand tightly. Not till afterwards did she thank +him for coming. + +“I felt you would,” she said. “I knew you would!” + +And so he was glad he came. + +And was she? She wondered, better a thousand times for her and her +happiness if she never saw him again. So long as she lived she would +not forget those four words that had entered like a sword into her +heart and had slain for ever the last hope of happiness for her—“Better +than my life!” + +It was odd how women remembered Hugh Alston’s words. How even on this +very day another woman was remembering, and was fighting a fight, pride +and obstinacy opposed to fear and loneliness and weariness of soul. + +Hugh noticed a change in Tom. + +“Hello, Alston,” said Tom, and gripped him by the hand; but it was a +weary and dispirited voice and grip, unlike those of Tom Arundel of +yore. + +They walked about Lady Linden’s model farm together, Tom acting as +showman with no little pride, and yet behind even the enthusiasm there +was a weariness that Hugh detected. + +“And the wedding, Tom?” Hugh asked him presently. “When is it to be?” + +Tom looked up. “I don’t know, Alston, sometimes I think never. Alston, +you—you’ve seen her. You remember her as she was, the sweetest, dearest +girl in the world, her eyes and her heart filled with sunshine, and +now...” The lad’s voice trailed off miserably. + +“Hugh, I can’t make her out; it worries me and puzzles me and—and hurts +me. She is so different, she takes me up so sharply. I—I know I am a +fool, I know I am not fit to touch her little hand. I know that I am +not a man—like you, a man a girl could look up to and respect, but I’ve +always loved her, Hugh, and I’ve kept straight. There are things I +might have done and didn’t do—for her sake. I just thought of her, +Hugh, and so—so I’ve lived a decent life!” + +Hugh’s eyes kindled, for he knew that what the boy said was truth. + +Thursday afternoon saw Hugh back at Hurst Dormer. It was a week now +since he had left Starden. She had asked him to leave, and he had left, +yet not exactly for that reason. His coming here had done no good, had +only given him fresh worry and anxiety, and now he realised that all +his sympathy was for Tom and not for Marjorie. + +“Oh, my Lord! Uncertain, coy and hard to please is correct, and I +suppose some of them can be ministering angels—yes, God bless them! +I’ve seen them!” His face softened, his thoughts flew back to other +days, days of strife and bloodshed, of misery and death, days when men +lay helpless and in pain, and in memory Hugh saw the gentle, +soft-footed girls at their work of mercy. Ministering angels—God’s own! + +“Mrs. Morrisey, I am going to London.” + +“Very good, sir!” Mrs. Morrisey was giving up all hopes of this +restless young master of hers. “Very good, sir!” + +“I shall be back”—he paused—“eventually, if not sooner!” + +“Certainly, sir!” said Mrs. Morrisey, who had no sense of humour. + +“Meanwhile, send on any letters to the Northborough Hotel. I shall +catch the seven-thirty,” said Hugh. + +“I’ll order the car round, sir,” said Mrs. Morrisey. + +And this very day at Starden pride broke down; the need was so great. +It was not the money that the man demanded, but the bonds that paying +it would forge about her, bind her for all time. + + +“Please come to me here. I want your help. I am in great trouble, and +there is no one I can turn to but you. + +“JOAN.” + + +And not till after the letter was in the post did she remember that she +had signed it with her Christian name only. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV +CONNIE DECLARES + + +“My dear Connie!” Helen Everard was amazed. “My dear Connie, why talk +such nonsense? This marriage between Joan and Johnny is the best, the +very best possible thing in the world for him. Joan is—” + +“I know all she is, Helen,” said Connie; “no one knows better than I +do. I know she is lovely; she is good, she is rich, and she is +cold—cold to Johnny. She doesn’t love him; and I love him, Helen, and I +hate to think that Johnny should give his life to a woman who does not +care for him!” + +Helen shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes, Connie with her queer +unworldly notions annoys me,” she thought. + +“At any rate, dear child, it is all arranged, and whatever you and I +say will not matter in the least. But, all the same, I am sorry you are +opposed to the marriage.” + +“I am!” said Connie briefly. + +She had declared herself, as she had known sooner or later she must, +and she had declared on the side of the girl who loved Johnny Everard +better than her life. + +At home Johnny wondered at the change that had come to the two women +whom he loved and believed in. It seemed to him that somehow they were +antagonistic to him, they seemed to cling together. + +Ellice deliberately avoided him. When he asked her to go out, as in the +old days, she refused, and when he felt hurt Connie sided with her. + +“Con, what does it mean?” he cried in perplexity. + +“Nothing. What should it mean?” + +“But it does. Ellice hardly speaks to me. When I speak to her she just +answers. You—you”—he paused—“and you are different even. What have I +done?” + +“You have done nothing—yet, Johnny. It is what you are going to do—that +troubles me and makes me anxious.” + +He stared, open-eyed. + +“How?” + +“Your marriage!” + +“With Joan. You mean that you are against her?” + +“I am against any woman who would have you for a husband and give you +none of her heart,” cried Connie. + +“Why—why?” he stammered. “Con, you couldn’t expect that Joan would fall +in love with a chap like me?” + +“Then why is she going to marry you? Isn’t marriage a union of love and +hearts? Oh, Johnny, I am anxious, very anxious. I hate it, this +loveless marriage—” + +“But I love her!” he said reverently. + +“Do you—can you go on loving her? Can you? Your own heart starved, can +you continue to love and give again and again? No, no, I know +better—the time will come when you will realise you have married a cold +and beautiful statue, and your heart will wither and shrivel within +you, Johnny.” + +“Con, in time I will make her care for me a little.” + +“She never will!” + +“Why?” + +Connie looked out of the window. “Johnny, dear, if I am saying +something that will hurt you, will you forgive me?—knowing that I love +you so dearly, that all I want to see is your happiness, that I hate to +see you imposed on, made a fool of, made a convenience of!” + +“Connie, what do you mean?” + +“I mean that I believe that Joan Meredyth will never love you, because +all the heart she has to give has been given to someone else.” + +“You have no right to say that. What do you know? What can you know?” + +“I know nothing. I can only guess. I can only stumble and grope in the +dark. Think! That woman, lovely, sweet, brilliant, could she accept all +that you offer her and give nothing in return if she were heart-free? +Wouldn’t your love for her appeal to her, touch her, force some +tenderness in response? Oh, I have watched her. I have seen, and I have +guessed what I know must—must be true. For she is all woman; she is no +cold icicle, but you have not touched her heart, Johnny, and you never +will, and so—so, my dear,” Connie’s voice choked with a sob, “you’ll +hate me for this—Johnny!” + +He went to her, put his arm about her, and held her tightly and kissed +her. + +“To prove my hate, dear,” he whispered, and then he went out with a +very thoughtful look on his face. + +In the yard he saw Ellice. + +“Gipsy girl,” he said, “come with me. Let’s go out—anywhere in the car +for a ride—it doesn’t matter where. Come with me!” + +Her face flushed, then paled. + +“No thank you!” she said coldly. “I am busy doing something for Joan.” + +Johnny sighed with disappointment, there was pain in his eyes too. In +the old days she would not have refused; she would have come gladly. + +“My little Gipsy girl is against me too!” He walked away slowly and +dejectedly, and the girl watched him. She lifted her hands and pressed +them hard against her breast, and then—then Johnny heard the light fall +of swift-moving feet. He felt a clutch on his arm, and turned. He saw a +flushed face, bright eyes were looking into his. + +“If—if you want me to, I’ll come,” she said. “I’ll come with +you—anywhere!” + +He did not answer. His hands had dropped on to her shoulders; he stood +there holding her and looking into her face, glowing with a beauty that +he had never seen in it before, and in his eyes was still that puzzled +look, the look of a man who does not quite understand. + +“Why, Gipsy girl!” he said slowly, “you are a woman—you have grown up +all suddenly.” + +“Yes, I am—I am a woman!” She laughed, but the laughter ended in a sob. +She bent her head, and Johnny, strangely puzzled, slipped his arm about +her and drew her a little closer to him. + +He had thought her a child; but she was a woman, and he had seen in her +eyes that which set his dull wits wondering. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI +“HE HAS COME BACK” + + +It was exactly a week since his departure that Hugh returned to +Starden, and found Mrs. Bonner a little surprised, but by no means +unready. + +“You said as you’d send me a message, sir,” she said. + +“I did, and I haven’t done it—I’ll take the consequences.” But there +were no consequences to take. She prepared him an ample meal at the +shortest notice, and was willing enough to stop and talk to him while +he ate it. + +“Anything new, anything fresh?” + +“Nothing!” + +“No strangers about Starden?” + +“No!” + +Had Slotman been? That was what Hugh wanted to know. Presently he asked +the question direct. + +“You don’t happen to have seen that man I described to you some time +back, a stout man with a lean face, overdressed, thick red lips, small +eyes?” + +“Law bless us! yes. I see him two days ago, drove past he did in a +car—a shabby-looking car it was, but he didn’t stop. He just stared at +the cottage as he drove past, and I got an idea he smiled, only I ain’t +sure. I am sure of one thing, however; he did stare terribul hard at +this cottage!” + +“You are sure it is the man?” + +Mrs. Bonner described Mr. Slotman’s appearance vividly, and Mr. +Slotman, had he been there, might not have been pleased to hear of the +impression he had made on the good woman. + +“A man,” she concluded, “as I wouldn’t trust, not a hinch!” + +“It’s the man!” Hugh thought. “And he’s come back, as I thought he +would. Funny he should look at the cottage! Good Lord! I wonder if he +has spies about here?” + +“Anyone else been? I suppose no one came here to ask about me, for +instance, Mrs. Bonner?” + +“No one, sir, not a soul, no—stay a moment. The day you left that there +nosey Parker of a gel Alice Betts came. I couldn’t make out whatever +she came for. Me, I don’t ’old with them Bettses, anyhow she came. It +was her brother that brought you that letter from Miss Joan Meredyth +the day you went, sir, and she said something about ’earing as I’d lost +my lodger.” + +“I see. And who is Alice Betts?” + +“Her—she be a maid at Starden Hall.” + +“I see,” Hugh repeated. “I see! Mrs. Bonner,” he said, “will you do +something for me?” + +“Anything, of course!” + +“Will you take a letter for me to Miss Joan Meredyth?” + +Would she not? Mrs. Bonner caught her breath. Then there was something +between these two, even though Miss Joan Meredyth was engaged to marry +Mr. John Everard of Buddesby! + +“Mrs. Bonner,” said Hugh a few minutes later, “I am going to trust you +absolutely. Miss Meredyth and I—are—old friends. It is urgent that I +see her. I want you to take this letter to her; tell no one at the Hall +that the letter is from me, tell no one that I am back. No one knows. I +did not meet a soul on the road from the station, and I don’t want my +presence here known. I am trusting you!” + +“You can, sir!” + +“I am sure of it. Take that note to Miss Meredyth, ask to see her +personally. Don’t mention my name. Give her that letter, and if, when +she has read it, she will come with you, bring her here, because I must +see her, and to-night.” + +It was Alice Betts who opened the door to Mrs. Bonner. + +“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Bonner!” + +“I didn’t come ’ere to bandy no words with you,” said Mrs. Bonner. “I +never held with you, Alice Betts,” she added severely. + +“I don’t see what I’ve done!” + +“No pre-aps you don’t. Anyhow, I’m here to see your mistress. You go +and tell her I am here.” + +“If I say I’ve brought a letter that gel will guess who it is from,” +Mrs. Bonner thought, so, wisely, she held her peace. + +A few minutes later Mrs. Bonner was shewn into the drawing-room. She +dropped a curtsey. + +“You want to see me?” + +“Yes, miss, but first—excuse me, miss!” + +Mrs. Bonner hurriedly opened the door. + +“I thought so,” she said. “Didn’t you best be getting off to your +work?” + +Alice Betts went. + +“A spy! If I might make so bold, miss, I’d get rid of her. Them Bettses +never was no good, what with the drink and things. I got a letter for +you, miss, only I didn’t want that gel to know it.” + +“Joan, I am back again. No one knows that I am, here except Mrs. Bonner +and now yourself. I have reasons for wishing my return to remain +unknown. But I must see you. You will believe that I would not ask you +to come to me here if there was not urgent need.” + +There was urgent need, and she knew it, for had she not written that +appeal to him barely twenty-four hours ago? There had been no delay +this time in his coming. + +“And he, Mr. Alston, is at your cottage?” + +“Yes, miss, came back only about a hour ago, and he’s waiting there. He +told me maybe you might come back with me, and he’s trusting me not to +tell anyone he’s here, miss.” + +“Yes, I understand. And, Mrs. Bonner, you think that girl is a spy?” + +“I know it. Wasn’t she starting to listen at the keyhole and me hardly +inside the room?” + +Joan was silent for a moment. “Go back! Tell him—I shall +come—presently. Tell him I am grateful to him for coming so quickly.” + +“I’ll tell him.” + +Mrs. Bonner was gone, and Joan sat there hesitating. A trembling fit of +nervousness had come to her, a sense of fear, strangely mingled with +joy. + +“I must go, there is no one else, but—I do not wish to see him,” and +yet she knew that she did. She wished to see him more than she wanted +to see anything on earth. So presently when Helen, who retired early, +had gone upstairs, Joan slipped a cloak over her shoulders and stole +out of the house as surreptitiously as any maid stealing to a love +tryst. + +In Mrs. Bonner’s tiny sitting-room Hugh was pacing restlessly in the +confined space, pausing now and again to listen. + +She was coming—coming. Presently she would be here, presently he would +see her, this girl of his dreams, standing before him with the +lamplight on her sweet face. + +But it was not to pour out the story of his love that he had sent for +her to-night. He must remember that she came unattended, unprotected, +relying on his chivalry. Hugh took a grip on himself, and now he heard +the familiar creaking of the little gate, and in a moment was at the +door. But the excitement, the enthusiasm of just now was passed. + +He looked at her standing before him. Looking at her, he pictured her +as he had seen her before, cold and haughty, her eyes hard and bright, +her lips curved with scorn for him, and now—he saw her with a flush in +her cheeks, and the brightness of her eyes was not cold, but soft and +misty, and her red-lipped mouth trembled. + +Once he had seen her as now, all sweetness and tenderness. And so in +his dreams of her had he pictured her, and now he saw her so again, and +knew that his love for her and need of her were greater even than he +had believed. + +“I sent for you, Hugh.” She hesitated, and again the colour deepened in +her cheeks. + +“You sent for me, dear?” + +“Because I need you. I want your advice, perhaps your help. He—he came +back again.” + +“When?” + +“Last Saturday.” + +“And I left here Thursday,” he smiled. “Joan, you have a spy in your +house who reports my movements and yours to Slotman. No sooner was I +gone from here than he was advised, and so he came. Now do you +understand why I am here. I knew that man would come. He needs money, +there is the magnet of your gold. He will never leave you in peace +while he thinks you alone and unprotected, but while I was here you +were safe, for he is a very coward.” + +“And that was why you came, knowing that he—” + +She paused. “And I—I cut you in the street, Hugh.” + +“And hurt yourself by doing it,” he said softly. + +“Yes.” She bowed her head, and then suddenly she thrust the softness +and the tenderness from her, for they must be dangerous things when she +loved this man as she did, and was promised to another. + +“I must not forget that—I am—” She paused. + +“Promised to another man? But you will never carry out that promise, +Joan—you cannot, my dear! You cannot, because you belong to me. But it +was not of that that you came to speak. Only remember what I have said. +It is true.” + +“It cannot be true. I never break a promise! What am I to do? Tell me +and advise me. You know—what he—he says—what he thinks or—or pretends +to think.” Again the burning flush was in her cheeks. + +“I know!” + +“And even though it is all a vile and cruel lie, yet I could not bear—” + +“You shall not suffer!” + +“Don’t—don’t you understand that if people should think—think of such a +thing and me—that they should speak of it and utter my name—Lies or +truth, it would be almost the same; the shame of it would be +horrible—horrible!” She was trembling. + +“Tell me, have you seen this man?” + +“Yes, last Saturday. He wrote ordering me to meet him. In every line of +the letter I read threats. I—I had to go; it was money, of course, five +thousand pounds.” + +“And you didn’t promise?” His voice was harsh and sharp, and looking at +him she saw a man changed, a man whose face was hard and stern, and +whose mouth had grown bitter. And, knowing it was for her, she knew +that she had never admired him before as she did now. + +“I promised nothing. I am to meet him again to-morrow night and—and +tell him what I have decided. It is not the money, but—but to pay would +seem as if I—I were afraid. And oh, I have paid before!” + +“I know! And to-morrow you will meet him?” + +“I—but—” + +“You will meet him, Joan, but I shall be there also. Tell me where!” + +She described the place, and he remembered it and knew it well enough. + +“I shall be there, remember that. Go without fear—answer as you decide, +but remember you pay nothing—nothing. And then I,”—he paused, and +smiled for the first time—“I will do the paying.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII +THE DROPPING OF THE SCALES + + +It was like turning back the pages of a well-loved book, a breath out +of the past. For this afternoon it seemed to John Everard that his +little friend, almost sister, had come back to him. + +And yet it seemed to Johnny, who studied her quietly, that here was one +whom he had never known, never seen before. The child had been dear to +him as a younger sister, but the child was no more. + +And to-day, for these few brief hours, Ellice gave herself up to a +happiness that she knew could be but fleeting. To-day she would be the +butterfly, living and rejoicing in the sun. The darkness would come +soon enough, but to-day was hers and his. + +How far in his boldness John Everard drove that little car he did not +quite realise, but it was a slight shock to him to read on a sign-post +“Holsworth four miles,” for Holsworth was more than forty miles from +Little Langbourne. + +“Gipsy, we must go back,” he said. “We’ll get some tea at the farmhouse +we passed a mile back, and then we will hurry on. Con will be +worrying.” + +They had tea at the little farmhouse, and sat facing one another, and +more than ever grew the wonder in Johnny’s mind. Why—why had this girl +changed so? What was the meaning of it, the reason for it? It was not +the years, for a few days, a few short weeks had wrought the change. +And then he remembered with a sense of shame and wrongdoing that, +strangely enough, he had scarcely flung one thought to Joan all that +long afternoon. + +And now in the dusk of the evening they set off on the homeward +journey. And at Harlowe happened the inevitable, when one has only a +small-sized tank, and undertakes a journey longer than the average, the +petrol ran out. The car stopped after sundry spluttering explosions and +back-firings. + +“Nothing else for it, Gipsy. I must tramp back to Harlowe and get some +petrol—serves me right, I ought to have thought of it. Are you afraid +of being left there with the car?” + +“Afraid!” She laughed. “Afraid of what, Johnny?” + +“Nothing, dear!” + +He set off patiently with an empty petrol tin in each hand, and she +watched him till he was lost in the dusk. + +“Afraid!” she repeated. “Afraid only of one thing in this world—of +myself, of my love for him!” And then suddenly sobs shook her, and she +buried her face in her hands and cried as if her heart must break. + +It took Johnny a full hour to tramp to Harlowe and to tramp back with +the two heavy tins, and then something seemed to go wrong. The car +would not start up: another hour passed, and they had a considerable +way to go, and then suddenly, seemingly without rhyme or reason, the +car started and ran beautifully, and once more they were off and away. + +But they were very late when they came into Starden, and with still +some six and a half miles to go before they could reassure Connie. + +“Connie will be worrying, Gipsy,” Johnny said. “You know what Connie +is, bless her! She’ll think all sorts of tragedies—and—” He paused, his +voice faltered, shook, and became silent. + +They were running past Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. The door of the cottage +stood open, and against the yellow light within they could see the +figure of a man and of a girl, and both knew the girl to be Joan +Meredyth, and the man to be Mrs. Bonner’s lodger, the man that Joan had +cut that day in Starden. + +The car was a quarter of a mile further down the road before either +spoke, and then Johnny said, and his voice was jerky and uncertain: + +“Yes, Connie will be getting nervous. I shall be glad to have you +home—Gipsy.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII +“HER CHAMPION” + + +Why should Joan have been at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage at such an hour? Why +should she have been there talking to the very man whom she had a week +ago cut dead in the village? Why, if she had anything to say to him, +whoever he was, had she not sent for him rather than seek him at his +lodgings? + +Questions that puzzled and worried Johnny Everard sorely, questions +that he could not answer. Jealousy, doubt, and all the kindred feelings +came overwhelmingly. Honest as the day, he never doubted a soul’s +honesty. If he found out that a man whom he had trusted was a thief, it +shocked him; he kicked the man out and was done with him, and nothing +was left but an unpleasant memory, but Joan was different. + +Trust Joan? Of course he did, utterly and entirely. + +“I should be unworthy of her if I didn’t,” he thought. “In any case, I +am not worthy of her. It is all right!” + +But was it all right? + +Connie had been naturally a little anxious. She, womanlike, had built +up a series of tragedies in her mind, the worst of which was Johnny and +Ellice lying injured and unconscious on some far distant roadway; the +least a smashed and disabled car, and Johnny and Ellice sitting +disconsolate on a roadside bank. + +But here they were, all safe and sound, and Connie bustled about, +hurrying up the long delayed dinner, making anxious enquiries, and +feeling a sense of relief and gratitude for their safe return, about +which she said nothing at all. + +And now Connie was gone to bed, and Ellice too; and Johnny smoked his +pipe and frowned over it, and asked himself questions to which he could +find no answer. + +“But I trust her, absolutely,” he said aloud. “Still, if she knows the +man”—he paused—“why hasn’t she spoken to me about him? I am to be her +husband soon, thank Heaven, but—” + +And then came more doubts and worries crowding into his mind, and his +pipe went out, and he sat there, frowning at thoughts, greatly worried. + +Johnny Everard looked up at the sound of the opening of the door. In +the doorway stood a little figure. He had never realised how little she +was till he saw her now, standing there with her bare feet and a thin +white dressing-gown over her nightdress, her hair hanging in great +waving tresses about her oval face and shoulders and far down her back. + +She looked such a child—and yet such a woman, her great eyes anxiously +on his face. + +“Johnny,” she said softly, “you have been worrying.” + +He nodded, speechless. + +“Why, Johnny?” + +“Because—because, Gipsy, I am a fool—a jealous fool, I suppose.” + +“If you doubt her honour and her honesty, Johnny, then you are a fool,” +she said bravely, “because Joan could not be mean and treacherous and +underhand. It would not be possible for her.” + +“I thought you did not—like Joan?” + +“And does that make any difference? Even if I do not like her, must I +be unjust to her? I know she is fine and honourable and true and +straight, and you must know that too, so—so why should you worry, +Johnny? Why should you worry?” + +“Why has she never said one word to me about this man? Why did she +refuse to recognise him that day when she saw you and him together? Why +does she go to Mrs. Bonner’s cottage to meet him late at night?” + +He hurled at her all those questions that he had been asking himself +vainly. + +“I do not know why,” Ellice said gravely, “but I know that, whatever +the reason is, it is honourable and honest. Joan Meredyth,” she paused +a little, with a catch of the breath, “Joan Meredyth could not be other +than honest and true and—and straight, Johnny. It would not be her +nature to be anything else.” + +“Why do you come here? Why do you come to tell me this, Gipsy?” He had +risen, he stood looking at her—such a little thing, so graceful, so +lovely with the colour in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the light +of her fine generosity. “Gipsy—” He became silent; looking at her, +strange thoughts came—wild, impossible thoughts, thoughts that come +when dreams end and one is face to face with reality. So many years he +had known her, she had been part and parcel of his life, his everyday +companion, yet it seemed to him that he had never known her till +now—the fineness, the goodness of her, the beauty of her too, the +womanliness of this child. + +“I came here to tell you, Johnny, because you let yourself doubt,” she +said. “I heard you moving about the room restlessly, and that is not +like you. Usually you sit here and smoke your pipe and think or read +your paper. You never rise and move about the room as to-night.” + +“How do you know?” + +She laughed shortly. “I know—everything,” she said. “I listen to you +night after night. I always have for years. I have heard you come up +and go to your room, always. I always wait for that!” + +“Gipsy, why—why should you?” + +“Because,” she said—“because—” And then she said no more, and would +have turned away, her errand done, but that he hastened to her and +caught her by the hand. + +“Gipsy, wait. Don’t go. Why did you come to tell me this of Joan +to-night?” + +“Because since you have asked her to be your wife, you belong to her, +and you should not doubt her. She is above doubt—she could not be as +some women, underhand and treacherous, deceitful. That would not be +Joan Meredyth.” + +“And yet you do not like her, dear. Why not?” + +“I can’t—tell you.” She tried to wrench her hand free, yet he held it +strongly, and looked down into her eyes. + +What did he see there? What tale did they in their honesty tell him, +that hers lips must never utter? Was he less blind at this moment than +ever before in his life? Johnny Everard never rightly understood. + +“Good night,” he said, “Gipsy, good night,” and would have drawn her to +him to kiss her—as usual, but she resisted. + +“Please, please don’t!” she said, and looked at him. + +Her lips were quivering, there was a glorious flush in her cheeks; and +in her eyes, a kind of fear. So he let her go, and opened the door for +her and stood listening to the soft swish of her draperies as she sped +up the dark stairs. + +Then very slowly Johnny Everard came back to his chair. He picked up +his pipe and stared at it, yet did not see it. He saw a pair of eyes +that seemed to burn into his, eyes that had betrayed to him at last the +secret of her heart. + +“I didn’t know—I didn’t know,” Johnny Everard said brokenly. “I didn’t +know, and oh, my God! I am not worthy of that! I am not worthy of +that!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX +“THE PAYING” + + +Once again Mr. Philip Slotman was tainting the fragrant sweetness and +freshness of the night with the aroma of a large and expensive J.S. +Muria. + +Once again the big shabby old car stood waiting in the shadows, a +quarter of a mile down the road, while he who hired it leaned against +the gate under the shadow of the partly ruined barn. + +He had not the smallest doubt but that she would come. It was full +early yet; but she would come, though, being a woman, she would in all +probability be late. + +And she would pay, she dared not refuse him. Yet he needed more than +the money, he thought, as he leaned at his ease against the gate and +smoked his cigar. + +And now she was coming. He flung the half-smoked cigar away and waited +as the dark figure approached him in the night. + +“You are early to-night, Joan.” He endeavoured to put softness and +tenderness into his voice. + +“I am here at the time I appointed.” + +“To give me my answer—yes, but we won’t discuss that now. I want to +speak to you about something else.” + +“Something other than money?” + +“Yes, do you think I always put money first?” + +“I had thought so, Mr. Slotman.” + +“You do me a wrong—a great wrong. There is something that I put far +ahead of money, of gold. It is you—Joan, listen! you must listen!” He +had gripped her arm and held tightly, and as before she did not +struggle nor try to win free of him. + +“You shall listen to me. I have told you before many times that I love +you.” + +He tried to drag her closer to him. And now she wrenched herself free. + +“I came to discuss money with you, not—not impossibilities.” + +“So—so that is it, is it? I am impossible, am I?” + +“To me—utterly. I have only one feeling for you, the deepest scorn. I +don’t hate you, because you are too mean, too paltry, too low a thing +to hate. I have only contempt for you.” + +He writhed under the cold and cutting scorn of her words and her voice, +the evil temper in him worked uppermost. + +“So—so that’s the talk, is it?” he cried with a foul oath. “That’s it, +is it? You—you two-penny ha’penny—” He choked foolishly over his words. + +“You!” he gasped, “what are you? What have you been? What about you +and—” + +Again he was silent, writhing with rage. + +“Money—yes, it is money-talk, then, and by thunder I’ll make you pay! +I’ll bleed you white, you cursed—” Again more foolish oaths, the clumsy +cursing of a man in the grip of passion. + +“You shall pay! It’s money-talk, yes—you shall pay! We will talk in +thousands, my girl. I said five thousand. It isn’t enough—what is your +good name worth, eh? What is it worth to you? I could paint you a nice +colour, couldn’t I? What will this fellow Everard say when I tell him +what I can tell him? How the village fools will talk it over in their +alehouse, eh? And in the cottages, how they will stare at Miss Meredyth +of Starden when she takes her walks abroad. They’ll wink at one +another, won’t they. They’ll remember! Trust ’em, they’ll never +forget!” + +She felt sickened, faint, and horrified, yet she gave no sign. + +“Money you said!” he shouted, “and money it shall be! Ten thousand +pounds, or I’ll give you away, so that every man and woman in Starden +will count ’emselves your betters! I’ll give you away to the poor fool +you think you are going to marry! There won’t be any wedding. I’ll +swear a man couldn’t marry a thing—with such a name as I shall give +you! Money, yes! you’ll pay! I want ten thousand pounds! Not five, +remember, but ten, and perhaps more to follow. And if you don’t pay, +there won’t be many who will not have heard about your imaginary +marriage to that dog, Hugh Alston.” + +The girl drew a deep shuddering sigh. She pressed her hands over her +breast. From the shadows about the old barn a deeper shadow moved, +something vaulted the gate lightly and came down with a thud on the +ground beside Mr. Philip Slotman. + +“Joan,” said a voice, “you will go away and leave this man to me. I +will attend to the paying of him.” + +Slotman turned, his rage gone, a cold sweat of fear bursting out on his +forehead; his loose jaw sagged. + +“A—a trap,” he gasped. + +“To catch a rat! And the rat is caught! Joan, go. I will follow +presently.” + +No word passed between the two men as they watched the girl’s figure +down the road. She walked slowly; once she seemed to hesitate as though +about to turn back. And it was in her mind to turn back, to plead for +mercy for this man, this creature. Yet she did not. She flung her head +up. No, she would not ask for mercy for him: Hugh Alston was just. + +So in silence they watched her till the darkness had swallowed her. + +“So you refused to accept my warning, Slotman?” + +“I—I refuse to have anything to do with you. It is no business of +yours, kindly allow me—” + +Slotman would have gone. Hugh thrust out a strong arm and barred his +way. + +“Wait!” he said, “blackmailer!” + +“I—I was asking for a loan.” + +“A gift of money with threats—lying, infamous threats. How shall I deal +with you?” Hugh frowned as in thought. “How can a man deal with a dog +like you? Dog—may all dogs forgive me the libel! Shall I thrash you? +Shall I tear the clothes from your body, and thrash you and fling you, +bleeding and tattered, into that field? Shall I hand you over to the +Police?” + +“You—you dare not,” Slotman said; his teeth were chattering. “It will +mean her name being dragged in the mud, the whole thing coming out. +You—you dare not do it.” + +“You are right. I dare not, for the sake of her name—the name of such a +woman must never be uttered in connection with such a thing as +yourself. How, then, shall I deal with you? It must be the thrashing, +yet it is not enough. It is a pity the duel has gone out, not that you +would have fought me with a sword or pistol, Slotman, still—Yes, it +must be the thrashing.” + +“If you touch me—” + +Hugh laughed sharply. “If I touch you, what?” + +“I shall call for help. I shall summon you. I—” + +“Put your hands up.” + +“Help! help! help!” + +Down the road the tired chauffeur slumbered peacefully on the seat of +the shabby car. He heard nothing, save some distant unintelligible +sounds and the cooing of a wood-pigeon in an adjacent thicket. + +And then presently there came down the road a flying figure, the figure +of a man who sobbed as he ran, a man from whom the clothes hung in +ribbons, a man with wild staring eyes, and panting, labouring chest. He +stumbled as he ran, and picked himself up again, to fall again. So, +running, stumbling, falling, he came at last to the car and shrieked at +the driver to awaken. + + + + +CHAPTER XL +“IS IT THE END?” + + +Lady Linden, wearing a lilac printed cotton sunbonnet, her skirts +pinned up about her, was busy with a trowel, disordering certain +flower-beds that presently the gardeners would come and put right. + +“Idle women,” said her ladyship, “are my abomination. How a woman can +moon about and do nothing is more than I can understand. Look at me, am +I not always busy? From early morning to dewy eve I—Curtis!” + +“Yes, my lady?” + +“Come here at once,” said her ladyship. “I have dug up a worm. I +dislike worms. Carry the creature away; don’t hurt it, Curtis. I +dislike cruelty even to worms. Ugh! How you can touch the thing!” + +Curtis, under-gardener, trudged away with a large healthy worm dangling +from thumb and forefinger, a sheepish grin on his face. + +“Those creatures have none of the finer feelings,” thought her +ladyship. “Yet we are all brothers and sisters according to the Bible. +I don’t agree with that at all. Curtis, come back; there is another +worm.” + +Marjorie stood at the window, watching her aunt’s operations, yet +seeing none of them. Her face was set and white and resolute, the soft +round chin seemed to be jutting out more obstinately than usual. + +For Marjorie had made up her mind definitely, and she knew that she was +about to hurt herself and to hurt someone else. + +But it must be. It was only fair, it was only just. Silence, she +believed, would be wicked. + +The door behind her opened, and Tom Arundel came into the room. He was +fresh from the stable, and smelled of straw. + +“Why, darling, is there anything up? I got your note asking me to come +here at once. Joe gave it to me just as we were going to take out the +brute Lady Linden has bought. Of all the vicious beasts! I wish to +goodness she wouldn’t buy a horse without a proper opinion, but it is +useless talking to her. She said she liked the white star on its +forehead—white star! black devil, I call it! But I’ll break him in if I +break my neck—doing it. But—I am sorry. You want me?” + +“I want to speak to you.” + +“Then you might turn and look at a chap, Marjorie.” + +“I—I prefer to—to look out through the window,” she said in a stifled +voice. + +Standing in the room he beheld her, slim and graceful, dark against the +light patch of the window, her back obstinately turned to him; looking +at her, there came a great and deep tenderness into his face, the light +of a very honest and intense love. + +“Tell me, sweetheart, then,” he said—“tell me in your own way, what is +it? Nothing very serious, is it?” There was a suggestion of laughter in +his voice. + +“It is very serious, Tom.” + +“Yes?” + +“It—it concerns you—me and you—our future.” + +“Yes, dear, then it is serious.” The laughter was gone; there came a +look of fear, of anxiety into his eyes. + +It could not be that she was going to discard him, turn him down, end +it all now? But she was. + +“Tom, it is only right and honest of me to tell you that—that”—her +voice shook—“that I have made a mistake.” + +“That you do not love me?” he said, and his voice was strangely quiet. + +“Oh, Tom, I believed I did. It all seemed so different when we used to +meet, knowing that everyone was against us. It seemed so romantic, +so—so nice, and now ...” Her voice trailed off miserably. + +“And now, now, sweet,” and his voice was filled with tenderness and +yearning, “now I fall far short of what you hoped for.” + +“Oh, it isn’t that. It is I—I—who am to blame, not you. I was a +senseless, romantic little fool, a child, and now I am a woman.” + +“You don’t love me, Marjorie?” + +Silence for a moment, then she answered in a low voice: “No!” + +“Nor ever will, your love can’t come back again?” + +“I don’t think it—it was ever there. I was wrong; I did not understand. +I was foolish and weak. I thought it fine to—to steal away and meet +you. I think I put a halo of romance about your head, and now—” + +“A halo of romance about my head,” he repeated. He looked down at his +hands, grimed with the work he had been at; he smiled, but there was no +mirth in his smile. + +This was the end then! And he loved her, Heaven knew how he loved her! +He looked at the unyielding little figure against the light, and in his +eyes was a great longing and a subdued passion. + +“So it—it is the end, Marjorie?” + +“I want it to be.” + +“Yes, I understand. I knew that I was not good enough, never good +enough for you—far, far beneath you, dear. Only I would have tried to +make you happy—that is what I meant, you understand that? I would have +given my life to making you happy, little girl. Perhaps I was a fool to +think I could. I know now that I could not.” + +“Tom, I am sorry,” she said. “I am sorry.” + +He came to her, he put his hand on her arm. + +“Don’t blame yourself, dear,” he said, “don’t blame yourself. You can’t +help your heart; you—you only thought you cared for me for a time, but +it was just a fancy, and it—it passed, didn’t it? And now it is gone, +and can never come back again. Of course it must end. Your +wishes—always—mean everything to me.” He bent, he touched the white +hand with his lips, and then turned away. Once at the door he looked +back; but she did not move, the tears were streaming down her cheeks, +and she did not want him to see them. + +How well he had taken it! How well, and yet he loved her! She realised +now how much he loved her, how fine he was, and generous, even Hugh +could not have been more generous than he. + +And Marjorie stood there like one in a dream, watching, yet seeing +nothing, going over in her mind all that had passed, suffering the pain +of it. And she had loved him once! Those mystic moonlight meetings, his +young arms about her, his lips against hers—oh, she had loved him! And +then had come the commonplace, the everyday, sordid side of it, he the +accepted lover, high in Lady Linden’s favour, which meant the gradual +awakening from a dream, her dream of love. + +“I am fickle, I am false. I do not know my own mind, and—and I have +hurt him. I am not worthy of hurting him. He is better, finer than I +ever thought.” + +Still Lady Linden prodded and trowelled at the neat bed, still she +demanded occasional help from the patient Curtis; and now came a man, +breathless and coatless, rushing across the lawn. He had news for her, +something that must be told; gone was his accustomed terror of her +ladyship. He told her what he had to say, and she dropped the trowel +and ran—actually ran as Marjorie had never seen her run. + +She could have laughed, but for the pain at her heart. He had taken it +so well; he had risen to a height she had not suspected him capable of, +and the fault was hers, hers. + +What was that? What were they carrying? God help her! What was that +they were carrying across the lawn? Why did they walk so quietly, so +carefully? Why ask? + +She knew! Instinct told her. She knew! She flung out her hands and +gripped at the window-frame and watched. She saw her aunt, her usually +ruddy face drawn, haggard, and white. She saw something that lay +motionless on a part of the old barn-door, which four men were carrying +with such care. She saw a man on a bicycle dashing off down the drive. + +Why ask? She knew! And only just now, a few short minutes ago—no, no, a +lifetime ago—she had told him she did not love him. + +“An accident, Marjorie.” Lady Linden’s voice was harsh, unlike her +usual round tones. “An accident—that brute of a horse—girl, don’t, +don’t faint.” + +“I am not going to. I want to help—him.” + +They had brought Tom Arundel into the house, had laid him on a bed in +an upper room. The village doctor had come, and, finding something here +beyond his skill, had sent off, with Lady Linden’s full approval, an +urgent message to a surgeon of repute, and now they were +waiting—waiting the issues of life and death. + +The servants looked at the white-faced, distraught girl pityingly. They +remembered that she was to have been the dying man’s wife. The whole +thing had been so sudden, was so shocking and tragic. No wonder that +she looked like death herself; they could not guess at the +self-reproach, the self-denunciation, nor could Lady Linden. + +“No one,” said her ladyship, “is to blame but me. It was my doing, my +own pig-headed folly. The boy told me that the horse was a brute, and +I—I said that he—if he hadn’t the pluck to try and break him in—I would +find someone who would. I am his murderess!” her ladyship cried +tragically. “Yes, Marjorie, look at me—look at the murderess of the man +you love!” + +“Aunt!” + +“It is true. Revile me! I alone am guilty. I’ve robbed you of your +lover.” Lady Linden was nearer to hysterics at this moment than ever in +her life. + +“How long? how long?” she demanded impatiently. “How long will it be +before that fool comes?” + +The fool was the celebrated surgeon wired for to London. He had wired +back that he was on his way; no man could do more. + +But the waiting, the horrible waiting; the ceaseless watching and +listening for the sound of wheels, the strange hush that had fallen +upon the house, the knowledge that there in an upper chamber death was +waiting, waiting to take a young life. + +Hours, every minute of which had seemed like hours themselves, hours +had passed. Lady Linden sat with her hands clenched and her eyes fixed +on nothingness. She blamed herself with all her honest hearty nature; +she blamed herself even more unsparingly than in the past she had +blamed others for their trifling faults. + +Her self-recriminations had got on Marjorie’s nerves. She could not +bear to sit here and listen to her aunt when all the time she knew that +it was she—she alone who was to blame. She had told him that she did +not love him, that all his hopes must end, that the future they had +planned between them should never be, and so had sent him to his death. + +She waited outside in the big hall, her eyes on the stairs, her ears +tensioned to every sound from above, and at every sound she started. + +Voices at last, low and muffled, voices pitched in a low key, men +talking as in deep confidence. She heard and she watched. She saw the +two men, the doctor and the surgeon, descending the stairs; she rose +and went to meet them, yet said never a word. + +She watched their faces; she saw that they looked grave. She saw that +the face of the great man was worn and tired. She looked in vain for +something that would whisper the word “Hope” to her. + +“Miss Linden is engaged to Mr. Arundel,” the local doctor said. + +The great man held out his hand to her. He knew so well, how many +thousands of times had he seen, that same look of questioning, pitiful +in its dumbness. + +He held her hand closely, “There is hope. That is all I care say to +you—just a hope, and that is all.” + +It was all that he dared to say, the utmost to which he could go. He +knew that false hopes, raised only to be crushed, were cruelty. And he +had never done that, never would. “There is yet one ray of hope. He may +live; I can say no more than that, Miss Linden.” + +And, little though it was, it was almost more than she had dared to +hope for. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI +MR. RUNDLE TAKES A HAND + + +Battered and sorely bruised, Philip Slotman lay on his bed in the +Feathers Inn in Little Langbourne, and cursed his luck. Every time he +moved he swore to himself. + +He was hurt in mind, body, and estate; he was consumed by a great rage +and a sense of injury. He had suffered, and someone should pay—Joan +mainly, after Joan, Hugh Alston. But it would be safer to make Joan +pay. Not in money. Alston had insisted on it that he had nothing to +expect in the way of cash from Miss Meredyth. + +Slotman lay writhing, and cursing and planning vengeance. There were +few things that he would not have liked to do to Hugh Alston, but +finally he decided he could better hurt Hugh Alston through Joan, so +thereafter he devoted his thoughts to Joan. + +The church bells of Little Langbourne Church were ringing pleasantly +when Philip Slotman, with many a grunt and inward groan, rose from his +couch. + +Except for a slight discoloration about the left eye and a certain +stiffness of gait, there was nothing about Philip Slotman when he came +down to the coffee-room for his breakfast to suggest that he had seen +so much trouble the previous evening. But there were some who had seen +Slotman come in, and among them was the waiter. He put his hand over +his mouth, and smirked now at the sight of Slotman, and Slotman noticed +it. + +The bells rang no message of peace and good-will to Mr. Slotman this +morning. + +Yes, Joan would be the one. He would make her pay; he would hurt Alston +through her, and hit her hard at the same time. He would stay here at +Little Langbourne. + +“Buddesby, sir?” said the waiter. “Yes, sir. Mister John Everard’s +place about a quarter of a mile beyond the village. Very interesting +old ’ouse, sir, one of the best farms hereabouts. Mr. Everard’s a +well-to-do gentleman, sir, old family, not—” + +“Oh, go away!” + +The waiter withdrew. “Anyhow,” he thought, “he got it all right last +night, and serve him right. Law! what a mess ’e were in when he came +in.” + +A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Slotman nodded. He would go. He +remembered that Alston had said something last night about this man +Everard, had suggested all sorts of things might happen to him, +Slotman, if he communicated in any way with Everard. + +“Anyhow I shall tell him, and unless he is a born fool he will soon get +quit of her. By thunder! I’ll make her name reek, as I told her I +would. I’ll set this place and Starden and half the infernal country +talking about her! If she shews her face anywhere, she’ll get stared +at. I’ll let her and that beast Alston see what it means to get on the +wrong side of a chap like me.” + +A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Thank Heaven it was no further. + +The church bells had ceased ringing, from the church itself came the +pleasant sounds of voices. The village street lay white in the sunlight +with the blue shadows of the houses, a world of peace and of beauty, of +sweet scenes and of sweet sounds; and now he had left the village +behind him. + +“Is this Buddesby, my man? Those gates, are they the gates of +Buddesby?” + +“Aye, they be,” said the man. He was a big, gipsy-looking fellow, who +slouched with hunched shoulders and a yellow mongrel dog at his heels. + +“The gates of Buddesby they be, and—” He paused; he stared hard into +Slotman’s face. + +“Oh!” he said slowly, “oh, so ’tis ’ee, be it? I been watching out for +’ee.” + +“What—what do you mean?” + +“I remember ’ee, I do. I remember your grinning face. I’ve carried it +in my memory all right. See that dawg?” The man pointed to the lurcher. +“See him: he’s more’n a brother, more’n a son, more’n a wife to me. +That’s the dawg you run over that day, and you grinned. I seen it—you +grinned!” The man’s black eyes sparkled. He looked swiftly up the road +and down it, and Slotman saw the action and quivered. + +“I’ll give you—” he began. “I am very sorry; it was an accident. I’ll +pay you for—” + +But the man with the blazing eyes had leaped at him. + +“I been waiting for ’ee, and I’ve cotched ’ee at last!” he shouted. + + +Johnny Everard, hands in pockets, mooning about his stock and rickyard, +this calm Sunday morning, never guessed how near he had been to +receiving a visitor. + +He had not seen Joan since that night when, with Ellice beside him, he +had seen her and the man at the door of Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. + +He had meant to go, but had not gone. He was due there to-day; this +very morning Helen would expect him. He had never missed spending a +Sunday with them since the engagement; and yet he felt loath to go, and +did not know why. + +He had seen Connie off to Church. Con never missed. Ellice had not +gone. Ellice was perhaps a little less constant than Con. He wondered +where the girl was now, and, thinking of her, the frown on his face was +smoothed away. + +Always there was wonder, a sense of unreality in his mind; a feeling +that somehow, in some way, he was wrong. He must be wrong. Strangely +enough, these last few days he had thought more constantly of Ellice +than of Joan. He had pictured her again and again to himself—a little, +white-clad, barefooted figure standing against the dusky background of +the hallway, framed by the open door. He remembered the colour in her +cheeks, and her brave championship of the other woman; but he +remembered most of all the look in her eyes when she had said to him, +“Please, please don’t!” + +“I shall never kiss her again,” he said, and said it to himself, and +knew as he said it that he was denying himself the thing for which now +he longed. + +He had kissed Joan’s cold cheek, he had kissed her hand, but her lips +had not been for him. He had wondered once if they ever would be, and +he had cared a great deal; now he ceased to wonder. + +“I shall never kiss Gipsy again,” he thought, and, turning, saw her. + +“So you—you didn’t go to Church, Gipsy?” + +“I thought you had gone to Starden.” + +They stood and looked at one another. + +“No. I don’t think I shall go to Starden to-day.” + +“But they expect you.” + +“I—I don’t think I shall go to-day, Gipsy. Shall we go for a walk +across the fields?” + +“You ought to go to Starden,” she said. “She—she will expect you.” + +But a spirit of reckless defiance had come to him. + +“She won’t miss me if I don’t go.” + +“No, she won’t miss you,” the girl said softly, and her voice shook. + +“So—so come with me, Gipsy girl.” + +“If you wish it.” + +“You know I do.” + +Yet when they went together across the fields, when they came to the +edge of the hop-garden and saw the neatly trailing vines, which this +year looked better and more promising than he could ever remember +before, they had nothing to say to one another, not a word. Once he +took her hand and held it for a moment, then let it go again; and at +the touch of her he thrilled, little dreaming how her heart responded. + +He scarcely looked at her. If he had, he might have seen a glow in her +cheeks, a brightness in her eyes, the brightness born of a new and +wonderful hope. + +“After all, after all,” the girl was thinking. “I believe he cares for +me a little—not so much as he loves her, but a little, a little, and I +love him.” + +Connie smiled on them as they came in together. It was as she liked to +see them. She noticed the deep colouring in the girl’s cheeks, the new +brightness in her eyes, and Connie, who always acted on generous +impulses, kissed her. + +“What’s that for?” Johnny cried. “Haven’t you one for me too, Con?” + +“Always, always,” she said. She put her arms about his neck and hugged +him. + +It seemed as if the clouds that had so long overcast this little house +had drifted away this calm Sabbath day, and the sun was shining down +gloriously on them. + +For some time Connie had been quietly watching the girl. There came +back into her memory a promise given long ago. “I will do nothing, +nothing, Con, unless I tell you first.” + +She knew Ellice for the soul of honour; she had felt safe, and now she +was waiting. + +“Well, Ellice, have you anything to say to me?” Johnny was gone after +dinner to his tiny study to wrestle with letters and figures that he +abhorred. + +“Yes,” Ellice said. + +“I thought you had—well?” + +“I am going to Starden,” the girl said. “I am going to Starden this +afternoon, Con.” + +“What for?” + +“To see—her?” + +“Why—why, darling, why?” + +“To ask her if she can be generous—and oh, I believe she can—to ask her +why she is taking him away from me when I love him so, and when—oh, +Con—Con, when I believe that he cares a little for me.” + +Con held out her arms, she caught the girl tightly. + +“My love and my prayers and my wishes will go with you, darling.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLII +“WALLS WE CANNOT BATTER DOWN” + + +“Why?” Helen asked. “Why isn’t Johnny here to-day, Joan?” + +“I do not know,” Joan said. She had scarcely given a thought to Johnny +Everard that morning. All her thoughts had been of two men, the men she +had left in the darkness by the roadside. She blamed herself bitterly +now that she had left them; she trembled to think what might have +happened. + +“Helen, if Johnny Everard does come, I wish to speak to him. I have a +good deal to say to him. I want to be alone with him for some time.” + +“Of course, darling.” But there was anxious enquiry in Helen’s face. + +Surely, surely there had been no quarrel between them? Johnny was not +one to quarrel with anyone, yet it was strange that he had not been +here for so many days, and that this being Sunday still he was not +here. + +“When he comes,” Joan was thinking, “I shall tell him—everything.” She +knew she would hate it; she knew that she would feel that in some way +she was lowering herself. It would be a horrible confession for one +with her stubborn pride to have to make. Not of guilt and wrongdoing, +but that such should be ascribed to her. + +Helen was watching from the window, her mind filled with worries and +doubts. + +A man had turned in by the gates, was walking slowly up the winding +drive. + +It was Johnny, of course. Helen saw it all. The car had gone wrong, but +Johnny, not to miss this Sunday, had walked. + +“Joan, Johnny is coming,” she called out. “He is walking. He—” She +paused; it was not Johnny. She was silent; she stared for a moment. The +man looked familiar, then she knew who it was. + +“Joan, it is Mr. Alston,” she said quietly. “What does he want here?” +And Helen’s voice was filled with suspicion. + +“Thank Heaven,” Joan thought, “thank Heaven that he is here.” + +For the first time Hugh Alston knocked for admission on the Starden +door. A score of times he had asked himself, “Shall I go?” And he could +find no answer. He had come at last. + +“What can he want? I did not know he was here in Starden. I didn’t even +know that he knew where Joan was. I don’t understand this business at +all,” Helen was thinking. + +A servant shewed him in. Joan shook hands with him. Helen did so, under +an air of graciousness which hid a cold hostility. What was this man +doing here? If he was nothing to Joan, and Joan was nothing to him, why +did he come? And how could he be anything to Joan when she was to marry +Johnny? + +So this was her home! A fit setting for her loveliness, and yet he knew +of a fitter, of another home where she could shine to even greater +advantage. They talked of commonplace things, hiding their feelings +behind words, waiting, Joan and Hugh, till Helen should leave them. But +Helen lingered with less than her usual tact, lingered with a mind +filled with vague suspicions, wondering why Johnny had not come. + +Sitting near the window she could see the drive, and presently a young +girl on an old bicycle coming up it. Helen stared. + +“Why, here is Ellice Brand,” she said, and fears took possession of +her. There was something wrong! Johnny was ill, or had met with an +accident. Ellice had ridden over to tell them. + +“I’ll go and see her, Joan,” she said, and so at last was gone. + +Hugh closed the door after her. + +“You’ve been anxious?” he said briefly. + +“Naturally!” + +“There was no need. I had to give him what I had promised him, one must +always keep one’s word. It was rather a brutal business, Joan, but I +had to go through with it. I’d sooner not tell you anything more. I am +not proud of it.” + +“I—I understand, and you can understand that I was anxious.” + +“For him?” + +“For—for you.” + +“For me?” He took two long strides to her. “Joan, are you going to let +your pride rear impassable walls between us for ever? Can’t you be +fair, generous, natural, true to yourself? Can’t you see how great, how +overwhelming my love for you is?” + +“There is—is something more than pride between us, Hugh.” + +“There is nothing—nothing that cannot be broken; that cannot be forced +and broken down,” he said eagerly. “You are to marry a man you do not +love. Why should you? Would it be fair to yourself? Would it be fair to +me? Would it be fair to your future? Think while there is time.” + +“I cannot,” she said. “I have given him my promise—and I shall stand by +it.” She drew her hands away. “It is useless, Hugh. Useless now—if I +did rear walls of pride between you and myself. I confess it now, I +did; but they are so strong that we may not break them down.” + +“They shall be broken down!” he said. “Answer me this—this question +truthfully, and from your soul. Look into my eyes, and answer me in one +word, yes or no?” He held her hands again; he held her so that she must +face him, and so holding her, looking into her eyes, he asked her: “Do +you love me? Have you given to me some of your heart, knowing that I +have given all of mine to you, knowing that I love you so, and need you +and long for you? Do you love me a little in return, Joan?” + +She was silent; her eyes met his bravely enough, yet it seemed as if +she had no control upon her lips, the word would not come. Once before +she had lied to him, and knew that she could not lie again, not with +his eyes looking deep into hers, probing the very secrets of her soul. + +“Joan, do you love me? My Joan, do you love me?” And then the answer +came at last—“Yes.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII +“NOT TILL THEN WILL I GIVE UP HOPE” + + +“There is nothing wrong, nothing the matter with Johnny or Connie?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Then why—why did not Johnny come?” + +“He is busy.” + +“But you—” + +“I came to see Joan Meredyth,” said Ellice quietly. She and Helen did +not like one another; they were both frank in their dislike. Helen +looked down on Ellice as a person of no importance, who was entirely +unwanted, a mere nuisance, someone for ever in the way. + +Ellice looked on Helen as the promoter of this engagement and marriage, +as the woman who was responsible for everything. She did not like her. +She resented her; but for Helen, there would never have been any break +in the old happy life at Buddesby. + +“So you wish to see Joan, why?” + +“Privately.” + +“My dear child, surely—” + +“I am not a child, and I wish to see Joan Meredyth privately, and +surely I have the right, Mrs. Everard?” + +Helen frowned. “Well, at any rate you cannot see her now. She is +engaged, a friend is with her.” + +“I can wait.” + +“Very well,” Helen said. “If you insist. Does Johnny know that you are +here?” she asked with sudden suspicion. + +“No; Connie knows. I told her, and I am willing to wait.” + +Helen looked at her. Helen was honest. “I thought the child pretty,” +she reflected, “and I was wrong; she is beautiful. I don’t understand +it. In some extraordinary way she seems to have changed.” But her +manner towards Ellice was as unfriendly as before. + +“I do not in the least know how long Joan will be. You may have to wait +a considerable time.” + +“I shall not mind.” + +In the room these two stood, Joan had made her confession frankly, +truthfully. She had admitted her love for him, but of hope for the +future she had none. That she loved him now, in spite of all the past, +in spite of the troubles and shame he had brought on her, was something +that had happened in spite of herself, against her will, against her +desire; but because it was so, she admitted it frankly. + +“But my love for you, Hugh, matters nothing,” she said. “Because I love +you I shall suffer more—but I shall never break my word to the man I +have given it to.” + +“When you stand before the altar with that man’s ring on your finger, +when you have promised before God to be his wife, then and not till +then will I give up hope. And that will be never. It is your pride, +dear, your pride that ever fights against your happiness and mine; but +I shall beat it down and humble it, Joan, and win you in the end. Your +own true, sweet self.” + +“I don’t think I have any pride left,” she said. “I was prouder when I +was poor than I am now. My pride was then all I had; it kept me above +the sordid life about me. I cultivated it, I was glad of it, but since +then—Oh, Hugh, I am not proud any more, only very humble, and very +unhappy.” + +And because she was still promised to another man, he could not, as he +would, hold out his arms to her and take her to his breast and comfort +her. Instead, he took her hand and held it tightly for a time, then +lifted it to his lips and went, leaving her; yet went with a full hope +for the future in his heart, for he had wrung from her the confession +that she loved him. + +In the hall a girl, sitting there waiting patiently, looked at him with +great dark eyes, yet he never saw her. A servant let him out, and then +the servant came back to her. “Tell Miss Meredyth that I am here +waiting to see her,” Ellice said. + +And as the man went away she wondered what had brought Hugh Alston here +to-day, why he should be here so long with Joan when she could so +distinctly remember Joan’s lack of recognition of him in the village. +She could also remember the sight of them that night, their dark shapes +against the yellow glow of the lamplight in Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. + +How would she find Joan? she wondered. Softened, perhaps even confused, +some of her coldness shaken, some of her self-possession gone? But no, +Joan held out a hand in greeting to her. + +“I did not know that you were here, Miss Brand,” she said. “Have you +not seen Mrs. Everard?” + +“I have seen her,” Ellice said, “but I didn’t come here to-day to see +her. I came to see you.” + +“To see me?” Joan smiled—a conventional smile. “You will sit down, +won’t you? Is it anything that I can do? It is not, I hope, that Mr. +Everard is ill?” + +“And—and if he were,” the girl cried, “would you care?” + +Joan started, her face grew colder. + +“I do not understand.” + +“Yes, you—you do. Why are you marrying him? Why are you taking him from +me when—” + +“Taking him from—you?” Joan’s voice was like ice water on flames of +fire. Ellice was silent. + +“Miss Meredyth, I came here to-day to see you, to speak to you, to—to +open my heart to you.” Her lips trembled. “Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps +I have no right to be here to say what I am going to say. I told +Connie; she—she knows that I have come here, and she knows why.” + +“Yes; go on.” + +“If—if you loved him it would be different. I would not dare think of +saying anything then. I think I would be glad. I could, at any rate, be +reconciled to it, because it would be for his happiness. If you loved +him—but you don’t—you don’t! He is a man who could not live without +love. It is part of his life. He might think, might believe that he +would be content to take you because you are lovely and—and good and +clever, and all those things that I am not, even though you do not love +him, but the time would come when his heart would ache for the love you +withheld. Oh, Joan—Joan, forgive me—forgive me, but I must speak. I +think you would if you were in my place!” + +The cold bitterness was passing slowly from Joan’s face. There came a +tinge of colour into her cheeks; her eyes that watched the girl grew +softer and more tender. + +“Go on,” she said; “go on, tell me!” + +“I have nothing more to say.” + +“Yes, you have—you have much more. You have this to say—you love him +and want him, you wish to take him from me. Is that it, Ellice?” + +“If you loved him I would not have dared to come. I would have told +myself that I was content. But you don’t. I have watched you—yes, spied +on you—looking for some sign of tenderness that would prove to me that +you loved him; but it never came. And so I know that you are marrying +Johnny Everard with no love, accepting all the great love that he is +offering to you and giving him nothing in exchange. Oh, it is not +fair!” + +“It is not fair,” Joan said; “it is not fair, and yet I thought of +that. I told him just what you have told me, and still he seemed to be +content.” + +“Because he loves you so, and because he has hope in the future, +because in spite of everything he still hopes that he might win your +heart, and I know that he never can.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“Because I—I think you have already given your heart away.” + +And now Joan’s eyes flamed, the anger came back. “By what right do you +say that? How dared you say that?” + +“It is only what I believed. I believed that a woman so sweet, so +beautiful, so good as you, must love. You could not live your life +without love. If it has not come yet, then it will come some day, and +then if you are his—his wife, it will come too late. You are made for +love, Joan, just as he is. You could not live your life without it—you +would feel need for it. Oh yes, you think I am a child, a foolish, +romantic schoolgirl, a stupid little thing, talking, talking, but in +your heart you know that I am right.” + +“But if he—loves me,” Joan said softly, “if he loves me, little Ellice, +then how can I break my word to him?” + +“I do not ask you to break your word to him, only tell him, tell him +the truth again. Tell him what I have told you, tell him—if there is +someone else, if you have already met someone you care for—tell him +that too, so that he will know how impossible it must ever be that you +will give him the love he hoped to win. Tell him that, be frank and +truthful. Remember, it is for all your lives—all his life and all +yours. When he realises that your heart can never be his, do you think +he will not surfer more, will not his sufferings be longer drawn out +than if you told him so frankly now? If the break was to come now, to +come and be ended for ever—but to live together, to live a mock life, +to live beneath the same roof, to share one another’s lives, and yet +know one another’s souls to be miles and miles apart—oh, Joan, you +would suffer, and he too, he perhaps even more than you.” + +“And you love him?” Joan said softly. “You love him, Ellice?” + +“With all my heart and soul. I would die for him. It—it sounds foolish, +this sort of thing is foolish, the kind of words a silly girl would +say, yet it is the truth.” + +“I think it is,” Joan said. “But then, dear, if he loves me, he could +not love you?” + +“I think he might,” Ellice said softly. + +She was thinking of the morning, of the look she had seen in his eyes, +the awakening look of a man who sees things he has been blind to. + +“I think he might,” her heart echoed. “I think he might, in time, in a +little time.” And did not know, could not guess, that even at this +moment Johnny Everard, sitting alone in his little study with untended +papers strewn about him, was thinking of her—thinking of the look he +had seen in her eyes that very day, out in the sunshine of the fields. + +“So you came to me to tell me. It was brave of you?” + +“I had to come. I could not have come if you had been different from +what you are.” + +“Then, even though I am taking away the man you love from you, you do +not hate me?” + +“Hate you? Sometimes I think I wished I could—but I could not. If I had +hated you, if I had thought you cold and hard to all the world, I would +not be here. I have come to plead to you because you are generous and +honest, true and good. I could not have come otherwise.” + +“What must I do, little Ellice?” + +“Tell him the truth, if there is—” + +“There is—yet that could never come to anything.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because—ah, you can’t understand.” + +“Still, your heart is not your own; you could never give it to Johnny +Everard.” + +“And I must tell him so, and then—” + +“And then you will ask him if he would be content to live all his life +without love, knowing that he will never, never win your heart, because +it would be impossible.” + +“But I have given him my promise, Ellice.” + +“I know, I know; and you will not break it, because you could not break +a promise. But you will tell him this, and offer him his freedom; it +will be for him to decide.” + +Joan stood for many moments in silence, her hand still resting on the +girl’s shoulder. Then she drew Ellice to her; she thrust back the +shining hair, and kissed the girl’s forehead. “I think—yes, I think I +shall do all this, Ellice,” she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV +POISON + + +“Johnny! Johnny! Have you gone to sleep, dear? There is someone here to +see you.” + +“Eh?” Johnny started into wakefulness, he huddled his untidy papers +together. “I must have been dozing off. I was thinking. Con, is Gipsy +back yet?” + +“Not yet, and I am getting a little anxious about her; it is almost +dusk. But there is someone here asking for you.” + +“Who?” + +“A man, a—a—gentleman, I suppose. He looks as if he has been drinking, +though.” + +“A nice sort of visitor for a Sunday evening. What is his name, Con?” + +“Slotman.” + +“Don’t know it. I suppose I’d better see him. Wait, I’ll light the +lamp. If Ellice isn’t back soon I shall go and hunt for her. Do you +know which direction she went in?” + +“I—I think—” Connie hesitated; she was never any good at concealment. +“I think she went towards Starden.” + +“Then when we’ve got rid of this fellow I’ll get out the car and go and +find her. Show him in, Con.” + +Mr. Philip Slotman, looking shaken, bearing on his face several patches +of court plaster, which were visible, and in his breast a black fury +that was invisible, came in. + +“Mr. Slotman?” + +“Yes, you are Mr. Everard?” + +Johnny nodded pleasantly. “If it is business, Sunday evening is hardly +the time—” + +“It is personal and private business, Mr. Everard.” + +The man, Johnny decided, was not, as Con had supposed, drunk, but he +had evidently been in the wars. It was surprising the number of places +in which he seemed to be wounded. He walked stiffly, he carried his +right arm stiffly. His face was decorated with plaster, and his +obviously very good clothes were torn; for what Hugh Alston had +commenced so ably last night, Rundle had completed this morning. + +“It is private and personal, my business with you. I understand you are +engaged to be married to a lady in whom I have felt some interest.” + +Johnny looked up and stiffened. + +“Well?” + +“I allude to Miss Joan Meredyth, for some time engaged by me as a +typist in my city office.” + +“Well?” + +“Miss Meredyth did not always hold the position in society that she +does now.” + +“I am aware of that.” + +“There may be a great deal that you are not aware of,” said Slotman; +and Slotman was quivering with rage at the indignities he had been +subjected to. + +“You will forgive me,” said Johnny, “but I do not propose to discuss my +future wife with a stranger—with anyone at all, in fact, and certainly +not with a stranger.” + +“And you will forgive me,” said Slotman, “but when you have heard what +I have to say, I very much doubt if you will regard Miss Joan Meredyth +in the light of your future wife.” + +Johnny moved towards the door and opened it. + +“I think it will be better if you go,” he said quietly. + +“If you do, you will be sorry when it is too late. I come here as a +friend—” + +“You will go!” + +“In June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, when Joan Meredyth was a girl +at school—” + +“I have told you that I will not listen.” + +“She gave it out that she was leaving England for Australia. She never +went in reality, she— + +“Once more I order you to go before I—” + +“In reality she was living with Mr. Hugh Alston as his wife—” + +Philip Slotman laughed nervously. + +“Liar!” + +“I had to tell you in spite of yourself, and it is true. It is true. +Ask Lady Linden of Cornbridge; she knows. She believes to this day that +Joan Meredyth and Alston were married, and they never were. I have +searched the registers at Marlbury and—” + +“Will you go? You seem to have been hurt. You have probably carried +this lying story elsewhere and have received what you merited. I hardly +like to touch you now, but unless you go—” + +“I am going.” Slotman moved stiffly towards the door. “Ask Lady Linden +of Cornbridge. She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth is Hugh +Alston’s wife.” + +“By heavens! If you don’t go—” + +Slotman glanced at him; he saw that he was over-stepping the +danger-line. Yes, he must go, and quickly, so he went. But he had +planted the venom; he had left it behind him. He had forced this man to +hear, even though he would not listen. + +“First blow,” Slotman thought, “the first blow at her! And I ain’t done +yet! no, I ain’t done yet. I’ll make her writhe—” + +He paused. He had not carried out his intention in full, this man had +not given him time. Of course, if it was only Joan’s money that this +fellow Everard was after, the story would make little or no difference. +The marriage would go on all the same, if it was a matter of money, +but— + +Philip Slotman retraced his painful steps. Once again he tapped on the +door of Buddesby. + +“There was something that I wished to say to Mr. Everard that I +entirely forgot—a small matter,” he said to the servant. “Don’t +trouble, I know the way.” + +He pushed past the girl into the house. Johnny, staring before him into +vacancy, trying to realise this incredible, impossible thing that the +man had told him, started. He looked up. In the doorway stood Mr. +Slotman. + +“By Heaven!” said Johnny, and sprang up. “If you don’t go—” + +“Wait! You don’t think I should be such a fool as to come to you with a +lying story, a story that could not be substantiated? What I have told +you is the truth. You may not believe it, because you don’t want to. +You are marrying a young lady with ample possessions; that may weigh +with you. Now, rightly or wrongly, I hold that Miss Meredyth owes me a +certain sum of money. I want that money. It doesn’t matter to me +whether I get it from her or from you. If you like to pay her debt, I +will guarantee silence. I shall carry this true story no further if you +will undertake to pay me immediately following your marriage with her +the sum of ten thousand—” + +In spite of his stiffness and his sores, Mr. Slotman turned; he fled, +he ran blindly down the hall, undid the hall door, and let himself out, +and then without a glance behind, he fled across the wide garden till +he reached the road, panting and shaking. And now for the first time he +looked back, and as he did so a blinding white glare seemed to strike +his eyes; he staggered, and tried to spring aside. Then something +struck him, and the black world about him seemed to vomit tongues of +red and yellow flame. + +The occupants of the fast-travelling touring car felt the horrible jolt +the car gave. A woman shrieked. The chauffeur shouted an oath born of +fear and horror as he applied his brakes. He stood up, yet for a moment +scarcely dared to look back. The woman in the car was moaning with the +shock of it; and when he looked he saw something lying motionless, a +dark patch against the dim light on the road. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV +THE GUIDING HAND + + +Tom Arundel opened his eyes to the sunshine. He had left behind him a +world of darkness and of pain, a curiously jumbled unreal world, in +which it seemed to him that he had played the part of a thing that was +being dragged by unseen hands in a direction that he knew he must not +go, a direction against which he fought with all his strength. And yet, +in spite of all his efforts, he knew himself to be slipping, slowly but +surely slipping. + +Then out of the blackness and chaos grew something real and tangible, a +pair of small white hands, and on the finger of one of these hands was +a ring that he remembered well, for it was a ring that he himself had +placed on that finger, and the hands were held out to him, and he +clutched at them. + +Yet still the fight was not over, still the unseen force dragged and +tugged at him, yet he knew that he was winning, because of the little +white hands that yet possessed such wonderful strength. + +And now he lay, wide-eyed in the sunshine, and the blackness and chaos +were gone, but he could still see the hands, for one of them was +clasped in his own, and lifting his eyes he saw the face that he knew +must be there—a pale face, thinner than when he had seen it last, a +face that had lost some of its childish prettiness. Yet the eyes had +lost nothing, but had gained much. There was tenderness and pity and +joy too in them. + +“Marjorie,” he said, and the weakness of his own voice surprised him, +and he lay wondering if it were he who had spoken. “Thank you,” he +said. He was thanking her for the help those little hands had given +him, yet she was not to know that. So for a long time he lay, his +breath gentle and regular, the small hand clasped in his own. And now +he was away in dreams, not the black and terrifying dreams of just now, +but dreams of peace and of a happiness that might never be. And in +those dreams she whom he loved bent over him and kissed him on the +lips, and said something to him that set the thin blood leaping in his +veins. + +Tom Arundel opened his eyes again, and knew that it had been no dream. +Her lips were still on his; her face, rosy now, almost as of old, was +touching his. + +“Marjorie,” he whispered, “you told me—” + +“I told you what was not true, but I thought it was—oh, I believed it +was, dear. I believed it was the truth—but I knew afterwards it was +not.” + +“I—I got hurt, didn’t I? I can’t remember—I remember but dimly—a horse, +Marjorie. You don’t think—you don’t think I did that on purpose after +what you said?” + +“No, no!” she said. “I know better. Perhaps I did think it, but oh, +Tom, I was not worth it! I was not worth it!” + +“You are worth all the world to me,” he said, “all the world and more.” + +Lady Linden opened the door. She came in, treading softly; she came to +the bedside and looked at him and then at the girl. + +“You were talking. I heard your voice. Was he conscious?” + +“Yes.” + +“Thank God!” Lady Linden looked at the girl severely. “I suppose you +will be the next invalid—women of your type always overdo it. How many +nights is it since you had your clothes off?” + +“That does not matter now.” + +“By rights you should go to bed at once.” + +“Aunt, I shall not leave him.” + +Lady Linden sniffed. “Very well; I can do nothing with you.” + +“Defiant!” she thought to herself. “She is getting character, that +girl, after all, and about time. Well, it doesn’t matter, now that Tom +will live.” + +Lady Linden went downstairs. “Obstinate and defiant, new role—very +well, I am content. She is developing character, and that is a great +thing.” + +He was going to live. It was more than hope now, it was certainty, +after days, even weeks of anxiety, of watching and waiting; and this +bright morning Lady Linden felt and looked ten years younger as she +stepped out into the garden to bully her hirelings. + +Jordan, her ladyship’s coachman, was sunning himself at the stable +door. He took his pipe out hurriedly and hid it behind his back. + +“Jordan,” said Lady Linden, “you are an old man.” + +“Not so wonderful old, my lady.” + +“You have lived all your life with horses.” + +“With ’osses mainly, my lady.” + +“How long would it take you, Jordan, to learn to drive a motor car?” + +“Me?” He gasped at her in sheer astonishment. + +“Jordan, we are both old, but we must move with the times. Horses are +dangerous brutes. I have taken a dislike to them. I shall never sit +behind another unless it is in a hearse—and then I shan’t sit. Jordan, +you shall learn to drive a car.” + +“Shall I?” thought Jordan as her ladyship turned away. “We’ll see about +that.” + +Again Tom opened his eyes, and he saw that face above him, and even as +he looked the head was bent lower and lower till once again the red +lips touched his own. + +“Marjorie, is it only pity?” he whispered. + +But she shook her head. “It is love, all my love—I know now. It is all +ended. I know the truth. Oh, Tom, it—it was you all the time, and after +all it was only you!” + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI +“—SHE HAS GIVEN!” + + +Never so slowly as to-day had John Everard driven the six and a half +miles that divided Buddesby and Little Langbourne from Starden. Never +had his frank and open and cheerful face been so clouded and overcast. +Many worries, many doubts and fears and uncertainties, were at work in +John Everard’s mind. + +No doubts and uncertainties of anyone but of himself. It was +himself—his own feelings, his own belief in himself, his own belief in +his love that he was doubting. So he drove very slowly the six and a +half miles to Starden, because he had many questions to ask of himself, +questions to which answers did not come readily. + +“Gipsy is right, she always is,” he thought. “She is finer-minded, +better, more generous than I am. Her mind could not harbour one doubt +of anyone she loved, and I—” He frowned. + +Helen Everard, from an upper window, saw his arrival, and watching him +as he drove up the approach to the house, marked the frown on his brow, +the lack of his usual cheerfulness. + +“There is something wrong; there seems to be nothing, but something +wrong all the time,” she thought with a sigh. + +“If, after all the trouble I have taken, my plans should come to +nothing, I shall be bitterly disappointed. I blame Connie. Con’s +unworldliness is simply silly. Oh, these people!” + +“It is a long time since I saw you, Johnny—four or five days, isn’t +it?” Joan said. She held out her hand to him, and he took it. He seemed +to hesitate, and then drew a little closer and kissed her cheek. + +Something wrong. She too saw it, but it did not disturb her as it did +Helen. + +“Yes, four days—five—I forget,” he said, scarcely realising what an +admission was this from him, who awhile ago had counted every hour +jealously that had kept them apart. + +For a few minutes they talked of indifferent things, each knowing it +for a preliminary of something to follow. + +He had come to tell her something, Joan felt. + +“She has something to say to me,” Johnny knew. So for a few minutes +they fenced, and then it was he who broke away. + +He rose, and began to move about the room, as a man disturbed in his +mind usually does. She sat calm and expectant, watching him, a faint +smile on her lips, a kindness and a gentleness in her face that made it +inexpressibly sweet. + +“I think, Johnny, you have something to say to me.” + +“Something that I hate saying. Joan, last night a man—a man I have +never seen before—came to see me.” + +She stiffened. The faint smile was gone; her face had become as a mask, +hard and cold, icy. + +“Yes?” + +“A man who had something to tell me—you will do me the justice to +believe that I did not wish to hear him, that I tried to silence him, +but he would not be silenced. He told me lies! foul lies about you! +lies!” Johnny said passionately, “things which I, knowing you, know to +be untrue. Yet he told them. I drove him out of the place. Then he came +back. He had remembered what his errand was—blackmail. He came to me +for money. But—but he did not stay, and then—” Johnny paused. He had +reached the window, and stood staring out into the garden, yet seeing +nothing of its beauty. + +“You know,” he went on, “that I do not ask you nor expect you to +deny—there is no need. What he said I know to be untrue. The man was a +villain, one of the lowest, but he has been paid.” + +“Paid?” she said. She stared. + +“Not in money,” Johnny said shortly, “in another way.” + +“You—you struck him?” + +“No. I would have; but he saw the danger and fled from it—fled from the +punishment that I would have meted out to him to a harder that Fate had +in store for him.” + +“I don’t understand.” + +“Just outside my gate he was knocked down by a car and very badly +injured; it is hardly probable that he will live. The people who +knocked him down came hammering on my door. We got him to the Cottage +Hospital. In spite of everything I felt sorry for the poor wretch—but +that has nothing to do with it now. I came to tell you what happened.” + +“And yet do not ask me to explain?” + +“Of course not!” He swung round and faced her for a moment. “Do you +think I would put that indignity on you, Joan?” + +“You are very generous, Johnny—why?” + +She waited, listening expectantly for his answer. It was some time in +coming. + +“I am not generous. I simply know that for you to be other than +honourable and innocent, pure and good, would be an impossibility.” + +“Why do you know that?” + +“Because I know you.” + +She smiled. The answer she had almost dreaded to hear had not come. Yet +it should have been so simple, so ample an answer to her question. Had +he said, “Because I love you,” it would have been enough; but he had +said, “Because I know you”; and so she smiled. + +“Johnny, I have something to say to you. Do you remember the day when +you asked me to be your wife? I was frank and open to you then, was I +not?” + +“You always are.” + +“I told you that if you wished it I would agree, but that I did not +love you as a woman should love the man to whom she gives her life.” + +“I do not forget that.” + +“Perhaps in your heart you harboured a hope that one day the love that +I denied you then might come?” + +“I think I did.” + +“You were giving so much and asking for so little in return. That was +not fair, and it would not be fair for me to allow you to harbour a +hope that can never come true.” + +He turned slowly and looked at her. + +“A woman cannot love—twice,” she said slowly. + +Johnny Everard flushed, then paled. + +“Why do you say that?” + +“Because it is true.” She paused; the red dyed her cheeks. “What you +were told last night were lies—poor lies. You do not ask me to deny +them, dear, and so I won’t. Yet, behind those lies, there was a little +truth. There is a man, and I cared for him—care for him now and always +shall care for him. He has been nothing to me, and never will be; but +because he lived, because he and I have met, the hope that you had in +your heart that day, can come to nothing. And now—now I have something +more to tell you. It is this. You, who can love so finely, must ask for +and have love in return. You think you love me, yet because I do not +respond you will tire in time of that love. You will realise how bad a +bargain you have made, and then you will regret it. Is there not +someone”—her voice had grown low and soft—“someone who can and does +give you all the love your heart craves for, someone who will be +grateful to you for your love, and who will repay a thousandfold? Would +not that be better than a long hopeless fight against lovelessness, +even—even if you loved her a little less than you believe you love—me? +Remember that it would rest with you and not with another, you who are +generous, who could not refuse to give when so much is given to you.” +Joan’s voice faltered for a moment. “It would be your own heart on +which you would have to make the call, Johnny, not on the heart of +another. You would have more command over your own heart than you ever +could over the heart of another.” + +“Joan, what do you mean? What does this mean?” + +“I am trying so hard to be plain,” she said almost pitifully. + +“Who is this other you are talking about, this other—who loves me?” + +She was silent. + +“What do you know of her, Joan, this other?” + +And still she was silent, for how could she betray Ellice’s secret? + +“Tell me,” he said. + +“Don’t you know? Can’t you guess?” + +His face flushed. A week ago he might have answered, “I cannot guess!” +To-day he knew the answer, yet how did Joan know? + +“I gave you my promise,” she said, “and I will abide by that promise. +It is for you to decide, and no one else. My life, your own and—and the +life of another is in your hands—three futures, Johnny, decide—” + +“You want to—to give me up?” + +“Is that generous?” + +“No, it isn’t,” he admitted. He took a turn up and down the room. “And +you say this other—this girl—cares for me?” + +“I know she does?” + +“Did she tell you?” + +“Must I answer?” + +“Why not?” + +“Why not?” Joan repeated. “Yes, she did. She came to me, openly and +frankly, straightforward child that she is, and she said to me, ‘Why +are you marrying him, not loving him? If you loved him, and he loved +you, I would not come to you; but you do not love him, and it is not +fair. You are taking all and giving nothing!’ And, she was right!” + +“And she—she—” he said in a low voice, “would give—” + +“Has given.” + +A silence fell between them. Then he turned to her, and it seemed as if +the cloud had lifted from him. He held out his hands and smiled at her. + +“I understand. You and she are right. A starved love could not live for +ever; it must die. Better it should be strangled almost at birth, Joan. +So—so this is good-bye?” + +She shook her head. “Friends, always, Johnny,” she said. + +“Friends always, then.” + +She came close to him. She lifted her hand suddenly, and thrust back +the hair from his forehead, she looked him in the eyes and, smiling, +kissed him on the brow. + +“Go and find your happiness—a far, far better than I could ever offer +you.” + +“And you?” + +She shook her head, and her eyes, looking beyond him into the garden, +were dreamy and strangely soft. + +“Tell me about that man, Johnny,” she said. “Will you take me back to +Little Langbourne with you?” + +“Why?” + +“To see him.” + +“But he maligned, he lied—” + +“He is hurt, and why should I hate him? You did not believe. Will you +take me back with you?” + +“You know I will.” + +Helen, watching from the upper window, saw them drive away together, +never had they seemed better friends. The cloud had passed completely +away, and so too had all Helen’s plans; yet she did not know it. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII +“AS WE FORGIVE—” + + +Slotman opened dazed eyes and looked up into a face that might well +have been the face of an angel, so soft, so pitying, so tender was its +expression. + +“Joan!” he whispered. + +She nodded and smiled. + +“But,” he said—“but—” and hesitated. “Joan, I went to Buddesby to see—” + +“I know.” + +“And yet you come here?” + +“Of course. Hush! you must not talk. You are going to get well and +strong again. The Matron says I am allowed to come sometimes and see +you, and sit beside you, but you must not talk yet. Later on we are +going to talk about the future.” + +He lay staring at her. He could not understand. How could such a mind +as his understand the workings of such a mind as hers? But she was +here, she knew and she forgave, and there was comfort in her presence. + +God knew he had suffered. God knew it. + +“When you are better, stronger, you and I are going to talk, not till +then; but I want to tell you this now. I want to help you, all the past +is past. I knew about that night, about your visit. It does not matter; +it is all gone by. It is only the future that matters, and in the +future you may find that I will give and help willingly what I would +not have given under compulsion. Now, hush for the Matron is coming.” +She smiled down at him. + +“I don’t understand,” Slotman said; “I’ll try and understand.” He +turned his face away, realising a sense of shame such as he had never +felt before. + +He had been her enemy, and yet perhaps in his way, a bad and vile way, +selfish and dishonourable, he had loved her; but as she had said, all +that was of the past. Now she sat beside the man, broken in limb and in +fortune, a wreck of what he had been; and for him her only feeling was +of pity, and already in her mind she was forming plans for his future. +For she had said truly she could give of her own free will and in +charity and sympathy that which could never be forced from her. + +Connie looked at her brother curiously. + + +“I saw you just now. You drove past the gate with Joan. You took her to +Langbourne, didn’t you?” + +“To the hospital. She went to see that fellow, Con.” + +“He told you something about Joan last night, Johnny?” + +“He lied about the truest, purest woman who walks this earth.” + +“She is incapable of evil,” Con said quietly. + +“Utterly. Con, I have something to tell you.” + +She turned eagerly. + +“It is ended,” he said quietly—“our engagement. Joan and I ended it +to-day—not in anger, not in doubt, dear, but liking and admiring each +other I think more than ever before, and—and, Con—” He paused. + +“Oh, I am glad, glad,” she said, “glad! Have you told—her?” + +He shook his head. + +“Will you wait here, John? I will send her to you.” + +John Everard’s face coloured. “I will wait here for her, for Gipsy,” he +said. “Send her here to me, and I will tell her, Con.” + +And a few moments later she came. She stood here in the doorway looking +at him, just as she had looked at him from that same place that night, +that night when a light had dawned upon his darkness. + +And now, because his eyes were widely opened at last, he could see the +tell-tale flush in her cheeks, the suspicious brightness in her eyes, +and it seemed to him that her love for him was as a magnet that drew +his heart towards her. + +“Con has told you?” + +She nodded silently. + +Then suddenly he stretched out his arms to her, a moment more and she +was in them, her face against his breast. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII +HER PRIDE’S LAST FIGHT + + +“... I came to Starden because I believed you might need me. You did, +and the help that you wanted I gave gladly and willingly. Now your +enemy is removed; he can do you no more harm. You will hear, or perhaps +have heard why, and so I am no longer necessary to you, Joan, and +because I seem to be wanted in my own place I am going back. Yet should +you need me, you have but to call, and I will come. You know that. You +know that I who love you am ever at your service. From now onward your +own heart shall be your counsellor. You will act as it dictates, if you +are true to yourself. Yet, perhaps in the future as in the past, your +pride may prove the stronger. It is for you and only you to decide. +Good-bye, + +“HUGH.” + + +She had found this letter on her return from Little Langbourne. She had +gone hurrying, as a young girl in her eagerness might, down to Mrs. +Bonner’s little cottage, to learn that she was too late. He had gone. + +Mrs. Bonner, with almost tears in her eyes, told her. + +“Yes, miss. He hev gone, and rare sorry I be, a better gentleman I +never had in these rooms.” + +Gone! With only this letter, no parting word, without seeking to see +her, to say good-bye. The chill of her cold pride fell on Joan. Send +for him! Never! never! He had gone when he might have stayed—when, had +he been here now, she would have told him that she was free. + +Very slowly she walked back to the house, to meet Helen’s questioning +eyes. + +“I am glad, dear, that there seems to be a better understanding between +you and Johnny,” Helen said. + +“There is a perfect understanding between us. Johnny is not going to +marry me. He is choosing someone who will love him more and understand +him better than I could.” + +“Then—then, after all, it is over? You and he are to part?” + +“Have parted—as lovers, but not as friends.” + +“And after all I have done,” Helen said miserably. + +Hugh had gone home. He had had a letter from Lady Linden telling about +the accident to Tom Arundel, about his serious illness, and Marjorie’s +devoted nursing. And now he was shaping his course for Hurst Dormer. He +had debated in his mind whether he should wait and see her, and then +had decided against it. + +“She knows that I love her, and she loves me. She is letting her pride +stand between us. Everard is too good and too fine a fellow to keep her +bound by a promise if he thought it would hurt her to keep it. Her +future and Everard’s and mine must lay in her own hands.” And so, doing +violence to his feelings and his desires, he had left Starden, and now +was back in Hurst Dormer, wandering about, looking at the progress the +workmen had made during his absence. He had come home, and though he +loved the place, its loneliness weighed heavily on him. The rooms +seemed empty. He wanted someone to talk things over with, to discuss +this and that. He was not built to be self-centred. + +For two days and two nights he bore with Hurst Dormer and its shadows +and its solitude, and then he called out the car and motored over to +Cornbridge. + +“Oh, it’s you,” said her ladyship. “I suppose you got my letter?” + +“Yes; I had it sent on to me.” + +“It’s a pity you don’t stay at home now and again.” + +“Perhaps I shall in future.” + +She looked at him. He was unlike himself, careworn and weary, and a +little ill. + +“Tom is mending rapidly, a wonderful constitution; but it was touch and +go. Marjorie was simply wonderful, I’ll do her that credit. Between +ourselves, Hugh, I always regarded Marjorie as rather weak, +namby-pamby, early Victorian—you know what I mean; but she’s a woman, +and it has touched her. She wouldn’t leave him. Honestly, I believe she +did more for him than all the doctors.” + +“I am sure she did.” + +Marjorie was changed; her face was thinner, some of its colour gone. +Yet the little she had lost was more than atoned for in the much that +she had gained. She held his hand, she looked him frankly in the eyes. + +“So it is all right, little girl, all right now?” + +She nodded. “It is all right. I am happier than I deserve to be. Oh, +Hugh, I have been weak and foolish, wavering and uncertain. I can see +it all now, but now at last I know—I do know my own mind.” + +“And your own heart?” + +“And my own heart.” + +She wondered as she looked at him if ever he could have guessed what +had been in her mind that day when she had gone to Hurst Dormer to see +him. How full of love for him her heart had been then! And then she +remembered what he had said, those four words that had ended her dream +for ever—“Better than my life.” So he loved Joan, and now she knew that +she too loved with her whole heart. + +Death had been very close, and perhaps it had been pity for that fine +young life that seemed to be so near its end that had awakened love. +Yet, whatever the cause, she knew now that her love for Tom had come to +stay. + +“And Joan?” Marjorie asked. + +“Joan?” he said. “Joan, she is in her own home.” + +“And her heart is still hard against you, Hugh?” + +“Her pride is still between us, Marjorie,” he said, and quickly turned +the conversation, and a few minutes later was up in the bedroom talking +cheerily enough to Tom. + +“It’s all right, Alston, everything is all right. Lady Linden wanted to +shoot the horse; but I wouldn’t have it. I owe him too much—you +understand, Alston, don’t you? Everything is all right between Marjorie +and me.” + +And then Hugh went back to Hurst Dormer—thank, Heaven there was some +happiness in this world! There was happiness at Cornbridge, and after +Cornbridge Hurst Dormer seemed darker and more solitary than ever. + +It was while she had been talking to Hugh that Marjorie had made up her +mind. + +“I am going to tell Joan the whole truth, the whole truth,” she +thought. And Hugh was scarcely out of the house before Marjorie sat +down to write her letter to Joan. + + +“... I know that you have always blamed him for what was never his +fault. He did it because he is generous and unselfish. He loved me in +those days. I know that it could not have been the great abiding love; +it was only liking that turned to fondness. Yet he wanted to marry me, +Joan, and when he knew that there was someone else, and that he stood +in the way of our happiness, the whole plan was arranged, and we had to +find a name, you understand. And he asked me to suggest one, and I +thought of yours, because it is the prettiest name I know; and he, +Hugh, never dreamed that it belonged to a living woman. And so it was +used, dear, and all this trouble and all this misunderstanding came +about. I always wanted to tell you the truth, but he wouldn’t let me, +because he was afraid that if Aunt got to hear of it, she might be +angry and send Tom away. But now I know she would not, and so I am +telling you everything. The fault was mine. And yet, you know, dear, I +had no thought of angering or of offending you. Write to me and tell me +you forgive me. And oh, Joan, don’t let pride come between you and the +man you love, for I think he is one of the finest men I know, the best +and straightest. + +“MARJORIE.” + + +Marjorie felt that she had lifted a weight from her mind when she put +this letter in the post. + +Long, long ago Joan had acquitted Hugh of any intention to offend or +annoy her by the use of her name. Yet why had he never told her the +truth, told her that it had never been his doing at all? She read +Marjorie’s letter, and then thrust it away from her. Why had he not +written this? Did he care less now than he had? Had she tired him out +with her coldness and her pride? Perhaps that was it. + +Yesterday Ellice had come over on the old bicycle—Ellice with shining +eyes and pink cheeks, glowing with happiness and joy, and Ellice had +hugged her tightly, and tried to whisper thanks that would not come. + +She was happy now. Marjorie was happy. Only she seemed to be cut off +from happiness. Why had he gone without a word, just those few written +lines? He had not cared so much, after all. + +And so the days went by. Joan wrote a loving, sympathetic letter to +Marjorie. She quite understood, and she did not blame Hugh; she blamed +no one. + +It was a long letter, dealing mainly with her life, with the village, +with the things she was doing and going to do. But of the +future—nothing; of the past, in so far as Hugh Alston was +concerned—nothing. + +And when Marjorie read the letter she read of an unsatisfied, unhappy +spirit, of a girl whose whole heart yearned and longed for love, and +whose pride held her in check and condemned her to unhappiness. + +Scarcely a day passed but Joan drove over to Little Langbourne. Philip +Slotman came to look for her, and counted it a long unhappy day if she +failed him; but it was not often. + +She had discovered that he was well-nigh penniless, and that it would +be months before he would be fit to work again. And so she had quietly +supplied all his needs. + +“When you are well and strong again, you shall go back. You shall have +the capital you want, and you will do well. I know that. I shall lend +you the money to start afresh, and you will pay me back when you can.” + +“Joan, I wonder if there are many women like you?” + +“Many better than I,” she said—“many happier.” + +At Buddesby she was welcomed by a radiant girl with happy eyes, a girl +who could not make enough of her, and there Joan saw a home life and +happiness she had never known—a happiness that set her hungry heart +yearning and longing with a longing that was intolerable and +unbearable. + +“Send for me, and I will come,” he had written; and she had not sent. +She would not, pride forbade it, and yet—yet to be happy as Ellice was +happy, to feel his arms about her, to rest her head against his breast, +to know that during all the years to come he would be here by her side, +that loneliness would never touch her again. + +“I won’t!” she said. “I won’t! If he needs me, it is he who must come +to me. I will not send for him.” + +It was her pride’s last fight, a fine fight it made. For days she +struggled against the yearning of her heart, against the wealth of +love, pent-up and stored within; valiantly and bravely pride fought. + +To-day she had been to the hospital. She had stopped, as she often did, +at Buddesby. There was talk of a marriage there. Many catalogues and +price-lists had come through the post, and Con and Ellice were busy +with them. For they were not very rich, and money must be made to go a +long way; and into their conclave they drew Joan, who for a time forgot +everything in this new interest. + +They had all been very busy when the door had opened and Johnny Everard +had come in, and, looking up, Joan caught a look that passed between +Johnny and Ellice—just a look, yet it spoke volumes. It laid bare the +secret of both hearts. + +Later, when she said good-bye, he walked to the gate where her car was +waiting. They had said but little, for Johnny seemed shy and +constrained in her presence. + +“Joan, I have much to be very, very grateful to you for,” he said, as +he held her hand. “You were right. Life without love would be +impossible, and you have made life very possible for me.” + +She was thinking of this during the lonely drive back to Starden; +always his words came back to her. Life without love would be +impossible, and then it was that the battle ended, that pride retired +vanquished from the field. + + +“I want you to come back to me because I am so lonely. Please come back +and forgive. +“JOAN.” + + +The message that, in the end, she must write was written and sent. + +And now that pride had broken down, was gone for ever, so far as this +man was concerned, it was a very loving anxious-eyed, trembling woman +who watched for the coming of the man that she loved and needed, the +man who meant all the happiness this world could give her. + + +She had called to him, and this must be his answer. No slow-going +trains, no tedious broken journeys, no wasted hours of delay—the +fastest car, driven at reckless speed, yet with all due care that none +should suffer because of his eagerness and his happiness. + +It seemed to him such a very pitiful, humble little appeal, an appeal +that went straight to his heart—so short an appeal that he could +remember every word of it, and found himself repeating it as his car +swallowed the miles that lay between them. + +He asked no questions of himself. She would not have sent for him had +she not been free to do so. He knew that. + +And now the landscape was growing familiar, a little while, and they +were running through Starden village. Villagers who had come to know +him touched their hats. They passed Mrs. Bonner’s little cottage, and +now through the gateway, the gates standing wide as in welcome and +expectation of his coming. + +And she, watching for him, saw his coming, and her heart leaped with +the joy of it. Helen Everard saw, too, and guessed what it meant. + +“Go into the morning-room, Joan. I will send him to you there.” + +And so it was in the morning-room he found her. Flushed and +bright-eyed, trembling with happiness and the joy of seeing him, gone +for ever the pride and the scorn, she was only a girl who loved him +dearly, who needed him much. She had fought the giant pride, and had +beaten it for ever for his sake, and now he was here smiling at her, +his arms stretched out to her. + +“You wanted me at last, Joan,” he said. “You called me, darling, and I +have come.” + +“I want you. I always want you. Never, never leave me again, Hugh—never +leave me again. I love you so, and need you so.” + +And then his arms were about her and hers about his neck, and she who +had been so cold, so proud, so scornful, was remembering Johnny +Everard’s words, “Life without love would be impossible.” + +And now life was very, very possible to her. + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Imaginary Marriage</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Henry St. John Cooper</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 18, 2005 [eBook #15103]<br /> +[Most recently updated: March 6, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Michael Ciesielski, Beginners Projects, Martin Barber and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE ***</div> + +<h1>THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">Henry St. John Cooper</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I. A MASTERFUL WOMAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II. IN WHICH HUGH BREAKS THE NEWS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III. JOAN MEREDYTH, TYPIST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV. FACE TO FACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V. “PERHAPS I SHALL GO BACK”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI. “THE ONLY POSSIBLE THING”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII. MR. SLOTMAN ARRIVES AT A MISUNDERSTANDING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII. THE DREAM GIRL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX. THE PEACEMAKER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X. “IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI. THE GENERAL CALLS ON HUGH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII. “I TAKE NOT ONE WORD BACK”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII. THE GENERAL CONFESSES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV. THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV. “TO THE MANNER BORN”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI. ELLICE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII. UNREST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII. “UNGENEROUS”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX. THE INVESTIGATIONS OF MR. SLOTMAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX. “WHEN I AM NOT WITH YOU”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI. “I SHALL FORGET HER”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII. JEALOUSY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII. “UNCERTAIN—COY”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV. “—TO GAIN, OR LOSE IT ALL”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV. IN THE MIRE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI. MR. ALSTON CALLS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII. THE WATCHER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII. “HE DOES NOT LOVE ME NOW”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX. “WHY DOES SHE TAKE HIM FROM ME?”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX. “WAITING”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI. “IF YOU NEED ME”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII. THE SPY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII. GONE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV. “FOR HER SAKE”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV. CONNIE DECLARES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI. “HE HAS COME BACK”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII. THE DROPPING OF THE SCALES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII. “HER CHAMPION”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX. “THE PAYING”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL. “IS IT THE END?”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">CHAPTER XLI. MR. RUNDLE TAKES A HAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII. “WALLS WE CANNOT BATTER DOWN”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII. “NOT TILL THEN WILL I GIVE UP HOPE”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV. POISON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV. THE GUIDING HAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI. “—SHE HAS GIVEN!”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">CHAPTER XLVII. “AS WE FORGIVE—”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">CHAPTER XLVIII. HER PRIDE’S LAST FIGHT</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br/> +A MASTERFUL WOMAN</h2> + +<p> +“Don’t talk to me, miss,” said her ladyship. “I don’t want to hear any nonsense +from you!” +</p> + +<p> +The pretty, frightened girl who shared the drawing-room at this moment with +Lady Linden of Cornbridge Manor House had not dared to open her lips. But that +was her ladyship’s way, and “Don’t talk to me!” was a stock expression of hers. +Few people were permitted to talk in her ladyship’s presence. In Cornbridge +they spoke of her with bated breath as a “rare masterful woman,” and they had +good cause. +</p> + +<p> +Masterful and domineering was Lady Linden of Cornbridge, yet she was +kind-hearted, though she tried to disguise the fact. +</p> + +<p> +In Cornbridge she reigned supreme, men and women trembled at her approach. She +penetrated the homes of the cottagers, she tasted of their foods, she rated +them on uncleanliness, drunkenness, and thriftlessness; she lectured them on +cooking. +</p> + +<p> +On many a Saturday night she raided, single-handed, the Plough Inn and drove +forth the sheepish revellers, personally conducting them to their homes and +wives. +</p> + +<p> +They respected her in Cornbridge as the reigning sovereign of her small estate, +and none did she rule more autocratically and completely than her little +nineteen-year-old niece Marjorie. +</p> + +<p> +A pretty, timid, little maid was Marjorie, with soft yellow hair, a sweet oval +face, with large pathetic blue eyes and a timid, uncertain little rosebud of a +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“A rare sweet maid her be,” they said of her in the village, “but terribul +tim’rous, and I lay her ladyship du give she a rare time of it....” Which was +true. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk to me, miss!” her ladyship said to the silent girl. “I know what is +best for you; and I know, too, what you don’t think I know—ha, ha!” Her +ladyship laughed terribly. “I know that you have been meeting that worthless +young scamp, Tom Arundel!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, aunt, he is not worthless—” +</p> + +<p> +“Financially he isn’t worth a sou—and that’s what I mean, and don’t interrupt. +I am your guardian, you are entirely in my charge, and until you arrive at the +age of twenty-five I can withhold your fortune from you if you marry in +opposition to me and my wishes. But you won’t—you won’t do anything of the +kind. You will marry the man I select for you, the man I have already +selected—what did you say, miss? +</p> + +<p> +“And now, not another word. Hugh Alston is the man I have selected for you. He +is in love with you, there isn’t a finer lad living. He has eight thousand a +year, and Hurst Dormer is one of the best old properties in Sussex. So that’s +quite enough, and I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about Tom Arundel. I +say nothing against him personally. Colonel Arundel is a gentleman, of course, +otherwise I would not permit you to know his son; but the Arundels haven’t a +pennypiece to fly with and—and now—Now I see Hugh coming up the drive. Leave +me. I want to talk to him. Go into the garden, and wait by the lily-pond. In +all probability Hugh will have something to say to you before long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, aunt, I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Shut up!” said her ladyship briefly. +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie went out, with hanging head and bursting heart. She believed herself +the most unhappy girl in England. She loved; who could help loving +happy-go-lucky, handsome Tom Arundel, who well-nigh worshipped the ground her +little feet trod upon? It was the first love and the only love of her life, and +of nights she lay awake picturing his bright, young boyish face, hearing again +all the things he had said to her till her heart was well-nigh bursting with +love and longing for him. +</p> + +<p> +But she did not hate Hugh. Who could hate Hugh Alston, with his cheery smile, +his ringing voice, his big generous heart, and his fine manliness? Not she! But +from the depths of her heart she wished Hugh Alston a great distance away from +Cornbridge. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Hugh!” said her ladyship. He had come in, a man of two-and-thirty, big +and broad, with suntanned face and eyes as blue as the tear-dimmed eyes of the +girl who had gone miserably down to the lily-pond. +</p> + +<p> +Fair haired was Hugh, ruddy of cheek, with no particular beauty to boast of, +save the wholesomeness and cleanliness of his young manhood. He seemed to bring +into the room a scent of the open country, of the good brown earth and of the +clean wind of heaven. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Hugh!” said Lady Linden. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, my lady,” said he, and kissed her. It had been his habit from boyhood, +also it had been his lifelong habit to love and respect the old dame, and to +feel not the slightest fear of her. In this he was singular, and because he was +the one person who did not fear her she preferred him to anyone else. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh,” she said—she went straight to the point, she always did; as a hunter +goes at a hedge, so her ladyship without prevarication went at the matter she +had in hand—“I have been talking to Marjorie about Tom Arundel—” +</p> + +<p> +His cheery face grew a little grave. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is absurd—you realise that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so, but—” He paused. +</p> + +<p> +“It is childish folly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so? Do you think that she—” Again he paused, with a nervousness +and diffidence usually foreign to him. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s only a gel,” said her ladyship. Her ladyship was Sussex born, and talked +Sussex when she became excited. “She’s only a gel, and gels have their fancies. +I had my own—but bless you, they don’t last. She don’t know her own mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a good fellow,” said Hugh generously. +</p> + +<p> +“A nice lad, but he won’t suit me for Marjorie’s husband. Hugh, the gel’s in +the garden, she is sitting by the lily-pond and believes her heart is broken, +but it isn’t! Go and prove it isn’t; go now!” +</p> + +<p> +He met her eyes and flushed red. “I’ll go and have a talk to Marjorie,” he +said. “You haven’t been—too rough with her, have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rough! I know how to deal with gels. I told her that I had the command of her +money, her four hundred a year till she was twenty-five, and not a bob of it +should she touch if she married against my wish. Now go and talk to her—and +talk sense—” She paused. “You know what I mean—sense!” +</p> + +<p> +A very pretty picture, the slender white-clad, drooping figure with its crown +of golden hair made, sitting on the bench beside the lily-pond. Her hands were +clasped, her eyes fixed on the stagnant green water over which the dragon-flies +skimmed. +</p> + +<p> +Coming across the soundless turf, he stood for a moment to look at her. +</p> + +<p> +Hurst Dormer was a fine old place, yet of late to him it had grown singularly +dull and cheerless. He had loved it all his life, but latterly he had realised +that there was something missing, something without which the old house could +not be home to him, and in his dreams waking and sleeping he had seen this same +little white-clad figure seated at the foot of the great table in the +dining-hall. +</p> + +<p> +He had seen her in his mind’s eye doing those little housewifely duties that +the mistresses of Hurst Dormer had always loved to do, her slender fingers busy +with the rare and delicate old china, or the lavender-scented linen, or else in +the wonderful old garden, the gracious little mistress of all and of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +And now she sat drooping like a wilted lily beside the green pond, because of +her love for another man, and his honest heart ached that it should be so. +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She lifted a tear-stained face and held out her hand’ to him silently. +</p> + +<p> +He patted her hand gently, as one pats the hand of a child. “Is—is it so bad, +little girl? Do you care for him so much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Better than my life!” she said. “Oh, if you knew!” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” he said quietly. He sat staring at the green waters, stirred now and +again by the fin of a lazy carp. He realised that there would be no sweet +girlish, golden-haired little mistress for Hurst Dormer, and the realisation +hurt him badly. +</p> + +<p> +The girl seemed to have crept a little closer to him, as for comfort and +protection. +</p> + +<p> +“She has made up her mind, and nothing will change it. She wants you to—to +marry me. She’s told me so a hundred times. She won’t listen to anything else; +she says you—you care for me, Hugh.” +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing I care so much, little girl, that I want your happiness above +everything in this world. Supposing—I clear out?” he said—“clear right away, go +to Africa, or somewhere or other?” +</p> + +<p> +“She would make me wait till you came back, and you’d have to come back, Hugh, +because there is always Hurst Dormer. There’s no way out for me, none. If +only—only you were married; that is the only thing that would have saved me!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m not!” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed. “If only you were, if only you could say to her, ‘I can’t ask +Marjorie to marry me, because I am already married!’ It sounds rubbish, doesn’t +it, Hugh; but if it were only true!” +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing—I did say it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hugh, but—” She looked up at him quickly. “But it would be a lie!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, but lies aren’t always the awful things they are supposed to be—if one +told a lie to help a friend, for instance, such a lie might be forgiven, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“But—” She was trembling; she looked eagerly into his eyes, into her cheeks had +come a flush, into her eyes the brightness of a new, though as yet vague, hope. +“It—it sounds so impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing is actually impossible. Listen, little maid. She sent me here to you +to talk sense, as she put it. That meant she sent me here to ask you to marry +me, and I meant to do it. I think perhaps you know why”—he lifted her hand to +his lips and kissed it—“but I shan’t now, I never shall. Little girl, we’re +going to be what we’ve always been, the best and truest of friends, and I’ve +got to find a way to help you and Tom—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh, if you told her that you were married, and not free, she wouldn’t give +another thought to opposing Tom and me—it is only because she wants me to marry +you that she opposes Tom! Oh, Hugh, if—if—if you could, if it were possible!” +She was trembling with excitement, and the sweet colour was coming and going in +her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing I did it?” he said, and spoke his thoughts aloud. “Of course it +would be a shock to her, perhaps she wouldn’t believe!” +</p> + +<p> +“She would believe anything you said...” +</p> + +<p> +“It is rather a rotten thing to do,” he thought, “yet....” He looked at the +bright, eager face, it would make her happy; he knew that what she said was +true—Lady Linden would not oppose Tom Arundel if marriage between Marjorie and +himself was out of the question. It would be making the way clear for her: it +would be giving her happiness, doing her the greatest service that he could. Of +his own sacrifice, his own disappointment he thought not now; realisation of +that would come later. +</p> + +<p> +At first it seemed to him a mad, a nonsensical scheme, yet it was one that +might so easily be carried out. If one doubt was left as to whether he would do +it, it was gone the next moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh, would you do—would you do this for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is very little that I wouldn’t do for you, little maid,” he said, “and +if I can help you to your happiness I am going to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +She crept closer to him; she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and held his +hand in hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me just what you will say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t thought that out yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know. You see, if I say I am married, naturally she will ask me a few +questions.” +</p> + +<p> +“When she gets—gets her breath!” Marjorie said with a laugh; it was the first +time she had laughed, and he liked to hear it. +</p> + +<p> +“The first will probably be, How long have I been married?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember you used to come to Marlbury to see me when I was at school at +Miss Skinner’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather!” +</p> + +<p> +“That was three years ago. Supposing you married about then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fine,” Hugh said. “I married three years ago. What month?” +</p> + +<p> +“June,” she said; “it’s a lovely month!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was married in June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, my lady,” said Hugh. +“Where at, though?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Marlbury, of course!” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course! Splendid place to get married in, delightful romantic old town!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a hateful place, but that doesn’t matter,” said Marjorie. She seemed to +snuggle up a little closer to him, her lips were rippling with smiles, her +bright eyes saw freedom and love, her heart was very warm with gratitude to +this man who was helping her. But she could not guess, how could she, how in +spite of the laughter on his lips there was a great ache and a feeling of +emptiness at his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“So now we have it all complete,” he said. “I was married in June, nineteen +eighteen at Marlbury; my wife and I did not get on, we parted. She had a +temper, so had I, a most unhappy affair, and there you are!” He laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“All save one thing,” Marjorie said. +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness, what have I forgotten?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only the lady’s name.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right. She must have a name of course, something nice and +romantic—Gladys something, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Clementine,” suggested Hugh. “No, won’t do, eh? Now you put your thinking cap +on and invent a name, something romantic and pretty. Let’s hear from you, +Marjorie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you like—Joan Meredyth?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Splendid! What a clever little brain!” He shut his eyes. “I married Miss Joan +Meredyth on the first of June, or was it the second, in the year nineteen +hundred and eighteen? We lived a cat-and-dog existence, and parted with mutual +recriminations, since when I have not seen her! Marjorie, do you think she will +swallow it?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you tell her; but, Hugh, will you—will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Little girl, is it going to help you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know it is!” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall tell her!” +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie lifted a pair of soft arms and put them about his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh!” she said, “Hugh, if—if I had never known Tom, I—” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” he said. “I know. God bless you.” He stooped and kissed her on the +cheek, and rose. +</p> + +<p> +It was a mad thing this that he was to do, yet he never considered its madness, +its folly. It would help her, and Hurst Dormer would never know its +golden-haired mistress, after all. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br/> +IN WHICH HUGH BREAKS THE NEWS</h2> + +<p> +Lady Linden had just come in from one of her usual and numerous inspections, +during which she had found it necessary to reprove one of the under-gardeners. +She had described him to himself, his character, his appearance and his methods +from her own point of view, and had left the man stupefied and amazed at the +extent of her vocabulary and her facility of expression. He was still +scratching his head, dazedly, when she came into the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh, you here? Where is Marjorie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Down by the pond, I think,” he said, with an attempt at airiness. +</p> + +<p> +“In a moment you will make me angry. You know what I wish to know. Did you +propose to Marjorie, Hugh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I—” He seemed astonished. “Did I what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Propose to Marjorie! Good heavens, man, isn’t that why I sent you there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly did not propose to her. How on earth could I?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no reason on earth why you should not have proposed to her that I can +see.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is one that I can see.” He paused. “A man can’t invite a young woman +to marry him—when he is already married!” +</p> + +<p> +It was out! He scarcely dared to look at her. Lady Linden said nothing; she sat +down. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh!” She had found breath and words at last. “Hugh Alston! Did I hear you +aright?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you did!” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean to tell me that you—you are a married man?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. He realised that he was not a good liar. +</p> + +<p> +“I would like some particulars,” she said coldly. “Hugh Alston, I should be +very interested to know where she is!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are mad. When were you married?” +</p> + +<p> +“June nineteen eighteen,” he said glibly. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“At Marlbury!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious! That is where Marjorie used to go to school!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it was when I went down to see her there, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“You met this woman you married? And her name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan,” he said—“Joan Meredyth!” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan—Meredyth!” said Lady Linden. She closed her eyes; she leaned back in her +chair. “That girl!” +</p> + +<p> +A chill feeling of alarm swept over him. She spoke, her ladyship spoke, as +though such a girl existed, as though she knew her personally. And the name was +a pure invention! Marjorie had invented it—at least, he believed so. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you don’t know her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Know her—of course I know her. Didn’t Marjorie bring her here from Miss +Skinner’s two holidays running? A very beautiful and brilliant girl, the +loveliest girl I think I ever saw! Really, Hugh Alston, though I am surprised +and pained at your silence and duplicity, I must absolve you. I always regarded +you as more or less a fool, but Joan Meredyth is a girl any man might fall in +love with!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh sat gripping the arms of his chair. What had he done, or rather what had +Marjorie done? What desperate muddle had that little maid led him into? He had +counted on the name being a pure invention, and now— +</p> + +<p> +“Where is she?” demanded Lady Linden. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—we—we parted!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“We didn’t get on, you see. She’d got a temper, and so—” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course she had a temper. She is a spirited gel, full of life and fire and +intelligence. I wouldn’t give twopence for a woman without a temper—certainly +she had a temper! Bah, don’t talk to me, sir—you sit there and tell me you were +content to let her go, let a beautiful creature like that go merely because she +had a temper?” +</p> + +<p> +“She—she went. I didn’t let her go; she just went!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Lady Linden said thoughtfully, “I suppose she did. It is just what Joan +would do! She saw that she was not appreciated; you wrangled, or some folly, +and she simply went. She would—so would I have gone! And now, where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I don’t know!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve never sought her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! I—I—now look here,” he went on, “don’t take it to heart too much. She +is quite all right—that is, I expect—” +</p> + +<p> +“You expect!” she said witheringly. “Here you sit; you have a beautiful young +wife, the most brilliant girl I ever met, and—and you let her go! Don’t talk to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I won’t; let’s drop it! We will discuss it some other time—it is a matter +I prefer not to talk about! Naturally it is rather—painful to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I should think!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I much prefer not to talk about it. Let’s discuss Marjorie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound Marjorie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie is the sweetest little soul in the world, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity you didn’t think of that three years ago!” +</p> + +<p> +“And Tom Arundel is a fine fellow; no one can say one word against him!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t wish to discuss them! If Marjorie is obsessed with this folly about +young Arundel, it will be her misfortune. If she wants to marry him she will +probably regret it. I intended her to marry you; but since it can’t be, I don’t +feel any particular interest in the matter of Marjorie’s marriage at the +moment! Now tell me about Joan at once!” +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me, I—I much prefer not to: it is a sore subject, a matter I never +speak about!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, go away then—and leave me to myself. Let me think it all out!” +</p> + +<p> +He went gladly enough; he made his way back to the lily-pond. +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie,” he said tragically, “what have you done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hugh!” She was trembling at once. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, dear, don’t worry; it is nothing. She believes every word, and I feel +sure it will be all right for you and Tom, but, oh Marjorie—that name, I +thought you had invented it!” +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie flushed. “It was the name of a girl at Miss Skinner’s: she was a +great, great friend of mine. She was two years older than I, and just as sweet +and beautiful as her name, and when you were casting about for one I—I just +thought of it, Hugh. It hasn’t done any harm, has it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not, only, don’t you see, you’ve made me claim an existing young lady +as my wife, and if she turned up some time or other—” +</p> + +<p> +“But she won’t! When she left school she went out to Australia to join her +uncle there, and she will in all probability never come back to England.” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh drew a sigh of relief. “That’s all right then! It’s all right, little +girl; it is all right. I believe things are going to be brighter for you now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks to you, Hugh!” +</p> + +<p> +“You know there is nothing in this world—” He looked down at the lovely face, +alive with gratitude and happiness. His dreams were ended, the +“might-have-been” would never be, but he knew that there was peace in that +little breast at last. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br/> +JOAN MEREDYTH, TYPIST</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Philip Slotman touched the electric buzzer on his desk and then watched the +door. He was an unpleasant—looking man, strangely corpulent as to body, +considering his face was cast in lean and narrow mould, the nose large, +prominent and hooked, the lips full, fleshy, and of cherry—like redness, the +eyes small, mean, close together and deep set. The over—corpulent body was +attired lavishly. It was dressed in a fancy waistcoat, a morning coat, +elegantly striped trousers of lavender hue and small pointed—toed, +patent—leather boots, with bright tan uppers. The rich aroma of an expensive +cigar hung about the atmosphere of Mr. Slotman’s office. This and his clothes, +and the large diamond ring that twinkled on his finger, proclaimed him a person +of opulence. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened and a girl came in; she carried a notebook and her head very +high. She trod like a young queen, and in spite of the poor black serge dress +she wore, there was much of regal dignity about her. Dark brown hair that waved +back from a broad and low forehead, a pair of lustrous eyes filled now with +contempt and aversion, eyes shielded by lashes that, when she slept, lay like a +silken fringe upon her cheeks. Her nose was redeemed from the purely classical +by the merest suggestion of tip-tiltedness, that gave humour, expression and +tenderness to the whole face—tenderness and sweetness that with strength was +further betrayed by the finely cut, red-lipped mouth and the strong little +chin, carried so proudly on the white column of her neck. +</p> + +<p> +Her figure was that of a young goddess, and a goddess she looked as she swept +disdainfully into Mr. Philip Slotman’s office, shorthand notebook in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to take a letter to Jarvis and Purcell, Miss Meredyth,” he said. +“Please sit down. Er—hum—‘Dear Sirs, With regard to your last communication +received on the fourteenth instant, I beg—’” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Slotman moved, apparently negligently, from his leather-covered armchair. +He rose, he sauntered around the desk, then suddenly he flung off all pretence +at lethargy, and with a quick step put himself between the girl and the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, my dear,” he said, “you’ve got to listen to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am listening to you.” She turned contemptuous grey eyes on him. +</p> + +<p> +“Hang the letter! I don’t mean that. You’ve got to listen about other things!” +</p> + +<p> +He stretched out his hand to touch her, and she drew back. She rose, and her +eyes flashed. +</p> + +<p> +“If you touch me, Mr. Slotman, I shall—” She paused; she looked about her; she +picked up a heavy ebony ruler from his desk. “I shall defend myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be a fool,” he said, yet took a step backwards, for there was danger in +her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, you won’t get another job in a hurry, and you know it. Shorthand +typists are not wanted these days, the schools are turning out thousands of +’em, all more or less bad; but I—I ain’t talking about that, dear—” He took a +step towards her, and then recoiled, seeing her knuckles shine whitely as she +gripped the ruler. “Come, be sensible!” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to persist in this annoyance of me?” she demanded. “Can’t I make +you understand that I am here to do my work and for no other purpose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing,” he said, “supposing—I—I asked you to marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +He had never meant to say this, yet he had said it, for the fascination of her +was on him. +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing you did? Do you think I would consent to marry such a man as you?” +She held her head very proudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that you would refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course!” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed staggered; he looked about him as one amazed. He had kept this back +as the last, the supreme temptation, the very last card in his hand; and he had +played it, and behold, it proved to be no trump. +</p> + +<p> +“I would neither marry you nor go out with you, nor do I wish to have anything +to say to you, except so far as business is concerned. As that seems +impossible, it will be better for me to give you a week’s notice, Mr. Slotman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be sorry for it,” he said—“infernally sorry for it. It ain’t pleasant +to starve, my girl!” +</p> + +<p> +“I had to do it, I had to, or I could not have respected myself any longer,” +the girl thought, as she made her way home that evening to the boarding-house, +where for two pounds a week she was fed and lodged. But to be workless! It had +been the nightmare of her dreams, the haunting fear of her waking hours. +</p> + +<p> +In her room at the back of the house, to which the jingle of the boarding-house +piano could yet penetrate, she sat for a time in deep thought. The past had +held a few friends, folk who had been kind to her. Pride had held her back; she +had never asked help of any of them. She thought of the Australian uncle who +had invited her to come out to him when she should leave school, and then had +for some reason changed his mind and sent her a banknote for a hundred pounds +instead. She had felt glad and relieved at the time, but now she regretted his +decision. Yet there had been a few friends; she wrote down the names as they +occurred to her. +</p> + +<p> +There was old General Bartholomew, who had known her father. There was Mrs. +Ransome. No, she believed now that she had heard that Mrs. Ransome was dead; +perhaps the General too, yet she would risk it. There was Lady Linden, Marjorie +Linden’s aunt. She knew but little of her, but remembered her as at heart a +kindly, though an autocratic dame. She remembered, too, that one of Lady +Linden’s hobbies had been to establish Working Guilds and Rural Industries, +Village Crafts, and suchlike in her village. In connection with some of these +there might be work for her. +</p> + +<p> +She wrote to all that she could think of, a letter of which she made six +facsimile copies. It was not a begging appeal, but a dignified little reminder +of her existence. +</p> + +<p> +“If you could assist me to obtain any work by which I might live, you would be +putting me under a deep debt of gratitude,” she wrote. +</p> + +<p> +Before she slept that night all six letters were in the post. She wished them +good luck one by one as she dropped them into the letter-box, the six sprats +that had been flung into the sea of fortune. Would one of them catch for her a +mackerel? She wondered. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d best take back that notice,” Slotman said to her the next morning. “You +won’t find it so precious easy to find a job, my girl; and, after all, what +have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Annoyed me, insulted me ever since I came here,” she said quietly. “And of +course I shall not stay!” +</p> + +<p> +“Insulted you! Is it an insult to ask you to be my wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems so to me,” she said quietly. “If you had meant that—at first—it would +have been different; now it is only an insult!” +</p> + +<p> +Three days passed, and there came answers. She had been right, Mrs. Ransome was +dead, and there was no one who could do anything for Miss Meredyth. +</p> + +<p> +General Bartholomew was at Harrogate, and her letter had been sent on to him +there, wrote a polite secretary. And then there came a letter that warmed the +girl’s heart and brought back all her belief and faith in human nature. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“MY DEAREST CHILD,<br/> +<br/> +“Your letter came as a welcome surprise—to think that you are looking for +employment! Well, we must see to this—I promise you, you will not have far to +look. Come here to me at once, and be sure that everything will be put right +and all misunderstandings wiped out. I am keeping your letter a secret from +everyone, even from Marjorie, that your coming shall be the more unexpected, +and the greater surprise and pleasure. But come without delay, and believe me +to be,<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Your very affectionate friend,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“HARRIET LINDEN.”</span><br/> +</p> + +<p> +“P.S.—I suggest that you wire me the day and the train, so that I can meet you. +Don’t lose any time, and be sure that all past unhappiness can be ended, and +the future faced with the certainty of brighter and happier days.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Over this letter Joan Meredyth pondered a great deal. It was a warm-hearted and +affectionate response to her somewhat stilted little appeal. Yet what did the +old lady mean, to what did the veiled reference apply? +</p> + +<p> +“So you mean going, then?” Slotman asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you I would go, and I shall. I leave to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be glad to come back,” he said. He looked at her, and there was +eagerness in his eyes. “Joan, don’t be a fool, stay. I could give you a good +time, and—” +</p> + +<p> +But she had turned her back on him. +</p> + +<p> +She had written to Lady Linden thanking her for her kindly letter. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“I shall come to you on Saturday for the week-end, if I may. I find there is a +train at a quarter-past three. I shall come by that to Cornbridge Station.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Believe me,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Yours gratefully and affectionately,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">“JOAN MEREDYTH.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +There was a subdued excitement about Lady Linden during the Thursday and the +Friday, and an irritating air of secretiveness. +</p> + +<p> +“Foolish, foolish young people! Both so good and so worthy in their way—the +girl beautiful and clever, the man as fine and honest and upright a young +fellow as ever trod this earth—donkeys! Perhaps they can’t be driven—very often +donkeys can’t; but they can be led!” +</p> + +<p> +To Hugh Alston, at Hurst Dormer, seven miles away, Lady Linden had written. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“MY DEAR HUGH,<br/> +<br/> +“I want you to come here Saturday; it is a matter of vital importance.” (She +had a habit of underlining her words to give them emphasis, and she underscored +“vital” three times.) “I want you to time your arrival for half-past five, a +nice time for tea. Don’t be earlier, and don’t be later. And, above all, don’t +fail me, or I will never forgive you.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +“I expect,” Hugh thought, “that she is going to make a public announcement of +the engagement between Marjorie and Tom Arundel.” +</p> + +<p> +It was precisely at half-past five that Hugh stepped out of his two-seater car +and demanded admittance at the door of the Manor House. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Alston,” the footman said, “my lady is expecting you. She told me to +show you straight into the drawing-room, and she and—” The man paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Her ladyship will be with you in a few moments, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is festival in the air here, Perkins, and mystery and secrecy too, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” the man said. “This way, Mr. Alston.” +</p> + +<p> +And now in the drawing-room Hugh was cooling his heels. +</p> + +<p> +Why this mystery? Where was Marjorie? Why didn’t his aunt come? +</p> + +<p> +Then someone came, the door opened. Into the room stepped a tall girl—a girl +with the most beautiful face he thought he had ever seen in his life. She +looked at him calmly and casually, and seemed to hesitate; and then behind her +appeared Lady Linden, flushed, and evidently agitated. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” she said, “there, my dears—I have brought you together again, and now +everything must be made quite all right! Joan, darling, here is your husband! +Go to him, forgive him if there is aught to forgive. Ask forgiveness, child, in +your turn, and then—then kiss and be friends, as husband and wife should be.” +</p> + +<p> +She beamed on them both, then swiftly retreated, and the door behind Joan +Meredyth quickly closed. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/> +FACE TO FACE</h2> + +<p> +It was, Hugh Alston decided, the most beautiful face he had ever seen in his +life and the coldest, or so it seemed to him. She was looking at him with cool +questioning in her grey eyes, her lips drawn to a hard line. +</p> + +<p> +He saw her as she stood before him, and as he saw her now, so would he carry +the memory of the picture she made in his mind for many a day to come—tall, +perhaps a little taller than the average woman, tall by comparison with +Marjorie Linden, brown of hair and grey of eye, with a disdainfully enquiring +look about her. +</p> + +<p> +He was not a man who usually noticed a woman’s clothes, yet the picture +impressed on his mind of this girl was a very complete one. She was wearing a +dress that instinct told him was of some cheap material. She might have bought +it ready-made, she might have made it herself, or some unskilled dressmaker +might have turned it out cheaply. Poverty was the note it struck, her boots +were small and neat, well-worn. Yes, poverty was the keynote to it all. +</p> + +<p> +It was she, womanlike, who broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well? I am waiting for some explanation of all the extraordinary things that +have been said to me since I have been in this house. You, of course, heard +what Lady Linden said as she left us?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard,” he said. His cheeks turned red. Was ever a man in a worse position? +The questioning grey eyes stared at him so coldly that he lost his head. He +wanted to apologise, to explain, yet he knew that he could not explain. It was +Marjorie who had brought him into this, but he must respect the girl’s secret, +on which so much depended for her. +</p> + +<p> +“Please answer me,” Joan Meredyth said. “You heard Lady Linden advise us, you +and myself, to make up a quarrel that has never taken place; you heard her—” +She paused, a great flush suddenly stole over her face, adding enormously to +her attractiveness, but quickly as it came, it went. +</p> + +<p> +What could he say? Vainly he racked his brains. He must say something, or the +girl would believe him to be fool as well as knave. Ideas, excuses, lies +entered his mind, he put them aside instantly, as being unworthy of him and of +her, yet he must tell her—something. +</p> + +<p> +“When—when I used your name, believe me, I had no idea that it was the property +of a living woman—” +</p> + +<p> +“When you used my name? I don’t understand you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I claimed that I was married to a Miss Joan Meredyth—” +</p> + +<p> +“I still don’t understand you. You say you claimed that you were married—are +you married to anyone?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then—then—” Again the glorious flush came into her cheeks, but was gone again, +leaving her whiter, colder than before, only her eyes seemed to burn with the +fire of anger and contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“I am beginning to understand, for some reason of your own, you used my name, +you informed Lady Linden that you—and I were—married?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And it was, of course, a vile lie, an insolent lie!” Her voice quivered. “It +has subjected me to humiliation and annoyance. I do not think that a girl has +ever been placed in such a false position as I have been through your—cowardly +lie.” +</p> + +<p> +He had probably never known actual fear in his life, nor a sense of shame such +as he knew now. He had nothing to say, he wanted to explain, yet could not, for +Marjorie’s sake. If Lady Linden knew how she had been deceived, she would +naturally be furiously angry, and the brunt of her anger would fall on +Marjorie, and this must not be. +</p> + +<p> +So, silent, unable to speak a word in self-defence, he stood listening, +shame-faced, while the girl spoke. Every word she uttered was cutting and +cruel, yet she shewed no temper. He could have borne with that. +</p> + +<p> +“You probably knew of me, and knew that I was alone in the world with no one to +champion me. You knew that I was poor, Mr. Alston, and so a fit butt for your +cowardly jest. My poverty has brought me into contact with strange people, +cads; but the worst, the cruellest, the lowest of all is yourself! I had hoped +to have found rest and refuge here for a little time, but you have driven me +out. Oh, I did not believe that anything so despicable, so unmanly as you could +exist. I do not know why you have done this, perhaps it is your idea of +humour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me—” he stammered, yet could say no more; and then a sense of anger, +of outraged honesty, came to him. Of course he had been foolish, yet he had +been misled. To hear this girl speak, one would think that he had deliberately +set to work to annoy and insult her, she of whose existence he had not even +known. +</p> + +<p> +“My poverty,” she said, and flung her head back as she spoke, “has made me the +butt, the object for the insolence and insult of men like yourself, men who +would not dare insult a girl who had friends to protect her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are ungenerous!” he said hotly. +</p> + +<p> +She seemed to start a little. She looked at him, and her beautiful eyes +narrowed. Then, without another word, she turned towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +The scene was over, yet he felt no relief. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth!” +</p> + +<p> +She did not hear, or affected not to. She turned the handle of the door, but +hesitated for a moment. She looked back at him, contempt in her gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“You are ungenerous,” he said again. He had not meant to say it; he had to say +something, and it seemed to him that her anger against him was almost +unreasonable. +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer; the door closed on her, and he was left to try and collect +his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +And he had not even apologised, he reflected now. She had not given him an +opportunity to. +</p> + +<p> +Pacing the room, Hugh decided what he would do. He would give her time to cool +down, for her wrath to evaporate, then he would seek her out, and tell her as +much as he could—tell her that the secret was not entirely his own. He would +appeal to the generosity that he had told her she did not possess. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” He started. +</p> + +<p> +“What does this mean? You don’t mean to tell me, Hugh, that all my efforts have +gone for nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Linden had sailed into the room; she was angry, she quivered with rage. +</p> + +<p> +“I take an immense amount of trouble to bring two foolish young people together +again, and—and this is the result!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the result?” +</p> + +<p> +“She has gone!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know she had gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I knew nothing at all about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she has. She left the house twenty minutes ago. I’ve sent Chepstow after +her in the car; he is to ask her to return.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose she will,” Hugh said, remembering the very firm look about +Miss Joan Meredyth’s mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“And I planned the reconciliation, I made sure that once you came face to face +it would be all right. Hugh, there is more behind all this than meets the eye!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it,” he said, “a great deal more! No third person can interfere with +any hope of success.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you,” she said, “can let a girl like that, your own wife, go out of your +life and make no effort to detain her!” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“For two pins,” said Lady Linden, “I would box your ears, Hugh Alston.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br/> +“PERHAPS I SHALL GO BACK”</h2> + +<p> +Perhaps she was over-sensitive and a little unreasonable, but she would not +admit it. She had been insulted by a man who had used her name lightly, who had +proclaimed that he was her husband, a man who was a complete stranger to her. +She had heard of him before from Marjorie Linden, when they were at school +together. +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie had spoken of this man in effusive admiration. Joan’s lips curled with +scorn. She did not question her own anger. She did not ask herself, was it +reasonable? Had not the man some right to defend himself, to explain? If he had +wanted to explain, he had had ample opportunity, and he had not taken advantage +of it. No, it was a joke—a cruel, cowardly joke at her expense. +</p> + +<p> +Poor and alone in the world, with none to defend her, she had been subjected to +the odious attentions of Slotman. She was ready to regard all men as creatures +of the same type. She had allowed poverty to narrow her views and warp her +mind, and now— +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, ma’am—” +</p> + +<p> +She was walking along the road to the station. She turned, a man had pulled up +in a small car; he touched his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady sent me after you, Mrs. Alston.” +</p> + +<p> +Joan gripped her hands tightly. She looked with blazing eyes at the man—“Mrs. +Alston...” Even the servant! +</p> + +<p> +“My lady begs that you will return with me. She would be very much hurt, ma’am, +if you left the house like this, her ladyship begs me to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was your message for?” +</p> + +<p> +“For you, ma’am, of course,” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’am—Mrs. Alston!” So this joke had been passed on even to the servants, and +now she was asked to return. +</p> + +<p> +“Go back and tell Lady Linden that I do not understand her message in the +least. Kindly say that the person you overtook on the road was Miss Joan +Meredyth, who is taking the next train to London.” She bent her head, turned +her back on him, and made her way on to the station. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour later she was leaning back wearily on the dusty seat of a +third-class railway carriage, on her way back to the London she hated. Now she +was going back again, because she had nowhere else to go. As she sat there with +closed eyes, and the tears on her cheeks, she counted up her resources. They +were so small, so slender, yet she had been so careful. And now this useless +journey had eaten deeply into the little store. +</p> + +<p> +She had no more than enough to keep her for another week, one more week, and +then.... She shivered at the thought of the destitution that was before her. +</p> + +<p> +Dinner at the boarding-house was over when she returned, but its unsavoury and +peculiar smell still pervaded the place. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Miss Meredyth, I thought you were away for the week-end, at least,” Mrs. +Wenham said. “I suppose you won’t want any dinner?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Joan said. “I shall not want anything. I—I—” She paused. “I was obliged +to come back, after all. Perhaps you could let me have a cup of tea in my room, +Mrs. Wenham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s rather inconvenient with all the washing-up to do, and as you know +I make it a rule that boarders have to be in to their meals, or go +without—still—” +</p> + +<p> +“Please don’t trouble!” Joan said stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +The woman looked up the stairs after the tall, slight figure. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then, I won’t!” she muttered. “The airs some people give +themselves! Anyone would think she was a lady, instead of a clerk or +something.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a letter addressed to Joan waiting for her in her room. She opened +it, and read it. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“DEAR JOAN,<br/> +<br/> +“I suppose you are in a temper with me, and I don’t think you have acted quite +fairly. A man can’t do more than ask a girl to be his wife. It is not usually +considered an insult; however, I say nothing, except just this: You won’t find +it easy to get other work to do, and if you like to come back here on Monday +morning, the same as usual, I think you will be doing the sensible thing.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Yours,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“PHILIP SLOTMAN.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +She had never meant to go back. This morning she had thanked Heaven that she +had looked her last on Mr. Philip Slotman, and yet a few hours can effect such +changes. +</p> + +<p> +The door was open to her; she could go back, and pick up her life again where +she had dropped it before her journey to Cornbridge. After all, Slotman was not +the only cad in the world. She would find others, it seemed to her, wherever +she went. +</p> + +<p> +At any rate, Slotman had opened the door by which she might re-enter. As he +said, work would be very, very hard to get, and it was a bitter thing to have +to starve. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” she said to herself wearily as she lay down on her bed, “perhaps I +shall go back. It does not seem to matter so very much after all what I do—and +I thought it did.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/> +“THE ONLY POSSIBLE THING”</h2> + +<p> +For the first time since when, as a small, curly-headed boy, Hugh Alston had +looked up at her ladyship with unclouded fearless eyes, that had appealed +instantly to her, he and she were bad friends. Hugh had driven back to Hurst +Dormer after a brief battle with her ladyship. He had seen Marjorie for a few +moments, had soothed her, and told her not to worry, that it was not her fault. +He had kissed her in brotherly fashion, and had wondered a little at himself +for the slight feeling of impatience against her that came to him. He had never +been impatient of her before, but her tears this afternoon unreasonably annoyed +him. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a dear, sweet little soul, and over tender-hearted. Of course, she got +me into this mess, and of course, bless her heart, she is worrying over it; but +it can’t be helped. As for that other girl!” His lips tightened. It seemed to +him that Miss Joan Meredyth had not shone any more than he had. She had taken +the whole thing in bad part. +</p> + +<p> +“No woman,” said Hugh to himself, “has any sense of humour!” In which he was +wrong, besides which, it had nothing to do with the case. +</p> + +<p> +“I am disappointed in Hugh,” Lady Linden said to her niece. “I don’t often +admit myself wrong; in this matter I do. I regarded Hugh Alston as a man +utterly and completely open and above board. I find him nothing of the kind. I +am deeply disappointed. I am glad to feel that my plans with regard to Hugh +Alston and yourself will come to nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, aunt—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue! and don’t interrupt me when I am speaking. I have been +considering the matter of you and Tom Arundel. Of course, your income is a +small one, even if I released it, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt—we—we wouldn’t mind, I could manage on so little. I should love to manage +for him.” The girl clasped her hands, she looked with pleading eyes at the old +lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, we shall see!” her ladyship said indulgently. “I don’t say No, and +I don’t say Yes. You are both young yet. By the way, write a letter to Tom and +ask him to dine with us to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, aunt!” Marjorie flushed to her eyes. “Oh, thank you so much!” +</p> + +<p> +“My good girl, there’s nothing to get excited about. I don’t suppose that he +will eat more than about half a crown’s worth.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Hugh Alston had retired to his house at Hurst Dormer in a none too +happy frame of mind. He had rowed with Lady Linden, had practically told her to +mind her own business, which was a thing everyone had been wishing she would do +for the past ten years, and no one had ever dared tell her to. +</p> + +<p> +Altogether, he felt miserably unhappy, furious with himself and angry with Miss +Joan Meredyth. The one and only person he did not blame was the one, only and +entirely, to blame—Marjorie! +</p> + +<p> +This Sunday morning Hugh in his study heard the chug-chug of a small and badly +driven light car, and looked out of the window to see Marjorie stepping out of +the vehicle. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh,” she said a few moments later, “I am so—so worried about you. I hate to +think that all this trouble is through me. Aunt thinks I have gone to church, +but I haven’t. I got out the car, and drove here myself. Hugh, what can I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s one thing you can’t do, child, and that is drive a car! There are +heaps of things you can do. One of them is to go back and be happy, and not +worry your little head over anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I must, it is all because of me; and, Hugh, aunt has asked Tom to dinner +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope he has a good dinner,” said Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh!” She looked at him. “It is no good trying to make light of it. I know +you’ve been worried. I know you and—and Joan must have had a scene yesterday, +or she wouldn’t have left the house without even seeing me.” +</p> + +<p> +“We had—a few words; I noticed that she did seem a little angry,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Joan! She was always so terribly proud; it was her poverty that made her +proud and sensitive, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “I think so, too. Poverty inclines her to take an exaggerated view +of everything, Marjorie. She took it badly.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl slipped her hand through his arm. “Is—is there anything I can do? It +is all my fault, Hugh. Shall I confess to aunt, and then go and see Joan, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Not on your life, you’ll spoil everything. I am out of favour with the old +lady; she will take Tom into favour in my place. All will go well with you and +Tom, and after all that is what I worked for. With regard to Miss Joan +Meredyth—” He paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Hugh, what about Joan? Oh, Hugh, now you have seen her, don’t you think +she is wonderful?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought she had a very unpleasing temper,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“There isn’t a sweeter girl in the world,” Marjorie said. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t notice any particular sweetness about her yesterday. She had reason, +of course, to feel annoyed, but I think she made the most of it, however—” He +paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Hugh, what shall you do? I know you have something in your mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right; I have. I am going to do the only thing that seems to me +possible just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seek out Miss Joan Meredyth, and ask her to become my wife in reality.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/> +MR. SLOTMAN ARRIVES AT A MISUNDERSTANDING</h2> + +<p> +At half-past nine on the Monday morning Miss Joan Meredyth walked into Mr. +Slotman’s office, and Mr. Slotman, seeing her, turned his head aside to hide +the smirk of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“Women,” he said to himself, “are all alike. They give themselves confounded +airs and graces, but when it comes to the point, they aren’t born fools. She +knows jolly well she wouldn’t get another job in a hurry, and here she is.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Slotman made up his mind to go cautiously and carefully. He would not +let Miss Meredyth witness his sense of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you have returned, Miss Meredyth. I felt sure that you would; +there’s no reason whatever we shouldn’t get on perfectly well.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl gave him a stiff little inclination of her head. She had done much +personal violence to her sense of pride, yet she had come back because the +alternative—worklessness, possible starvation and homelessness—had not appealed +to her. And, after all, knowing Mr. Slotman to be what he was, she was +forewarned and forearmed. +</p> + +<p> +So Joan came back and took up her old work, and Mr. Slotman practised +temporarily a courtesy and a forbearance that were foreign to him. But Mr. +Slotman had by no means given up his hopes and desires. Joan appealed to him as +no woman ever had. He admired her statuesque beauty. He admired her air of +breeding; he admired the very pride that she had attempted to crush him with. +</p> + +<p> +A woman like that could go anywhere, Slotman thought, and pictured it to +himself, he following in her trail, and finding an entry into a society that +would have otherwise resolutely shut him out. For like most men of his type, +self made, egregious, and generally offensive, he had an inborn desire to get +into Society and mingle with his betters. +</p> + +<p> +On the Monday morning there had been delivered to Hugh Alston by hand a little +note from Marjorie; it was on pink paper, and was scented delicately. If he had +not been so very much in love with Marjorie, the pink notepaper might have +annoyed him, but it did not. The faint fragrance reminded him of her. +</p> + +<p> +She wrote a neat and exquisite hand; everything that she did was neat and +exquisite, and remembering his hopes of not so long ago, he groaned a little +dismally to himself as he reverently cut the envelope. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“MY DEAR HUGH,<br/> +<br/> +“I have managed to get the address from aunt. It is ‘Miss Joan Meredyth, care +Mrs. Wenham, No. 7, Bemrose Square, London, W.C.’ I have been thinking so much +about what you said, and hoping that your plan may succeed. I am sure that you +would be very, very happy together....” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +(Hugh laughed unmusically.) +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“Tom has been here all the afternoon and evening, and aunt has been perfectly +charming to him. Hugh, I know that everything is going to be right now, and I +owe it all to you. You don’t know how grateful I am, dear. I shall never, never +forget your goodness and sweetness to me, dear old Hugh.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Your loving</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“MARJORIE.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +With something approaching reverent care, Hugh put the little pink-scented note +into his pocket-book. +</p> + +<p> +To-night he would go to Town, to-morrow he would interview Miss Joan Meredyth. +He would offer her no explanations, because the secret was not his own, and +nothing must happen now that might upset or tell against Marjorie’s happiness. +</p> + +<p> +He would express regret for what had happened, ask her to try and realise that +no indignity and no insult had ever been intended against her, and then he +would offer her his hand, but certainly not his heart. If she felt the sting of +her poverty so, then perhaps the thought of his eight thousand a year would act +as balm to her wounded feelings. +</p> + +<p> +At this time Hugh Alston had a very poor opinion of Miss Meredyth. He did not +deny her loveliness. He could not; no man in his senses and gifted with +eyesight could. But the placid prettiness of Marjorie appealed to him far more +than the cold, disdainful beauty of the young woman he had called ungenerous, +and who had in her turn called him a cad. +</p> + +<p> +It was Mrs. Wenham herself who opened the hall door of the house in Bemrose +Square to Mr. Hugh Alston at noon on the day following. +</p> + +<p> +Though certainly not dressed in the height of fashion, and by no means an +exquisite, Mr. Hugh Alston had that about him that suggested birth and large +possessions. Mrs. Wenham beamed on him, cheating herself for a moment into the +belief that he had come to add one more to the select circle of persons she +alluded to as her “paying guests.” +</p> + +<p> +Her face fell a little when he asked for Miss Meredyth. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss Meredyth has gone to work,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“To work?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she’s a clerk or something in the City. The office is that of Philip +Slotman and Company, Number sixteen, Gracebury.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think that I could see her there?” asked Hugh, who had little knowledge of +City offices and their routine and rules, so far as hirelings are concerned. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you could; you are a friend of hers?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know that it is usual for visitors to call on lady clerks. If I +might make a suggestion I’d say send in your card to Mr. Slotman, and ask his +permission to see Miss Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks!” Hugh said. “If that’s the right thing to do, I’ll do it.” +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour later Mr. Slotman was examining Hugh’s card. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“A tall, well-dressed gentleman, sir; young. Looks as if he’s up from the +country, but he’s a gentleman all right,” the clerk said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, I’ll see him.” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman rose as Hugh came in. He recognised the man of position and +possessions, a man of the class that Slotman always cultivated. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to ask your permission to interview Miss Meredyth. I understand that, +in business hours, the permission of the employer should be asked first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Delighted!” Slotman said. “You are a friend of Miss Meredyth’s?” He looked +keenly at Hugh, and the first spark of jealousy was ignited in his system. +</p> + +<p> +“Hardly that, an acquaintance only,” said Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman felt relieved. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth is in the outer general office. You could hardly talk to her +there. If you will sit down, I will go out and send her to you, Mr.—Alston.” He +glanced at the card. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, perhaps you would be so kind as not to mention my name to her,” said +Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Something up!” Slotman thought. He was an eminently suspicious man; he +suspected everyone, and more particularly all those who were in his pay. He +suspected his clerks of wasting their time—his time, the time he paid for. He +suspected them of filching the petty cash, stealing the postage stamps, +cheating him and getting the better of him in some way, and in order to keep a +watch on them he had riddled his suite of offices with peepholes, listening +holes, and spyholes in every unlikely corner. +</p> + +<p> +A small waiting office divided his private apartment from the General Office, +and peepholes cunningly contrived permitted anyone to hear and see all that +passed in the General Office, and in his own office too. +</p> + +<p> +He found a young clerk in the waiting office, and sent him to Miss Meredyth. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask Miss Meredyth to go to my office at once, not through this way, and then +you remain in the General Office till I send for you,” said Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +This gave him the advantage he wanted. He locked both doors leading into the +waiting office, and took up his position at the spyhole that gave him command +of his own office. +</p> + +<p> +He could see his visitor plainly. Hugh Alston was pacing the room slowly, his +hands behind his back, his face wearing a look of worry. Slotman saw him pause +and turn expectantly to the door at the far end of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman could not see this door, but he heard it open, and he knew by the look +on the man’s face that Joan had come in. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you here? How dare you follow me here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have dared to follow you here, to express my deep regret for what is past,” +Hugh said. He looked at the girl, her white face, the hard line made by a mouth +that should be sweet and gentle. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed, he thought, that the very sight of him roused all that was cold and +bitter in her nature. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to be tormented and insulted by you all my life?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“You are unreasonable! You cannot think that this visit is one that gives me +any pleasure,” Hugh said. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why do you come?” +</p> + +<p> +“I asked permission of your employer to see you, and he kindly placed his +office at our disposal. I shall not keep you long.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not intend that you shall, and in future—” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you hear what I have to say? Surely I am not asking too much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it necessary?” +</p> + +<p> +“To me, very! I wish to make a few things plain to you. In the past—I had no +intention of hurting or of disgracing you—” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman started, and clenched his hands. What did that man mean? He wondered, +what could such words as those mean? +</p> + +<p> +“But as I have shamed and angered you, I have come to offer the only reparation +in my power—a poor one, I will admit.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, paused for a moment to give her an opportunity of speaking, +but she did not speak. She looked at him steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“May I briefly explain my position? I am practically alone in the world. My +home is at Hurst Dormer, one of the finest old buildings in Sussex. I have an +income of eight thousand a year.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has this to do with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only that I am offering it to you, myself and all I possess. I am asking you +to do me the honour of marrying me. It seems to me that it is the one and the +only atonement that I can make for what has passed.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are—very generous! And—and you think that I would accept?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hoped that you might consider the offer.” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman gripped at the edge of the table against which he leaned. +</p> + +<p> +He could scarcely believe his own ears—Joan, who had held her head so high, +whom he had believed to be above the breath of suspicion! +</p> + +<p> +If it were possible for such a man as Mr. Philip Slotman to be shocked, then +Slotman was deeply shocked at this moment. He had come to regard Joan as +something infinitely superior to himself. Self-indulgent, a libertine, he had +pursued her with his attentions, pestered her with his admiration and his +offensive compliments. Then it had slowly dawned on the brain of Mr. Philip +Slotman that this girl was something better, higher, purer than most women he +had known. He had come to realise it little by little. His feelings towards her +had undergone a change. The idea of marriage had come to him, a thing he had +never considered seriously before. Little by little it grew on him that he +would prefer to have Joan Meredyth for a wife rather than in any other +capacity. He could have been so proud of her beauty, her birth and her +breeding. +</p> + +<p> +And now everything had undergone a change. The bottom had fallen out of his +little world of romance. He stood there, gasping and clutching at the edge of +the table, while he listened to the man in the adjoining room offering marriage +to Joan Meredyth “as the only possible atonement” he could make her! +</p> + +<p> +Naturally, Mr. Philip Slotman could not understand in the least why or +wherefore; it was beyond his comprehension. +</p> + +<p> +And now he stood listening eagerly, holding his breath waiting for her answer. +</p> + +<p> +Would she take him, this evidently rich man? If so, then good-bye to all his +hopes, all his chances. +</p> + +<p> +Within the room the two faced one another in momentary silence. A flush had +come into the girl’s cheeks, making her adorable. For an instant the coldness +and hardness and bitterness were all gone, and Hugh Alston had a momentary +glimpse of the real woman, the woman who was neither hard, nor cold, but was +womanly and sweet and tender. +</p> + +<p> +And then she was her old self again, the bitterness and the anger had come +back. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for making everything so clear to me, your wealth and position and +your desire to make—to make amends for the insult and the shame you have put on +me. I need hardly say of course that I refuse!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever expect me to accept? I think you did not!” +</p> + +<p> +She gave him a slight inclination of the head and, turning, went out of the +room, and Hugh Alston stood staring at the door that had closed on her. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/> +THE DREAM GIRL</h2> + +<p> +“She is utterly without generosity; she is cold and hard and bitter, and she +has made a mountain out of a molehill, built up a great grievance on what was, +after all, only a foolish and ill-considered statement. She is pleased to feel +herself deeply insulted, and she hates me for what I did in perfect innocence. +I have done all that I can do. I have offered to make amends in the only way I +can think of, and she refuses to accept either that or my apologies. Very well, +then... But what a lovely face it is, and for just that moment, when the +hardness and bitterness were gone...” He paused; his own face softened. One +could not be angry for long with a vision like that, which was passing before +his mind, conjured up by memory. +</p> + +<p> +Just for that instant, when the flush had come into her cheeks, she had looked +all those things that she was not—sweet, womanly, tender, and gentle, a woman +with an immense capacity for love. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said Hugh. “I’m an idiot. I shall go to a theatre to-night, forget all +about her, and go home to-morrow—home.” He sighed a little drearily. For months +past he had pictured pretty Marjorie Linden as queen of that home, and now he +knew that it would never be. His house would remain lonely and empty, as must +his life be. +</p> + +<p> +He sighed sentimentally, and took out Marjorie’s little pink note from his +pocket-book. He noticed for the first time that it was somewhat over-scented. +He realised that he did not like the smell of scent, especially on notepaper, +and pink was not his favourite colour. In fact, he disliked pink. Marjorie was +happy, Lady Linden was beaming on Tom Arundel, the cloud had lifted from +Marjorie’s life. Hugh tore up the pink, smelly little missive, and dropped the +fragments into the grate of the hotel bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s that!” he said. “And it’s ended and done with!” +</p> + +<p> +He was amazed to find himself not broken-hearted and utterly cast down. He +lighted his pipe and puffed hard, to destroy the lingering smell of the pink +notepaper. Then he laughed gently. +</p> + +<p> +“By every right I should now be on my way to the bar to drown dull care in +drink. She’s a dear little soul, the sweetest and dearest and best in the +world. I hope Tom Arundel will appreciate her and make the little thing happy. +I would have done my best, but somehow I feel that Tom is the better man, so +far as Marjorie is concerned.” +</p> + +<p> +Grey eyes, not disdainful and cold and scornful, but soft, and filled with +kindliness and gentleness, banished all memory of Marjorie’s pretty pathetic +blue eyes. Why, Hugh thought, had that girl looked at him like that for just +one moment? Why had she appeared for that instant so different? It was as if a +cold and bitter mask had fallen from her face, and he had had a peep at the +true—the real woman, the woman all love and tenderness and gentleness, behind +it. +</p> + +<p> +“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter,” said Hugh. “I’ve done what I believed to be the +right thing. She turned me down; the affair is now closed, and we’ll think of +something else.” +</p> + +<p> +But it was not easy. At his dinner, which he took in solitary state, he had a +companion, a girl with grey eyes and flushed cheeks who sat opposite to him at +the table. She said nothing, but she looked at him, and the beauty of her +intoxicated him, and the smile of her found an answer on his own lips. She ate +nothing, nor did the waiter see her; so far as the waiter was concerned, there +was an empty chair, but Hugh Alston saw her. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” he asked, “why can you look like that, and yet be so different? That +look in your eyes makes you the most beautiful and wonderful thing in this +world, and yet...” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed softly to himself. He was uttering his thoughts aloud, and the +unromantic waiter stared at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg your pardon, sir?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right!” Hugh said. “What won the three-thirty?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think there was any racing to-day, sir,” the man said. +</p> + +<p> +He went away, not completely satisfied as to this visitor’s sanity, and Hugh +drifted back into dreams and memories. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very wonderful,” he said to himself, “yet you made me very angry; you +hurt me and made me furious. I called you ungenerous, and I meant it, and so +you were. Yet when you look at me with your eyes like that and the colour in +your cheeks, I can’t find one word to say against you.” +</p> + +<p> +He went to the theatre that night. It was a successful play. All London was +talking of it, but Hugh Alston never remembered what it was about. He was +thinking of a girl with cold disdainful looks that changed suddenly to softness +and tenderness. She sat beside him as she had sat opposite to him at dinner. On +the stage the actors talked meaningless stuff; nothing was real, save this girl +beside him. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter with you, my good fellow, is,” Hugh said to himself, as he +walked back to the hotel that night, “you’re a fickle man; you don’t know your +own mind. A week ago you were dreaming of Marjorie; you considered blue eyes +the most beautiful thing in the world. You would not have listened to the +claims of eyes of any other colour, and now—Bless her dear little heart, she’ll +be happy as the day is long with Tom Arundel, with his nice fair hair parted +down the middle, and her pretty scented notepaper. Of course she’ll be happy. +She would have been miserable at Hurst Dormer, and so should I have been; +seeing her miserable, I should have been miserable myself. But I shall go back +to Hurst Dormer to-morrow and start on that renovation work. It will give me +something to occupy my time and attention.” +</p> + +<p> +That night, much to his surprise, Hugh found he could not sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the strange bed,” he said. “It’s the noise of the London streets.” +Sleeplessness had never troubled him before, but to-night he rolled and tossed +from side to side, and then at last he sat bolt upright in the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord!” he said. “Good Lord, it can’t be!” He stared into the thick +darkness and saw an oval face, crowned by waving brown hair, that glinted gold +in the highlights. He saw a sweet, womanly, tender, smiling mouth and a pair of +grey eyes that seemed to burn into his own. +</p> + +<p> +“It can’t be!” he said again. And yet it was! +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX<br/> +THE PEACEMAKER</h2> + +<p> +“Bless my soul!” said General Bartholomew. He had turned to the last page and +looked at the signature. “Alicia Linden! I haven’t heard a word of her for five +and twenty years. A confoundedly handsome girl she was too. Hudson, where’s my +glasses?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, General,” said the young secretary. +</p> + +<p> +The General put them on. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear George,” he read. +</p> + +<p> +It was a long letter, four pages closely written in Lady Linden’s strong, +almost masculine hand. +</p> + +<p> +“...I remember that when she visited me years ago, she told that me you were an +old friend of her father’s. This being so, I think you should combine with me +in trying to bring these two wrong-headed young people together. I have +quarrelled with Hugh Alston, so I can do nothing at the moment; but you, being +on the spot so to speak, in London, and Hugh I understand also being in +London...” +</p> + +<p> +“What the dickens is the woman drivelling about?” the General demanded. +“Hudson!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Read this letter carefully, digest it, and then briefly explain to me what the +dickens it is all about.” +</p> + +<p> +The secretary took the letter and read it carefully. +</p> + +<p> +“This letter is from Lady Linden, of Cornbridge Manor House, Cornbridge. She is +deeply interested in a young lady, Miss Joan Meredyth. At least—” Hudson +paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, pretty little Joan Meredyth—old Tom Meredyth’s girl. Yes, go on!” +</p> + +<p> +“Three years ago,” Hudson went on, “Miss Meredyth was married in secret to a +Mr. Hugh Alston—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh Alston, of course—bless me, I know of Hugh Alston! Isn’t he the son of +old George Alston, of Hurst Dormer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that would be the man, sir. Her ladyship speaks of Mr. Alston’s house, +Hurst Dormer.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the man then, that’s the man!” said the General, delighted by his own +shrewdness. “So little Joan married him. Well, what about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“They parted, sir, almost at once, having quarrelled bitterly. Lady Linden does +not say what about, and they have never been together since. A little while ago +she received a letter from Miss Meredyth, as she still continues to call +herself, asking her assistance in finding work for her to do. And that reminds +me, General, that a similar letter was addressed to you by Miss Meredyth, which +I sent on to you at Harrogate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must have got there after I left. I never had it—go on!” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Linden urges you to do something for the young lady, and do all in your +power to bring her and Mr. Alston together. She says if you could effect a +surprise meeting between them, good may come of it. She is under the impression +that they will not meet intentionally. Miss Meredyth’s address is, 7 Bemrose +Square, and Mr. Alston is staying at The Northborough Hotel, St. James. Of +course, there is a good deal besides in the letter, General—” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course!” the General said. “There always is. Well, Hudson, we must do +something. I knew the girl’s father, and the boy’s too. Tom Meredyth was a fine +fellow, reckless and a spendthrift, by George! but as straight a man and as +true a gentleman as ever walked. And old George Alston was one of my best +friends, Hudson. We must do something for these two young idiots.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir!” said Hudson. “How shall we proceed?” +</p> + +<p> +The General did not answer; he sat deep in thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Hudson, I am getting to be a forgetful old fool,” he said. “I’m getting old, +that’s what it is. Before I went to Harrogate I was with Rankin, my solicitor. +He was talking to me about the Meredyths. I forget exactly what it was, but +there’s some money coming to the girl from Bob Meredyth, who went out to +Australia. No, I forget, but some money I know, and now the girl apparently +wants it, if she is asking for influence to get work. Go and ring Rankin up on +the telephone. Don’t tell him we know where Joan Meredyth is, but give him my +compliments, and ask him to repeat what he told me the other day.” +</p> + +<p> +Hudson went out. He was gone ten minutes, while the General dozed in a chair. +He was thinking of the past, of those good old days when he and Tom Meredyth, +the girl’s father, and George Alston, the lad’s father, were all young fellows +together. Ah, good old days, fine old days! When the young blood coursed strong +and hot in the veins, when there was no need of Harrogate waters, when the +limbs were supple and strong, and the eyes bright and clear. “And they are +gone,” the old man muttered—“both of them, and a lot of other good fellows +besides; and I am an old, old man, begad, an old fellow sitting here waiting +for my call to come and—” He paused, and looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Hudson?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been speaking to Mr. Rankin, sir. He wished me to tell you—” Hudson +paused; his face was a little flushed, as with some inward excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” +</p> + +<p> +“Before his death, which occurred six months ago, Mr. Robert Meredyth, who had +made a great deal of money in Australia, re-purchased the old Meredyth family +estate at Starden in Kent, Starden Hall, meaning to return to England, and take +up his residence there. Unfortunately, he died on board ship. His wife was +dead, his only son was killed in the war, and he had left the whole of his +fortune, about three hundred thousand pounds, and the Starden Hall Estate, to +his niece, Miss Joan Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +“By George! so the girl’s an heiress!” +</p> + +<p> +“And a very considerable one!” +</p> + +<p> +“We won’t say a word about it—not a word, Hudson. We’ll get the girl here, and +patch up this quarrel between her and her young husband. When that’s done we’ll +spring the news on ’em, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it would be a good idea, General,” Hudson said. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X<br/> +“IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING”</h2> + +<p> +Slotman leaned across his table. His eyes were glaring his face was flushed a +dusky red. +</p> + +<p> +Against the wall, her face white as death, but her eyes unafraid, the girl +stood staring at him, in silent amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“And you—you’ve given yourself airs, set yourself up to be all that you are +not! You’ve held me at arm’s length, and all the time—all the time you’re +nothing—nothing!” the man shouted. “I know all about you! I know that a man +offered you marriage to atone for the past—to atone—you hear me? I tell you I +know about you, and yet you dare—dare to give yourself airs—dare to pretend to +be a monument of innocence—you!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are mad!” the girl said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s it—mad—mad for you! Mad with love for you!” Slotman laughed +sharply. “I’m a fool—a blind, mad fool; but you’ve got me as no other woman +ever did. I tell you I know about you and the past, but it shall make no +difference. I repeat my offer now—I’ll marry you, in spite of everything!” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to Joan that a kind of madness came to her, born of her fear and her +horror of this man. +</p> + +<p> +She forced her way past him, and gained the door, how she scarcely remembered. +She could only recall a great and burning sense of rage and shame. She +remembered seeing, as in some distant vision, a man with scared eyes and +sagging jaw—a man who, an utter coward by nature, had given way at her +approach, whose passion had melted into fear—fear followed later by senseless +rage against himself and against her. +</p> + +<p> +So she had made her retreat from the office of Mr. Philip Slotman, and had +shaken the dust of the place off her feet. +</p> + +<p> +It was all very well to bear up and show a brave and determined face to the +enemy, to give no sign of weakness when the danger threatened. But now, alone +in her own room in the lodging-house, she broke down, as any sensitive, highly +strung woman might. +</p> + +<p> +Joan looked at her face in the glass. She looked at it critically. Was it the +face, she asked herself, of a girl who invited insult? For insult on insult had +been heaped on her. She had been made the butt of one man’s senseless joke or +lie, whatever it might be; the butt of another man’s infamous passion. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said, “Oh!” She clasped her cheeks between her hands, and stared at +her reflection with wide grey eyes. “I hate myself! I hate this face of mine +that invites such—such—” She shuddered, and moaned softly to herself. +</p> + +<p> +Beauty, why should women want it, unless they are rich and well placed, +carefully protected? Beauty to a poor girl is added danger. She would be a +thousand, a million times better and happier without it. +</p> + +<p> +She grew calmer presently. She must think. To-morrow the money for her board +here would be due, and she had not enough to pay. She would not ask Slotman for +the wages for this week, never would she ask anything of that man, never see +him again. +</p> + +<p> +Then what lay before her? She sat down and put her elbows on the dressing table +with its dingy cheap lace cover, and in doing so her eyes fell on a letter, a +letter that had been placed here for her. +</p> + +<p> +It was from General Bartholomew, an answer to the appeal she had written him at +the same time that she had written to Lady Linden. It came now, kindly, +friendly and even affectionate, at the very eleventh hour. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“I was away, my dear child, when your letter came. It was forwarded to +Harrogate to me. Now I am back in London again. Your father was my very dear +friend; his daughter has a strong claim on me, so pack your things, my dear, +and come to me at once. I am an old fellow, old enough to have been your +father’s father, and the little note that I enclose must be accepted, as it is +offered, in the same spirit of affection. It will perhaps settle your immediate +necessities. To-morrow morning I shall send for you, so have all your things +ready, and believe me.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Yours affectionately,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“GEORGE BARTHOLOMEW.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +She cried over the letter, the proud head drooped over it; bright tears +streamed from the grey eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Could Hugh Alston have seen her now, her face softened by the gladness and the +gratitude that had come to her, he would have seen in her the woman of his +dreams. +</p> + +<p> +The banknote would clear everything. She did not scruple to accept it in the +spirit of affection in which it was offered. It would have been churlish and +false pride to refuse. +</p> + +<p> +He had said that he would send for her when the morning came; he had taken it +for granted that she would go, and there was no need to answer the letter. And +when the morning came she was ready and waiting, her things packed, her last +bill to Mrs. Wenham paid. +</p> + +<p> +The maid came tapping on the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Someone waiting for you, miss, in the drawing-room.” +</p> + +<p> +Joan went down. It would be the old fellow, the warm-hearted old man himself +come to fetch her! She entered the big ugly room, with its dingy wall-paper and +threadbare carpet, its oleographs in tarnished frames, its ancient centre +ottoman, its elderly piano and unsafe, uncertain chairs. How she hated this +room, where of evenings the ‘paying guests’ distorted themselves. +</p> + +<p> +But she came into it now eagerly, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and hand +held out, only to draw back with sudden chill. +</p> + +<p> +It was Mr. Philip Slotman who rose from the ottoman. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, I’ve come to tell you I am sorry, sorry and ashamed,” he said. “I was +mad. I want you to forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“There need be no talk of forgiveness,” she said. “You are the type of man one +can perhaps forget—never forgive!” +</p> + +<p> +He winced a little, and his face changed to a dusky red. +</p> + +<p> +“I said more than I meant to say. But what I said, after all, was right enough. +I know more about you than I think you guess. I know about that fellow, +that—what’s his name?—Alston—who came. I know why he came.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a friend of his, perhaps? I am not surprised.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw him before in my life, but I know all about him—and you—all the +same. He was willing to act fairly to you after all, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“What is this to do with you?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“A lot!” he said thickly. “A lot! Look here!” He took another step towards her. +“Last night I behaved like a mad fool. I—I said more than I meant to say. I—I +saw you, and I thought of that fellow—and—and you, and it drove me mad!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” She was looking at him with calm eyes of contempt, the same look that +she had given to Hugh Alston at their last meeting. +</p> + +<p> +“Why—why?” he said. “Why?” He clenched his hands. “You know why, you know I +love you! I want you! I’ll marry you! I’ll dig a hole and bury the past in +it—curse the past! I’ll say nothing more, Joan. I swear before Heaven I’ll +never try and dig up the past again. I forgive everything!” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you forgive everything?” Her eyes blazed. “What have you to forgive? What +right have you to tell me that you forgive—me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t let you go, I can’t! Joan, I tell you I’ll never throw the past in +your face. I’ll forget Alston and—” +</p> + +<p> +The door behind the girl opened, the maid appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss,” she said, “there’s a car waiting down below. The man says he is from +General Bartholomew, and he has come for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. I am coming now. My luggage is ready, Annie. Can you get someone to +carry it down?” +</p> + +<p> +Joan moved to the door. She looked back at Slotman. “I hope,” she said quietly, +“that we shall never meet again, Mr. Slotman, and I wish you good morning!” And +then she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman walked to the window. He looked down and saw a car, by no means a cheap +car, and he knew the value of things, none better. He waited, unauthorised +visitor as he now was, and saw the girl come out, saw the liveried chauffeur +touch his cap to her and hold the door for her, saw her enter. Presently he saw +luggage brought down and placed on the roof of the limousine, and then the car +drove away. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll be hanged! And who the +dickens is General Bartholomew? And why should she go to him, luggage and all? +Is it anything to do with that fellow Alston? Has she accepted his offer after +all?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” +</p> + +<p> +The General put his two hands on Joan’s shoulders. He looked at her, and then +he kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very welcome, my dear,” he said. “I blame myself, I do indeed. I ought +to have found out where you were long ago. Your father was one of my dearest +friends, God rest his soul. I knew him well, and his dear little wife too—your +mother, my child, one of the loveliest women I ever saw. And you are like her, +as like her as a daughter can be like her mother. Bless my heart, it takes me +back when I see you, takes me back to the day when Tom married her, the +loveliest girl—but I am forgetting, I am forgetting. You’ve brought your +things?” he asked. “Hudson, where’s Hudson? Ring for Mrs. Weston, that’s my +housekeeper, child. She’ll look after you. And now you are here, you will stay +here with us for a long time, a very long time. It can’t be too long, my dear. +I am a lonely old man, but we’ll do our best to make you happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” Joan said softly, “that you have done that already! Your welcome and +your kindness, have made me happier than I have been for a very, very long +time.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI<br/> +THE GENERAL CALLS ON HUGH</h2> + +<p> +Hugh Alston lingered in London, why, he would not admit, even to himself. In +reality he had lingered on in the hope of seeing Joan Meredyth again. How he +should see her, where and when, he had not the faintest idea; but he wanted to +see her even more than he wanted to see Hurst Dormer. +</p> + +<p> +He had thought of going to the city and calling on Mr. Philip Slotman again. +But he had not liked Mr. Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +“If I see her, she will only suggest that I am annoying and insulting her,” +Hugh thought. “I suppose I thought that I was doing a very fine and very clever +thing in asking her to be my wife!” His face burned at the thought. He had +meant it well; but, looking back, it struck him that he had acted like a +conceited fool. He had thought to make all right, by bestowing all his +possessions and his person on her, and she had put him in his place, had +declined even without thanks. +</p> + +<p> +“And serve me jolly well right!” Hugh said. “Who?” he added aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentleman, sir—General Bartholomew,” said the hotel page. +</p> + +<p> +“And who on earth is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Short, stout gentleman, sir, white whiskers.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s quite satisfactory then; I’ll see him,” said Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +He found the General in the lounge. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re Hugh Alston,” said the General. “I’d know you anywhere. You are your +father over again. I hope that you are as good a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could think so,” Hugh said, “but I can’t!” He shook hands with the +General. He had a dim recollection of the old fellow, as one of his father’s +friends, who in the old days, when he was a child, had come down to Hurst +Dormer; but the recollection was dim. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you find me out here, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ha! That’s it—just a piece of luck! The name struck me—Alston—I thought of +George Alston. I said to myself, ‘Can this be his boy?’ And you are, eh? George +Alston, of Hurst Dormer.” +</p> + +<p> +The General rambled on, but he forgot to explain to Hugh how it was that he had +found him out at the Northborough Hotel, and presently Hugh forgot to enquire, +which was what the General wanted. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll dine with me to-night, eh? I won’t take no—understand. I want to talk +over old times!” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought of returning to Sussex to-night,” said Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Not to be thought of! I can’t let you go! I shall expect you at seven.” +</p> + +<p> +The old fellow seemed to be so genuinely anxious, so kindly, so friendly, that +Hugh had not the heart to refuse him. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, sir; it is good of you. I’ll come, I’ll put off going till +to-morrow. I remember you well now, you used to come for the shooting when I +was a nipper.” +</p> + +<p> +Not till after the old fellow had gone did Hugh wonder how he had unearthed him +here in the Northborough Hotel. He had meant to ask him—he had asked him +actually, and the General had not explained. But it did not matter, after all. +Some coincidence, some easily understandable explanation, of course, would +account for it. +</p> + +<p> +“And to-morrow I shall go back,” Hugh thought, as he drove to the General’s +house in a taxicab. “I shall go back to Hurst Dormer, I shall get busy doing +something and forget everything that I don’t want to remember.” +</p> + +<p> +But his thoughts were with the girl he had seen last in Mr. Slotman’s office. +And he saw her in memory as he had seen her for one brief instant of +time—softened and sweetened by some thought, some influence that had come to +her for a moment. What influence, what thought, he could not tell; yet, as she +had been then, so he saw her always and remembered her. +</p> + +<p> +A respectful manservant took Hugh’s coat and hat; he led the way, and flung a +door wide. +</p> + +<p> +“General Bartholomew will be with you in a few moments, sir,” he said; and Hugh +found himself in a large, old-fashioned London drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” Hugh was thinking, “Hurst Dormer—work, something to occupy my +thoughts till I can forget. It is going to take a lot of forgetting, I suppose +I shall feel more or less a cad all my life, though Heaven knows—” +</p> + +<p> +He swung round suddenly. The door had opened; he heard the swish of skirts, and +knew it could not be General Bartholomew. +</p> + +<p> +But who it would be he could not have guessed to save his life. They met again +for the third time in their lives. At sight of him the girl had started and +flushed, had instinctively drawn back. Now she stood still, regarding him with +a steadfast stare, the colour slowly fading from her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +And Hugh stood silent, dumbfounded, astonishment clearly shown on his face. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII<br/> +“I TAKE NOT ONE WORD BACK”</h2> + +<p> +“I will do you the justice, Mr. Alston, to believe that you did not anticipate +this meeting?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will only be doing me justice if you do not believe it,” Hugh said. +</p> + +<p> +The girl bent her proud head. “I did not know that you were a friend of General +Bartholomew’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I till to-day, Miss Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh explained that he had not seen the General since he was a child, till the +General had unearthed him at the Northborough Hotel that afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +Joan frowned. Why had the General done that? Why had he, not three minutes ago, +patted her on the shoulder, smiled on her, and told her to run down and wait +for him in the drawing-room? Suddenly her face burned with a glowing colour. It +seemed as if all the world were in league together against her. But this time +this man was surely innocent. She had seen the look of astonishment on his +face, and knew it for no acting. +</p> + +<p> +“I came here yesterday,” she said quietly, “in response to a warm invitation +from the General, who was my father’s friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father’s too!” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I wanted a home, a friend, and I accepted his invitation eagerly, but since +you have come—” +</p> + +<p> +“My presence makes this house impossible for you, of course,” Hugh said, and +his voice was bitter. “Listen to me, I may never have an opportunity of +speaking to you again, Joan.” He used her Christian name, scarcely realising +that he did so. +</p> + +<p> +“You feel bitterly towards me, and with reason. You have made up your mind that +I have deliberately annoyed and insulted you. If you ask me to explain what I +did and why I did it, I cannot do so. I have a reason. One day, if I am +permitted, I shall be glad to tell you everything. I came here to London like a +fool, a senseless, egotistical fool, thinking I should be doing a fine thing, +and could put everything right by asking you to become my wife in reality. I +can see now what sort of a figure I made of myself, and how I must have +appeared to you when I was bragging of my possessions. I suppose I lack a sense +of humour, Joan, or there’s something wrong with me somewhere. Believe me, +senseless and crude as it all was, my intentions were good. I only succeeded in +sinking a little lower, if possible, in your estimation, and now I wish to ask +your pardon for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad,” she said quietly, “that you understand now—” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, and I have felt shame for it. I shall feel better now that I have asked +you to forgive. Joan,” he went on passionately, “listen! A fool is always hard +to separate from his folly. But listen! That day when I saw you in the City, +when I made my egregious proposal to you—just for a moment you were touched, +something appealed to you. I do not know what it was—my folly, my immense +conceit—for which perhaps you pitied me. But it was something, for that one +moment I saw you change. The hard look went from your face, a colour came into +your cheeks, your eyes grew soft and tender—just for one moment—” +</p> + +<p> +“What does all this—” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, listen! Let me speak! It may be my last chance. I tell you I saw you +as I know you must be—the real woman, not the hard, the condemning judge that +you have been to me. And as I saw you for that one moment, I have remembered +you and pictured you in my thoughts; and seeing you in memory I have grown to +love that woman I saw, to love her with all my heart and soul.” +</p> + +<p> +Love! It dawned on her, this man, who had made a sport of her name, was +offering her love now! Love! she sickened at the very thought of it—the word +had been profaned by Philip Slotman’s lips. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe,” she thought, “I believe that there is no such thing as love—as +holy love, as true, good, sweet love! It is all selfish passion and ugliness!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just now, Mr. Alston”—her voice was cold and scornful, and it chilled him, as +one is chilled by a drenching with cold water—“just now you said perhaps you +lacked humour. I do not think it is that, I think you have a sense of humour +somewhat perverted. Of course, you are only carrying this—this joke one step +further—” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan!” +</p> + +<p> +“And as you drove me from Cornbridge Manor, I suppose you will now drive me +from this house. Am I to find peace and refuge nowhere, nowhere?” +</p> + +<p> +“If—if you could be generous!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +She flushed with anger. “You have called me ungenerous before! Am I always to +be called ungenerous by you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me!” His eyes were filled with pleading. He did not know himself, did +not recognise the old, happy-go-lucky Hugh Alston, who had accepted many a hard +knock from Fate with a smile and a jest. +</p> + +<p> +“And so I am to be driven from this home, this refuge—by you?” she said +bitterly. “Oh, have you no sense of manhood in you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have. You shall not be driven away. I, of course, am the one to go. +Through me you left Cornbridge, you shall not have to leave this house. I +promise you, swear to you, that I shall not darken these doors again. Is that +enough? Does that content you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall have at least something at last to thank you for,” she said +coldly. And yet, though she spoke coldly, she looked at him and saw something +in his face that made her lip tremble. Yet in no other way did she betray her +feelings, and he, like the man he was, was of course blind. +</p> + +<p> +It was strange how long they had been left alone, uninterrupted. The +strangeness of it did not occur to him, yet it did to her. She turned to the +door. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, wait,” he pleaded—“wait! One last word! One day I shall hope to explain +to you, then perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive. For the blunder +that I made in Slotman’s office, for the further insult, if you look on it as +such, I ask you to forgive me now. It was the act of a senseless fool, a mad +fool, who had done wrong and tried to do right, and through his folly made +matters worse. To-night perhaps I have sinned more than ever before in telling +you that I love you. But if that is a sin and past all forgiveness, I glory in +it. I take not one word of it back. I shall trouble you no more, and so”—he +paused—“so I say good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye!” He held out his hand to her, but she looked him full in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye!” she said, and then turned quickly, and in a moment the door was +closed between them. +</p> + +<p> +He did not see her hurry away, her hands pressed against her breast. He did not +see the face, all womanly and sweet, and soft and tender now. He had only the +memory of her brief farewell, the memory of her cold, steady eyes—nothing else +beside. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br/> +THE GENERAL CONFESSES</h2> + +<p> +“My dear, my dear, life is short. I am an old man, and yet looking back it +seems but yesterday since I was a boy beginning life. Climbing the hill, my +dear, climbing the hill; and when the top was gained, when I stood there in my +young manhood, I thought that the world belonged to me. And then the descent, +so easy and so swift. The years seem long when one is climbing, but they are as +weeks when the top is passed and the descent into the valley begins.” He +paused. He passed his hand across his forehead. “I meant to speak of something +else, of you, child, of your life, of love and happiness, and of those things +that should be dear to all us humans.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing of love, and of happiness but very, very little,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand and held it. “You shall know of both!” he promised. “There is +strife, there is ill-feeling between you and that lad, your husband.” +</p> + +<p> +She wrenched her hand free, her face flushed gloriously. +</p> + +<p> +“You!” she cried. “You too !” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I too! I sought him out yesterday, and asked him to this house on purpose +that you and he should meet, praying that the meeting might bring peace to you +both. I knew the lad’s father as I knew yours. Alicia Linden wrote to me and +told me all about this unhappy marriage of yours. She told me that she loved +you both, that you were both good, that life might be made very happy for you +two, but for this misunderstanding—” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t!—don’t. Oh, General Bartholomew, how can I make you understand? It is +untrue—I am not his wife! I have never been his wife. It was a lie! some +foolish joke of his that he will not or cannot explain!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, blinking like one who suddenly finds himself in strong light +after the twilight or darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Not—not married?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw that man in my life before I met him at Lady Linden’s house, not +two weeks ago. All that he has said about our marriage, his and mine, are +foolish lies, something beyond my understanding!” +</p> + +<p> +The General waved his hands helplessly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all extraordinary! Where can that foolish old woman have got hold of +this story? What’s come to her? She used to be a very clear-minded—” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not she, it is the man—the liar!” Joan cried bitterly. “I tell you I +don’t understand the reason for it. I cannot understand, I don’t believe there +is any reason. I believe that it is his idea of humour—I can’t even think that +he wanted to annoy and shame and anger me as he has, because we were utter +strangers.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood at the window, looking out into the dull, respectable square. She saw +a man ascend the steps and ring on the hall door-bell, but he did not interest +her. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall find work to do,” she said, “soon. I am grateful to you for—for taking +me in, for giving me asylum here for a time—very, very grateful. I know that +you meant well when you brought that man and me face to face last night—that +man—” She paused. +</p> + +<p> +She could see him now, that man with eager and earnest pleading in his eyes, +with hands outstretched to her, as he told her of his love. And seeing him in +memory, there came into her cheeks that flush that he had seen and remembered, +and into her eyes the dewy, softness that banished all haughtiness, and made +her for the moment the tender woman that she was. +</p> + +<p> +“So,” she said, “so I shall find work to do, and I will go out again and earn +my living and—” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be no need!” the General said. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot stop here and live on your charity!” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be no need,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Rankin,” announced a servant. The door had opened, and the man she had +been watching came in. +</p> + +<p> +He shook hands with the General. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, this is Mr. Rankin. Rankin, this is Miss Joan Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned to him and bowed slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“You will allow me to congratulate you, Miss Meredyth. Believe me, it is a +great happiness to me that at last, after much diligent seeking, I have, thanks +to the General here, found you. General—you have told her?” He broke off, for +there was a puzzled look in the girl’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Told her nothing—nothing,” said the General; “that’s your business.” +</p> + +<p> +Strangely, their words aroused little or no curiosity in her mind. What was it +she had been told or not told, she did not know. Somehow she did not care. She +saw a pair of pleading eyes, she saw the colour rise in a man’s cheeks. She saw +an outstretched hand, held pleadingly to her, and she had repulsed that hand in +disdain. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Rankin was talking. +</p> + +<p> +“Your uncle, on his way back to this country, died on board ship. His only son +was killed, poor fellow, in the War. There was no one else, the will leaves +everything to you unconditionally. Through myself he had purchased the old +place, Starden Hall, only a few months before his death, and it was his +intention to live there. So the house and the money become yours, Miss +Meredyth. There is Starden, and the income of roughly fifteen thousand a year, +all unconditionally yours.” +</p> + +<p> +And listening, dazed for the moment, there came into her mind an unworthy +thought—a thought that brought a sense of shame to her, yet the thought had +come. +</p> + +<p> +Did that man—last night—know of this, of this fortune when he had told her that +he loved her? +</p> + +<p> +A few days had passed, days that had found Joan fully occupied with the many +matters connected with her inheritance. +</p> + +<p> +To-day she and the old General were talking in the drawing-room of the +General’s house. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, if you prefer it and wish it, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do!” said Joan. “I see no reason why Lady Linden should be in any way +interested in me and my affairs. I prefer that you should tell her nothing at +all. I was very fond of Marjorie, she is a dear little thing, and Lady Linden +was very kind to me once, that is why I wrote to her. But now I would sooner +forget it all. I shall go down to Starden and live.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no one, so I must be alone! Mr. Rankin says that all the business +formalities will be completed this week, and there will be nothing to keep me. +Mrs. Norton, the housekeeper at Starden, says the house is all ready, so I +thought of going down at the beginning of next week!” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” the old man repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Since I am alone, I must go alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, I am an old fellow, and likely to be in the way, but if—my +society—would—” +</p> + +<p> +Joan smiled, and the smile transfigured her. It brought tenderness and +sweetness to the young face that adversity had somewhat hardened. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I won’t be selfish, dear,” she said gently. “You would hate it; you are at +home here, and you have all you want. There you would be unhappy and +uncomfortable; but I do thank you very, very gratefully.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t go alone, child. Why bless me, there’s my niece Helen Everard. +She’s a widow, her husband’s people live close to Starden at Buddesby. If only +for a time, let me arrange with her to go with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you like,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll write to her at once,” the General said, and Joan nodded, little dreaming +what the sending of that letter might mean to her. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br/> +THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL</h2> + +<p> +For a while the unrighteous may bask in the sunshine of prosperity, but there +comes a time of reckoning, more especially in the City of London, and things +were at this moment shaping ill for Mr. Philip Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +He stood at the door of the general office and surveyed his clerks. There were +five of them; at the end of the week there would be but two, he decided. Next +week probably there would be only one. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Slotman!” It was a business acquaintance, who had dropped in to discuss +the financial position. +</p> + +<p> +“Things all right? +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing to complain about,” said Slotman, who did not believe in crying +stinking fish. Credit meant everything to him, and it was for that reason he +wore very nice clothes and more jewellery than good taste warranted. +</p> + +<p> +In Mr. Slotman’s inner office he and his friend, Mr. James Bloomberg, lighted +expensive cigars. +</p> + +<p> +“So the pretty typist has gone, of course?” said Bloomberg. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman started. “You mean—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth; I’ve heard about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“About her. What?” +</p> + +<p> +Bloomberg drew at his cigar. “Of course you know she’s come into money, a pot +of money and a fine place down in the country. Uncle died, left a will—that +sort of thing. Rankin acts for me, a sound man. I was talking to him the other +day, and your name cropped up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” said Slotman. The cigar shook between, his finger and thumb. “My name +cropped up?” +</p> + +<p> +“And Rankin was interested, as a young lady he was acting for had just come +into a pot of money and a fine place down in Kent, and he had heard that she +used to be employed by you. Ah, ha!” Bloomberg laughed. “You oughtn’t to have +let her slip away, old man. She was as pretty as a peach, and now with some +hundreds of thousands she will be worth while, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so,” Slotman said, apparently indifferently. “And did you hear the +name of the place she had come into?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did. Something—Den—all places in Kent are something or other—Den. Oh, +Starden! That’s it! Well, I must go. But tell me, what’s your opinion about +those Calbary Reef Preferentials?” +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later Slotman was alone, frowning at thought. If it were true, then +indeed the luck had been against him. Even without money he had been willing, +more than willing to marry Joan, in spite of the past, of which he knew +nothing, but suspected much. Yes, he would have married her. +</p> + +<p> +“She got hold of me,” he muttered, “and I can’t leave off thinking of her, and +now she is an heiress, and Heaven knows I want money. If I had a chance, if—” +He paused. +</p> + +<p> +For a long while Mr. Philip Slotman sat in deep thought. About Joan Meredyth +there was a mystery, and it was a mystery that might be well worth solving. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll hunt it out,” he muttered. “I’ll have to work back. Let me see, there was +that old General—General—?” +</p> + +<p> +He frowned, Ah! he had it now, for his memory was a good one. +</p> + +<p> +“General Bartholomew! That was the name,” Slotman muttered. “And that is where +I commence my hunt!” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV<br/> +“TO THE MANNER BORN”</h2> + +<p> +Starden Hall was one of those half-timbered houses in the possession of which +Kent and Sussex are rich. It was no great mansion, but a comfortable, rambling +old house, that had been built many a generation ago, and had been added to as +occasion required by thoughtful owners, who had always borne in mind the +architecture and the atmosphere of the original, and so to-day it covered a +vast quantity of ground, being but one storey high, and about it spread flower +gardens and noble park-land that were delights to the eye. +</p> + +<p> +And this place was hers. It belonged to her, the girl who a few short weeks ago +had been earning three pounds a week in a City office, and whose nightmare had +been worklessness and starvation. +</p> + +<p> +Helen Everard watched the girl closely. “To the manner born,” she thought. And +yet there was that about Joan that she would have altered, a coldness, an +aloofness. Too often the beautiful mouth was set and hard, never cruel, yet +scornful. Too often those lustrous eyes looked coldly out on to a world that +was surely smiling on her now. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s something—” the elder woman thought, for she was a clever and capable +woman—a woman who could see under the surface of things, a woman who had loved +and suffered, and had risen triumphant over misfortunes, which had been so many +and so dire that they might have crushed a less valiant spirit. +</p> + +<p> +General Bartholomew had explained briefly: +</p> + +<p> +“The child is alone in the world. There is something I don’t quite understand, +Helen. It is about a marriage—” The old gentleman paused. “Look here, I’ll tell +you. I had a letter from Lady Linden, an old friend, and she begged me to find +Joan and bring her and her young husband together again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then she is married?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, that is, I—I don’t know. ’Pon my soul, I don’t know—can’t make head or +tail of it! She says she isn’t, and, by George! she isn’t a girl who would lie; +but if she isn’t—well, I’m beaten, Helen. I can’t make it out. At any rate, I +did bring her and the lad, and a fine lad he is too, George Alston’s son, +together. And he left the house without seeing me, and afterwards the girl told +me that he was practically a stranger to her, and that there had never been any +marriage at all. At the same time she asked me not to write to Lady Linden, and +she said that it was no business of hers, which was true, come to that. And +so—so now she’s come into this money, and she is utterly alone in the world, +and wants to go to Starden to live—why, my dear—” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” Helen said. “I shall be glad to go there for a time you know; it’s +Alfred’s country.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remembered that.” +</p> + +<p> +“John Everard is living at Buddesby with his sister Constance. They are two of +the dearest people—the children, you know, of Alfred’s brother Matthew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes, to be sure,” said the old gentleman, who was not in the slightest +degree interested. +</p> + +<p> +“And they will be nice for your Joan Meredyth to know,” said Mrs. Everard. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, that’s it! Take her about; let her see people, young people. Make +her enjoy herself, and forget the past. I don’t know what the past held. Joan +is not one to make confidants; but I fancy that her past, poor child, has held +more suffering than she cares to talk about. So try and make her forget it. Get +the Everards over from Buddesby, or take her there; let her see people. But you +know, you know, my dear. You’re a capable woman!” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, she was a capable woman, far more capable than even General Bartholomew +realised. Clever and capable, kindly and generous of nature, and the girl +interested her. It was only interest at first. Joan was not one to invite a +warm affection in another woman at the outset. Her manner was too cold, too +uninviting, and yet there was nothing repellent about it. It was as if, wounded +by contact with the world, she had withdrawn behind her own defences. She, who +had suffered insult and indignity, looked on all the world with suspicious, shy +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I will break down her reserve. I think she is lovable and sweet when once one +can force her to throw aside this mask,” Helen Everard thought. +</p> + +<p> +So they had come to Starden together. +</p> + +<p> +Joan had said little when she had first looked over the place; but Helen, +watching her, saw a tinge of colour come into her cheeks, and her breast rise +and fall quickly, which proved that Joan was by no means so unmoved as she +would appear. +</p> + +<p> +It was her home, the home of her people. It was to-day almost as it had been a +hundred years ago, and a hundred years before that, and even a hundred years +earlier still. +</p> + +<p> +The low-pitched, old-fashioned rooms, with the mullioned windows, the deep +embrasures, the great open, stone-slabbed hearths, with their andirons and +dog-grates, the walls panelled with carved linen-fold oak, darkened by age +alone and polished to a dull, glossy glow by hands that would work no more. +</p> + +<p> +Through these rooms, each redolent of the past, each breathing of a kindly, +comfortable home-life, the girl went, looking about her with eyes that saw +everything and yet seemed to see nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“You like it, dear?” Helen asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all wonderful, beautiful!” Joan said, and yet she spoke with a touch of +sadness in her voice.... “How—how lonely one might be here!” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you must not think of loneliness; you will never be lonely, my dear. If +you are, it will be of your own choice!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows?” Joan smiled sadly. She was thinking of a man who had told her that +he loved her. There had been more than one, but the one man stood out clear and +distinct from all others; she could even remember the words he had used. +</p> + +<p> +“If, in telling you that I love you, I have sinned past all forgiveness, I +glory in it, and I take not one word of it back.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet how could he love her? How could he, when he had insulted her, when he had +used her name, as he had, when he had humiliated and shamed her, how could he +profess to love her? And they had met but three times in their lives. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, dear,” Helen Everard said, “Joan!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes? I am sorry, I—I was thinking.” Joan looked up. +</p> + +<p> +Helen had come into the room, an open letter in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I wrote to John and Constance Everard, my nephew and niece,” Helen said. “I +told them I was here with you, and asked them to come over. They are coming +to-morrow, dear. I think you will like them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I shall,” Joan said; but there was no enthusiasm in her voice, only +cold politeness that seemed to chill a little. +</p> + +<p> +“I glory in it,” she was thinking, “and take not one word of it back.” She +shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and turned away. +</p> + +<p> +“What time will they be coming, Helen?” she asked, for she had made up her +mind. She would think no more of this man, and remember no more of his +speeches. She would wipe him out of her memory. Life for her would begin again +here in Starden, and the past should hold nothing, nothing, nothing! +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br/> +ELLICE</h2> + +<p> +Buddesby, in the Parish of Little Langbourne, was a small place compared with +Starden Hall. Buddesby claimed to be nothing more than a farmhouse of a rather +exalted type. For generations the Everards had been gentlemen farmers, farming +their own land and doing exceedingly badly by it. +</p> + +<p> +Matthew, late owner of Buddesby, had taken up French gardening on a large +scale, and had squandered a great part of his capital on glass cloches, +fragments of which were likely to litter Buddesby for many a year to come. +</p> + +<p> +John, his son, had turned his back on intensive culture and had gone back to +the old family failing of hops. The Everard family had probably flung away more +money on hops than any other family in Kent. +</p> + +<p> +The Everards were not rich. The shabby, delightful old rooms, the tumble-down +appearance of the ancient house, the lack of luxuries proved it, but they were +exceedingly content. +</p> + +<p> +Constance was a slim, pale, fair-haired girl with a singularly sweet expression +and the temper, as her brother said often enough, of an angel. John Everard was +big and broad, brown-haired, ruddy complexioned. He regarded every goose as a +swan, and had unlimited belief in his land, his sister, and the future. There +was one other occupant of Buddesby, a slight slender, dark-haired girl, with a +thin, olive face, a pair of blazing black eyes, and a vividly red-lipped mouth. +</p> + +<p> +Eight years ago Matthew Everard had brought her home after a brief visit to +London. He had handed her over to eighteen-year-old Constance. +</p> + +<p> +“Look after the little one, Connie,” he had said. “There’s not a soul in the +world who wants her, poor little lass. Her father’s been dead years; her mother +died—last week.” He paused. “I knew them both.” That was all the information he +had ever given, so Ellice Brand had come to Buddesby, one more mouth to feed, +one more pair of feet to find shoes for. +</p> + +<p> +She had many faults; she was passionate and wilful, defiant and impatient of +even Connie’s gentle authority. But there was one who could quell her most +violent outburst with a word—one who had but to look at her to bring her to her +sane senses, one whom she would, dog-like, have followed to the end of the +world, from whom she would have accepted blows and kicks and curses without a +murmur, only that Johnny Everard was not in the habit of bestowing blows and +curses on young ladies. +</p> + +<p> +Constance was twenty-six, John, the master of Buddesby, was a year younger, and +Ellice was eighteen, her slender body as yet childish and unformed, her +gipsy-like face a little too thin. But there was beauty there, wonderful and +startling beauty that would one day blossom forth. It was in the bud as yet, +but the bud was near to opening. +</p> + +<p> +They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at Buddesby. +It was eight o’clock, and John had been afield for a couple of hours and had +come back with his appetite sharp set. +</p> + +<p> +They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely duties since +soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing of the +breakfast-bell. +</p> + +<p> +“A letter from Helen,” Constance said. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen? Oh, she’s got to Starden then?” said John. +</p> + +<p> +“And wants us to come over, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course! We’ll go over next week some time. I’m busy now with—” +</p> + +<p> +“It wouldn’t be kind not to go at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is Helen?” demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and then at +John. “Who is she?” A tinge of colour came into her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +Connie saw it, and sighed a little. She knew this girl’s secret, knew it only +too well. Many an hour of anxiety and worry it had caused her. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen is our aunt by marriage,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” Ellice said, “I thought—” +</p> + +<p> +John laughed. He had a jolly laugh, a great hearty laugh that did one good to +hear. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you think she was, gipsy girl?” he asked, for “gipsy” was his pet +name for the little dark beauty. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think she was some young and lovely damsel who was eager to meet me +again?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should hate her if she was!” the girl said, whereat John laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“Write to Helen, Con,” he said as he rose from the table, “and say we’ll come +over to-morrow.” He paused, frowning, at thought. “I’ll manage it somehow. I’ll +drive you over in the trap. It would be useful to have a car; I don’t know why +I put off getting one.” +</p> + +<p> +Constance did, and she smiled. “Wait till next year, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “Yes, next year we’ll get one. Meanwhile write to Helen, and tell +her we’ll be over to-morrow afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I?” Ellice asked. +</p> + +<p> +John looked at her. “Why—no, child, you’ll stop at home and look after the +house, eh?” He nodded to them and went out. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she there—alone?” Ellice asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Who, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“This Helen, your aunt. Is it usual to call your aunt just plain Helen?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I suppose it isn’t, and she is not there alone, as you ask. She is living +with a girl who has just come into a great deal of money—Miss Joan Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is she like?” the girl asked quickly. +</p> + +<p> +Constance smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, dear. You see, I have never seen her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I hope,” Ellice said between her clenched teeth, “I hope she is ugly, +ugly as sin!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Constance gently, “that you are very silly and foolish!” +</p> + +<p> +Yet when the morrow came it was Ellice and not Constance who sat beside John in +the trap, and was driven by him the six odd miles to Starden. For Constance had +one of “her headaches.” It was no imaginary ailment, but a headache that +prostrated her and filled her with pain, that made every sound an agony. She +lay in her room, the blinds drawn, and all the household hushed. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll write that we’ll go to-morrow, dear,” John said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, go to-day. I should be glad, Johnny. Go to-day and take Ellice, I am so +much better alone; and by the time you come home perhaps I shall have been able +to sleep it off.” +</p> + +<p> +So Johnny Everard drove Ellice over to Starden that afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +Helen Everard received them in the drawing-room. She was fond of Johnny Everard +and his sister. This dark-faced girl she did not know, though she had heard of +her. And now she looked at her with interest. It was an interesting face, such +a face as one does not ordinarily see. +</p> + +<p> +“One day, if she lives, she will be a beautiful woman,” Helen thought. “To-day +she is a gawky, passionate, ill-disciplined child; and I am afraid, terribly +afraid, she is very much in love with that great, cheery, good-looking nephew +of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” she said, “Joan is in the garden. I promised that when you came I would +take you to her. You have heard about her of course?” Helen added to John. +</p> + +<p> +“Only a little, that she is an heiress, and has come into Starden.” +</p> + +<p> +“She was very poor, poor child, and I think she had a hard and bitter time of +it. Then the wheel of fortune took a turn. Her uncle died, and left her Starden +and a great deal of money. So here she is.” +</p> + +<p> +Helen felt a hand grip her arm, and turned to look down into a thin face, in +which burned a pair of passionate eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she—pretty?” the girl asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” Helen said slowly, “that she is the most beautiful woman I have ever +seen.” +</p> + +<p> +Unlike his usual self, John Everard was very silent and thoughtful as he drove +home later that evening. Helen had said that Joan Meredyth was the most +beautiful woman she had ever seen. He agreed with her whole-heartedly. She had +received him and Ellice kindly, yet without much warmth, and now as he drove +home in the light of the setting sun Johnny Everard was thinking about this +girl, going over all that had happened, remembering every word almost that she +had uttered. +</p> + +<p> +“She is very beautiful, wonderfully beautiful,” he thought. And perhaps he +uttered his thoughts aloud, for the girl, as silent as himself, who sat beside +him, started and looked up into his face, and into the passionate, rebellious +heart of her there came a sudden wave of jealous hatred. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br/> +UNREST</h2> + +<p> +Lady Linden patted the girl’s small white hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, child,” she said comfortably, “Colonel Arundel and I had a nice long talk +last night, and you may guess what it was about. He and I were boy and girl +together, there’s no better blood in the kingdom than the Arundel’s—what was I +saying? Oh yes, we decided that it would be a good plan to have a two years’ +engagement, or better still, none for eighteen months, and then a six months’ +engagement. During that time Tom can study modern scientific farming and that +sort of thing, you know, and then when you and he are married, he could take +over these estates. I am heartily sick of Bilson, and I always fancy he is +robbing me—what did you say, child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, auntie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you ought to be a very happy little girl. Run away.” +</p> + +<p> +But Marjorie lingered. “Aunt, you haven’t heard anything of—of Hugh?” she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh—Hugh Alston? Good gracious, no! You don’t think I am going to run after +the man? I am disgusted with Hugh. His duplicity and, worse still, his +obstinate, foolish, unreasoning behaviour, have annoyed me more than anything I +ever remember. But there, my dear child, it is nothing to do with you. I have +quite altered my opinion of Hugh Alston. You were right and I was wrong. Tom +Arundel will make you a better husband, and you will be as happy as the day is +long with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t!” Marjorie thought as she turned away. It was wrong, and it was +unreasonable, and she knew it; but for the last four or five days there had +been steadily growing in Marjorie’s brain, an Idea. +</p> + +<p> +Stolen fruits are sweetest, stolen meetings, moonlit assignations, shy kisses +pressed on ardent young lips, when the world is shrouded in darkness and seems +to hold but two. All these things make for romance. The silvery moonlight gives +false values; the knowledge that one has slipped unseen from the house to meet +the beloved one, and that the doing of it is a brave and bold adventure, gives +a thrill that sets the heart throbbing and the young blood leaping—the +knowledge that it is forbidden, and, being forbidden, very sweet, appeals to +the young and romantic heart. +</p> + +<p> +But when that same beloved object, looking less romantic in correct evening +dress, is accepted smilingly by the powers that be, and is sate down to a large +and varied, many coursed dinner, then Romance shrugs her disgusted shoulders +and turns petulantly away. +</p> + +<p> +It was so with Marjorie. When the idea first came to her, she felt shocked and +amazed. It could not be! she said to herself. “I love Tom with all my heart and +soul, and now I am the happiest girl living.” +</p> + +<p> +But she was not, and she knew it. It was useless to tell herself that she was +the happiest girl living when night after night she lay awake, staring into the +darkness and seeing in memory a face that certainly did not belong to Tom +Arundel. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh Alston had commenced work on the restoration of certain parts of Hurst +Dormer. He had busied himself with the work, had entered whole-heartedly into +all the plans, had counted up the cost, and then, realising that all his +enthusiasm was only forced, that he was merely trying to cheat himself, he lost +interest and gave it up. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go to London,” he said. “I’ll go and see things, and try and get thoughts +of her out of my mind.” So he went, and found London even more uninteresting +than Hurst Dormer. +</p> + +<p> +He had promised that he would never molest her, never annoy her with his visits +or his presence, and he meant religiously to keep his word, and yet—if he could +just see her! She need not know! If he could from a distance feast his eyes on +her for one moment, on a sight of her, what harm would he do her or anyone? +</p> + +<p> +Hugh Alston did not recognise himself in this restless dissatisfied, unhappy +man, who took to loitering and wandering about the streets, haunting certain +places and keeping a sharp lookout for someone who might or might not come. +</p> + +<p> +So the days passed. He had gladdened his eyes three times with a view of old +General Bartholomew. He had seen that ancient man leaning on his stick, taking +a constitutional around the square. +</p> + +<p> +And that was all! He passed the house and watched, yet saw no sign of her. He +came at night-time, when tell-tale shadows might be thrown on the blinds, but +saw nothing, only the shadow of the General or of his secretary, never one that +might have been hers. +</p> + +<p> +And then he slowly came to the conclusion that Joan Meredyth could no longer be +there. It had taken him nearly a week to come to that decision. +</p> + +<p> +That Joan had left General Bartholomew’s house he was certain, but where was +she? He had no right to enquire, no right to hunt her down. If he knew where +she was, how could it profit him, for had he not promised to trouble her no +more? +</p> + +<p> +Yet still for all that he wanted to know, and casting about in his mind how he +might find her, he thought of Mr. Philip Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +It was possible that if she had left the General’s she had gone back to take up +her work with Slotman again. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll risk it,” he thought, and went to Gracebury and made his way to Slotman’s +office. +</p> + +<p> +It was a sadly depleted staff that he found in the general office. An ancient +man and a young boy represented Mr. Philip Slotman’s one-time large clerical +staff. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Slotman’s away, sir, down in the country—gone down to Sussex, sir,” said +the lad. +</p> + +<p> +“To Sussex? Will he be away long?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t say, sir; he may be back to-morrow,” the boy said. “At any rate, he’s +not here to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may come back to-morrow. You might tell him that Mr. Alston called.” And +Hugh turned away. +</p> + +<p> +Another disappointment. He realised now that he had built up quite a lot of +hope on his interview with Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I wait till to-morrow, or shall I go back to-day?” Hugh wondered. “This +is getting awful. I don’t seem to have a mind of my own, I can’t settle down to +a thing. I’ve got to get a grip on myself. How does the old poem go: ‘If she be +fair, but not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?’ That’s all right; but I +do care, and I can’t help it!” +</p> + +<p> +He had made his aimless way back to the West End of London. It was luncheon +time, and he was hesitating between a restaurant and an hotel. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go back to the hotel, get some lunch, pack up and leave by the five +o’clock train for Hurst Dormer,” he decided, and turned to hail a taxicab. +</p> + +<p> +And, turning, he came suddenly face to face with the girl who was ever in his +thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +She had been helping a middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman out of a cab, and +then, as she turned, their eyes met, and into Joan Meredyth’s cheeks there +flashed the tell-tale colour that proved to him and to all the world that this +chance meeting with him meant something to her after all. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br/> +“UNGENEROUS”</h2> + +<p> +Hugh Alston had raised his hat, and she had given him the coolest of bows. He +was turning away, true to his promise to trouble her no more, and her heart +seemed to cry out against it suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +If she could have believed that he had been here of deliberate intent, to find +her, to see her, she would have felt cold anger against him; but it was an +accident, and Joan knew suddenly that for some reason she was unwilling to let +him go. +</p> + +<p> +What she said she hardly knew, something about the unexpectedness of meetings +that were common enough in London. At any rate she spoke, and was rewarded by +the look that came into his face. A starving dog could not have looked more +gratitude to one who had flung him a bone than Hugh Alston, starving for her, +thanked her with his eyes for the few conventional words. +</p> + +<p> +Before he could realise what had happened, she had introduced him to her +companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, this is Mr. Alston—whom I—I know,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Alston.” Helen Everard congratulated herself afterwards that she had given no +sign of surprise, no start, nothing to betray the fact that the name was +familiar. +</p> + +<p> +Here was the man then whom Lady Linden believed to be Joan’s husband, the man +whom Joan had denied she had married, and who she had stated to General +Bartholomew was scarcely more than a stranger to her. +</p> + +<p> +And, looking at him, Helen knew that if Hugh Alston and she met again, he would +certainly not know her, for he had no eyes for anything save the lovely cold +face of the girl before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Joan,” she said, “there is one of those bags I have been wanting to get +for a long time past. Excuse me, Joan dear, will you?” And Helen made hurriedly +to a shop hard by, leaving them together. +</p> + +<p> +Joan felt angry with herself now it was too late. She ought to have given him +the coldest of cold bows and then ignored him; but she had been weak, and she +had spoken, and now Helen had deserted her. +</p> + +<p> +“I will say good-bye, Mr. Alston, and go after my friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, wait—wait. I want to speak to you, to thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“To thank me?” She lifted her eyebrows. “For what?” +</p> + +<p> +“For speaking to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That sounds very humble, doesn’t it?” She laughed sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very humble to you, Joan!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Alston, do you realise that I am very angry with myself?” she said coldly. +“I acted on a foolish impulse. I ought not to have spoken to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You acted on a generous impulse, that is natural to you. Now you are +pretending one that is unworthy of you, Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think you have any right to speak to me so, nor call me by that +name.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must call you by the name I constantly think of you by. Joan, do you +remember what I said to you when we last met?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I—” She flushed suddenly. To deny, was unworthy of her. “Yes, I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, remember what I said. I take not one word of it back. It is true, +and will remain true all my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“My friend—will be wondering—” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, be a little merciful.” +</p> + +<p> +And now for the first time he noticed that she was not dressed as he had seen +her last. There was a suggestion of wealth, of ample means about her +appearance. Clothes were the last thing that Hugh thought of, or noticed. Yet +gradually Joan’s clothes began to thrust themselves on his notice. She was well +dressed, and the stylish and becoming clothes heightened her beauty, if +possible. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, I have a confession to make.” +</p> + +<p> +She bent her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t act unfairly or deal in an underhand way with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought differently!” she said bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“I remembered my promise made to you at General Bartholomew’s, yet I came to +London in the hope of seeing you, that was all that brought me here. I would +not have spoken to you if you had not spoken to me first. I only wanted just to +see you. I wonder,” he went on, “that I have not been arrested as a suspicious +character, as I have been loitering about General Bartholomew’s house for days, +but I never saw you, Joan!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was not there!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I gathered that at last. You will believe that I had no intention of +annoying you or forcing myself on your notice. I wanted to see you, that was +all, and so when I had made up my mind that you were not there, I went to the +City Office where I saw you last.” +</p> + +<p> +Her face flushed with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“You have taken then to tracking me?” she said angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid it looks like it, but not to annoy you, only to satisfy my longing +to see you. Just now you said I sounded humble. I wonder if you could guess how +humble I feel.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” she said sharply, “if you could guess how little I believe anything +you say, Mr. Alston? I am sorry I spoke to you. It was a weakness I regret. Now +I will say good-bye. You went to Slotman’s office, and I suppose discussed me +with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not; he was not there. I was glad afterwards he was not. I don’t like +the man.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does not matter. In any event Mr. Slotman could not have helped you; he +does not know where I am living.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I, to be further annoyed by you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you know that I will not annoy you. Won’t you tell me, Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I don’t see why I should. Remember, I have no wish to continue our—our +acquaintance; there is no reason you should know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet if I knew I would be happier. I would not trouble you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely it does not matter. I am living in the country, then—in Kent, at +Starden. I—I have come into a little money.” She looked at him keenly. She +wondered did he know, had he known that night when he had told her that he +loved her? +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of it,” he said. “I could have wished you had come into a great +deal.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have!” she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am truly glad,” he said. “It was one of the things that troubled me most, +the thought of you—you forced to go out into the world to earn your living, you +who are so fine and exquisite and sensitive, being brought into contact with +the ugly things of life. I am glad that you are saved that—it lightens my heart +too, Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t I told you? I hated the thought of you having to work for such a man +as Slotman. I am thankful you are freed from any such need.” +</p> + +<p> +She had wronged him by that thought, she was glad to realise it. He had not +known, then. +</p> + +<p> +“My uncle died. He left me his fortune and the old home of our family, which he +had recently bought back, Starden Hall, in Kent. I am living there now with +Mrs. Everard, my friend and companion, and now—” +</p> + +<p> +While she had been waiting to be served with a bag that she did not +particularly require, Helen Everard watched them through the shop-window. She +watched him particularly. +</p> + +<p> +“I like him; he looks honest,” she thought. “It is all strange and curious. If +it were not true what Lady Linden said, why did she say it? If it is true, +then—then why—what is the cause of the quarrel between them? Will they make it +up? He does not look like a man who could treat a woman badly. Oh dear!” Helen +sighed, for she had her own plans. Like every good woman, she was a born +matchmaker at heart. She had a deep and sincere affection for John Everard. She +had decided long ago that she must find Johnny a good wife, and here had been +the very thing, only there was this Mr. Hugh Alston. +</p> + +<p> +She had been served with the bag, it had been wrapped in paper for her, and now +Helen came out. She had lingered as long as she could to give this man every +chance. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I have been a long time, Joan,” she began. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh turned to her eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs.—Everard,” he said, “I have been trying to induce Miss Meredyth to come +and have lunch with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” Joan cried. The word lunch had never passed his lips till now, and she +looked at him angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“I suggest Prince’s,” he said. “Let’s get a taxi and go there now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, I do not require any lunch,” Joan said. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do, my dear. I am simply famished,” said Helen. +</p> + +<p> +It was like a base betrayal, but she felt that she must help this good-looking +young man who looked at her so pleadingly. +</p> + +<p> +“And it is always so much nicer to have a gentleman escort, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t refuse now, Joan,” Hugh said. +</p> + +<p> +Joan! The name suggested to Helen that Joan had not spoken quite the truth when +she had told General Bartholomew that she and this man were practically +strangers. A strange man does not usually call a young girl by her Christian +name. +</p> + +<p> +“As you like,” Joan said indifferently. She looked at Hugh resentfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not consider it is either very clever or very considerate,” she said in a +low voice, intended for him alone. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, but—but I couldn’t let you go yet. You—you don’t understand, +Joan!” he stammered. +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders; she went with them because she must. She could not +create a scene, but she would take her revenge. She promised herself that, and +she did. She scarcely spoke a word during the luncheon. She ate nothing; she +looked about her with an air of indifference. Twice she deliberately yawned +behind her hand, hoping that he would notice; and he did, and it hurt him +cruelly, as she hoped it might. +</p> + +<p> +But she kept the worst sting for the last. +</p> + +<p> +“Please,” she said to the waiter, “make out the bills separately—mine and this +lady’s together, and the gentleman’s by itself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan!” he said, as the waiter went his way, and his voice was shocked and +hurt. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh really, you could hardly expect that I would wish you to spend any of +your—eight thousand a year on me!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh flushed. He bent his head. His eight thousand a year that once he had held +out as a bait to her, and yet, Heaven knew, he had not meant it so. He had only +meant to be frank with her. +</p> + +<p> +He was hurt and stung, as she meant he should be, and seeing it, her heart +misgave her, and she was sorry. But it was too late, and she must not confess +weakness now. +</p> + +<p> +There was a cold look in his face, a bitterness about his mouth she had never +seen before. When he rose he held out his hand to Mrs. Everard; he thanked her +for coming here with him, and then he gave Joan the coldest of cold bows. He +held no hand out to her, he had no speech for her. Only one word, one word that +once before he had flung at her, and now flung into her face again. +</p> + +<p> +“Ungenerous!” he said, so that she alone could hear, and then he was gone, and +Helen looked after him. And then, turning, she glanced at Joan, and saw that +there were tears in the girl’s grey eyes. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br/> +THE INVESTIGATIONS OF MR. SLOTMAN</h2> + +<p> +“And who the dickens,” said Lady Linden, “is Mister—Philip what’s-his-name? I +can’t see it—what’s his name, Marjorie?” Lady Linden held out the card to the +girl. +</p> + +<p> +“It—it is—Slotman, auntie,” Marjorie said. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t sniff, child. You’ve got a cold; go up to my room, and in the medical—” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t a cold, auntie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk to me. Go and get a dose of ammoniated tincture of quinine. As for +this Mr. Slotman—unpleasant name—what the dickens does he want of me?” +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman was being shewn into the drawing-room a few moments later. He was +wearing his best clothes and best manner. This Lady Linden was an aristocratic +dame, and Mr. Slotman had come for the express purpose of making himself very +agreeable. +</p> + +<p> +“Oily-looking wretch!” her ladyship thought. “Well?” she asked aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“I am grateful to your ladyship for permitting me to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you can see me if that’s all you have come for.” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he said. “If—if I—” He paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sit down!” said Lady Linden. “Well, now what is it you want? Have you +something to sell? Books, sewing machines?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” He waved a deprecating hand. “I am come on a matter that interests me +greatly. I am a financier, I have offices in London. Until lately I was +employing a young lady on my staff.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Her name was Meredyth, Miss Joan Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to hear anything at all about her,” said Lady Linden. “Why you +come to me, goodness only knows. If you’ve come for information I haven’t got +any. If you want information, the right person to go to is her husband!” +</p> + +<p> +“Her—her husband!” Mr. Slotman seemed to be choking. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem surprised,” said Lady Linden. “Well, so was I, but it is the truth. +If you are interested in Miss Meredyth, the proper person to make enquiries of +is Mr. Hugh Alston, of Hurst Dormer, Sussex. Now you know. Is there anything +else I can do for you?” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman passed his hand across his forehead. This was unexpected, a blow that +staggered him. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you mean, your ladyship means that Miss Meredyth is recently married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her ladyship means nothing of the kind,” said Lady Linden tartly. “I mean that +Miss Meredyth has for some very considerable time been Mrs. Hugh Alston. They +were married, if you want to know—and I don’t see why it should any longer be +kept a secret—three years ago, in June, nineteen eighteen at Marlbury, Dorset, +where my niece was at school with Miss Meredyth. Now you know all I know, and +if you want any further information, apply to the husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but,” Slotman said, “I—” He was thinking. He was trying to reconcile what +he had heard in his own office when he had spied on Hugh Alston and Joan, when +on that occasion he had heard Hugh offer marriage to the girl as an act of +atonement. How could he offer marriage if they were already married? There was +something wrong, some mistake! +</p> + +<p> +“But what?” snapped her ladyship, who had taken an exceeding dislike to the +perspiring Mr. Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +“Is your ladyship certain that they were married? I mean—” he fumbled and +stammered. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Linden pointed to the door. “Good afternoon!” she said. “I don’t know what +business it is of yours, and I don’t care. All I know is that if Hugh Alston is +a fool, he is not a knave, so you have my permission to retire.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Slotman retired, but it was not till some hours had passed that he finally +left the neighbourhood of Cornbridge. He had been making discreet enquiries, +and he found on every side that her ladyship’s story was corroborated. +</p> + +<p> +For Lady Linden talked, and it was asking too much of any lady who was fond of +a chat to expect her to keep silent on a matter of such interest. Lady Linden +had discussed Hugh Alston’s marriage with Mrs. Pontifex, the Rector’s wife, who +in turn had discussed it with others. So, little by little, the story had +leaked out, and all Cornbridge knew it, and Mr. Slotman found ample +corroboration of Lady Linden’s story. +</p> + +<p> +Not till he was in the train did Mr. Slotman begin to gather together all the +threads of evidence. “I should not describe Lady Linden as a pleasant person,” +he decided, “still, her information will prove of the utmost value to me. On +the whole I am glad I went.” He felt satisfied; he had discovered all that was +discoverable, so far as Cornbridge was concerned. +</p> + +<p> +“Married in eighteen, June of eighteen,” he muttered, “at Marlbury, Dorset. +I’ll bet she wasn’t! She may have said she was, but she wasn’t!” He chuckled +grimly. He was beginning to see through it. “I suppose she told that tale, and +then it got about, and then the fellow came and offered her marriage as the +only possible way out. I’d like to choke the brute!” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman slept that night in London, and early the following morning he was on +his way to Marlbury. He found it a little quiet country town, where information +was to be had readily enough. It took him but a few minutes to discover that +there was a school for young ladies, a school of repute, kept by a Miss +Skinner. It was the only ladies’ school in or near the town, and so Mr. Slotman +made his way in that direction, and in a little time was ushered into the +presence of the headmistress. +</p> + +<p> +“I must apologise,” he said, “for this intrusion.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Skinner bowed. She was tall and thin, angular and severe, a typical +headmistress, stern and unyielding. +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” Slotman lied, “a solicitor from London, and I am interested in a young +lady who a matter of three years ago was, I believe, a pupil in this school.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Joan Meredyth,” said Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth was a pupil here at the time you mention, three years ago. It +was three years ago that she left.” +</p> + +<p> +“In June?” Slotman asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I think so. Is it important that you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go and look up my books.” In a few minutes Miss Skinner was back. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth left us in the June of nineteen hundred and eighteen,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Suddenly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Somewhat—yes, suddenly. Her father was dead; she was leaving us to go to +Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that was the story,” Slotman thought, “to go to Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +“During the time she was here, may I ask, did she have any visitors? Did, for +instance, a Mr. Hugh Alston call on her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Alston, I remember the name. Certainly he called here, but not to see Miss +Meredyth. He came to see Miss Marjorie Linden, who was, I fancy, distantly +related to him. I am not sure, Mr. Alston certainly called several times.” +</p> + +<p> +“And saw Miss Meredyth?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not. I have no reason to believe that he did. Miss Linden and Miss +Meredyth were close friends, and of course Miss Linden may have introduced him. +It is quite possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you!” said Slotman. He had found out all that he wanted to know, yet not +quite. +</p> + +<p> +For the next few hours Philip Slotman was a busy man. He went to the church and +looked up the register. No marriage such as he looked for had taken place +between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in June, nineteen eighteen, nor any other +month immediately before or after. No marriage had taken place at the local +Registrar’s office. But he was not done yet. Six miles from Marlbury was +Morchester, a far larger and more important town. Thither went Philip Slotman +and pursued his enquiries with a like result. +</p> + +<p> +Neither at Marlbury, nor at Morchester had any marriage been registered in the +name of Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in the year nineteen eighteen; and having +discovered that fact beyond doubt, Philip Slotman took train for London. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX<br/> +“WHEN I AM NOT WITH YOU”</h2> + +<p> +A fortnight had passed since Johnny Everard’s first visit to Starden, and +during that time he had been again and yet again. He had never taken Ellice +with him since that first time. +</p> + +<p> +Two days after the first visit he had driven Constance over, and Constance and +Joan Meredyth had become instant friends. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll come again and often; it is lonely here,” Joan had said. “I mean, not +lonely for me, that would be ungrateful to Helen, but I know she is very fond +of you, and she will like you to come as often as possible, you and your +brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Con,” Johnny said as he drove her home that evening, “don’t you think we might +run to a little car, just a cheap two-seater? It would be so useful. Look, we +could run over to Starden in less than half an hour. We can be there and back +in an hour if we wanted to, and Helen would be so jolly glad, don’t you think?” +</p> + +<p> +Constance smiled to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“We haven’t much money now, Johnny,” she said. “Last year’s hops were—awful!” +</p> + +<p> +“They are going to be ripping this year. I’ve got that blight down all right,” +he said cheerily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear; well, if you think—” She hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, we can manage it somehow,” he said hopefully. +</p> + +<p> +Constance looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be useful for you to run over to Starden to see Helen—won’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to see Helen. She’s a good sort, one of the best, dear old Helen! Isn’t +it ripping to have her near us again?” +</p> + +<p> +“She could always have come to Buddesby if she had wanted to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there isn’t much room there!” +</p> + +<p> +“But always room enough for Helen, Johnny. You haven’t told me what you think +of Joan Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +She watched him out of the corners of her eyes. He stared straight ahead +between the ears of the old horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan Meredyth,” he repeated, and she saw a deep flush come stealing under the +tan of his cheeks. “Oh, she’s handsome, Con. She almost took my breath away. I +think she is the loveliest girl I ever saw.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and do you—” +</p> + +<p> +“And do I admire her? Yes, I do, but I could wish she was just a little less +cold, a little less stately, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is shyness. Remember, we are strangers to her; she was not cold and +stately to me, Johnny.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Johnny said, and went on staring straight ahead down the road. +</p> + +<p> +“Did Helen say much to you, Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, a good deal!” +</p> + +<p> +“About”—Johnny hesitated—“her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a little; she thinks a great deal of her. She says that at first Joan +seemed to hold her at arm’s length. Now they understand one another better, and +she says Joan has the best heart in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet she seems cold to me,” said Johnny with a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +Still, in spite of Joan’s coldness, he found his way over to Starden very often +during the days that followed. He had picked up a small secondhand car, which +he strenuously learned to drive, and thereafter the little car might have been +seen plugging almost daily along the six odd miles of road that separated +Buddesby from Starden. +</p> + +<p> +And each time he got the car out a pair of black eyes watched him with +smouldering anger and passion and jealousy. A pair of small hands were clenched +tightly, a girl’s heart was aching and throbbing with love and hate and +undisciplined passions, as though it must break. +</p> + +<p> +But he did not see, though Constance did, and she felt troubled and anxious. +She had understood for long how it was with Ellice. She had seen the girl’s +eyes turned with dog-like devotion towards the man who was all unconscious of +the passion he had aroused. But she saw it all in her quiet way, and was +anxious and worried, as a kindly, gentle, tender-hearted woman must be when she +notices one of her own sex give all the love of a passionate heart to one who +neither realises nor desires it. +</p> + +<p> +So, day after day, Johnny drove over to Starden, and when he came Helen would +smile quietly and take herself off about some household duty, leaving the young +people together. And Joan would greet him with a smile from which all coldness +now had gone, for she accepted him as a friend. She saw his sterling worth, his +honour and his honesty. He was like some great boy, so open and transparent was +he. To her he had become “Johnny,” to him she was “Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +To-day they were wandering up and down the garden paths, side by side. +</p> + +<p> +The garden lay about them, glowing in the sunshine of the early afternoon. +Beyond the high bank of hollyhocks and the further hedge of dark yew, clipped +into fantastic form, one could catch a glimpse of the old house, with its steep +sloping roof, its many gables, its whitened walls, lined and crossed by the old +timbers. The hum of the bees was in the air, heavy with the fragrance of many +flowers. +</p> + +<p> +And Joan was thinking of a City office, of a man she hated and feared, a man +with bold eyes and thick, sensual lips. And then her thoughts drifted away to +another man, and she seemed to hear again the last word he had spoken to +her—“Ungenerous.” And suddenly she shivered a little in the warm sunlight. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, you are not cold. You can’t be cold,” Johnny said. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. “No, I was only thinking of the past. There is much in the past to +make one shiver, I think, and oh, Johnny, I was thinking of you too!” +</p> + +<p> +“Of me?” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. “Helen was telling me how keen and eager you were about your farm, +how difficult it was to get you to leave it for an hour.” She paused. +“That—that was before you came here, the first time—and since then you have +been here almost every day. Johnny, aren’t you wasting your time?” She looked +at him with sweet seriousness. +</p> + +<p> +“I am wasting my time, Joan, when—when I am not with you!” he said, and his +voice shook with sudden feeling, and into his face there came a wave of colour. +“To be near you, to see you—” He paused. +</p> + +<p> +Down the garden pathway came a trim maidservant, who could never guess how John +Everard hated her for at least one moment of her life. +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman in the drawing-room, miss, to see you,” the girl said. +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman to see me? Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“He would not give a name, miss. He said you might not recognise it. He wishes +to see you on business.” Joan frowned. Who could it be? Yet it was someone +waiting, someone here. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not be long,” she said to Johnny, and perhaps was glad of the excuse +to leave him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will wait till you come back, Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled and nodded, and hastened to the house and the drawing-room, and, +opening the door, went in to find herself face to face with Philip Slotman. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Philip Slotman, of all living people! She stared at him in amaze, almost +doubting the evidence of her sight. What did he here? How dared he come here +and thrust himself on her notice? How dared he send that lying message by the +maid, that she might not recognise his name? +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got a nice place here, Joan,” he said with easy familiarity. “Things +have looked up a bit for you, eh? I notice you haven’t said you are glad to see +me. Aren’t you going to shake hands?” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain,” she said quietly, “what you mean by coming here.” +</p> + +<p> +If she had given way to senseless rage, and had demanded how he dared—and so +forth, he would have smiled with amusement; but the cool deliberation of her, +the quiet scorn in her eyes, the lack of passion, made him nervous and a little +uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“I came here to see you—what else, Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +“Uninvited,” she said. “You have taken a liberty—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you!” he shouted suddenly. “You’re a fine one to ride the high horse with +me! Who the dickens are you to give yourself airs? You can stow that, do you +hear?” His eyes flashed unpleasantly. “You can stow that kind of talk with me!” +</p> + +<p> +“You came here believing, I suppose, that I was practically friendless. You +knew that I had no relatives, especially men relatives, so you thought you +would come to continue your annoyance of me. Would you mind coming here?” +</p> + +<p> +He went to the window wonderingly. The window commanded a wide view of the +garden. Looking out into the garden he could see a man, a very tall and very +broad young man, who stood with muscular arms folded across a great chest. The +young man was leaning against an old rose-red brick wall, smoking a pipe and +obviously waiting. The most noticeable thing about the young man was that he +was exceptionally big and of powerful build and determined appearance. Another +thing that Slotman noticed about him was that he was not Mr. Hugh Alston, whom +he remembered perfectly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“That gentleman is a friend of mine, related to the lady who lives with me. If +I call on him and ask him to persuade you to go and not return, he will do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he will, and what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand you—what then? Why did you come here uninvited? Why did you +send an untruthful message by my servant—that I would not recognise your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Trying to bluff me, aren’t you?” Slotman said. He looked her in the eyes. “But +it won’t come off, Joan; no, my dear, I’ve been too busy of late to be taken in +by your airs and defiance!” He laughed. “I’ve been making quite a round, here, +there, and everywhere, and all because of you, Joan—all because of you! Among +other places I’ve been to,” he went on, seeing that she stood silent and +unmoved, “is Marlbury You remember it, eh? A nice little town, quiet though. I +had a long talk with Miss Skinner—remember her, don’t you, Joany?” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes glittered. “Mr. Slotman, I am trying to understand what this means. Is +it that you are mad or intoxicated? Why do you come here to me with all these +statements? Why do you come here at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marlbury,” he continued unmoved, “a nice, quiet little place. I spent some +time in the church there, and at the Council offices, looking for something, +for something I didn’t find, Joany—and didn’t expect to find either, come to +that, ha, ha!” He laughed. “No, never expected to find, but, to make dead sure, +I went to Morchester, and hunted there, Joany, and still I didn’t find what I +was looking for and knew I shouldn’t find!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Slotman!” +</p> + +<p> +“You aren’t curious, are you? You won’t ask what I was looking for, perhaps you +can guess!” He took a step nearer to her. “You can guess, can’t you, Joany?” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not attempting to guess. I can only imagine that you are not in your sane +senses. You will now go, and if you return—” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a moment. What I was looking for at Marlbury and Morchester and did not +find—was evidence of a marriage having taken place in June, nineteen eighteen, +between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth. But there’s no such evidence, none! Ah, +that touches you a bit, don’t it? Now you begin to understand why I ain’t taken +in by your fine dignity!” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you have been looking for—for evidence of a marriage—my marriage with—what +do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +Her face was flushed, her eyes brilliant with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that I am not a fool, though I was for a time. You took me in—I am not +blaming you”—he paused—“not blaming you. You were only a girl, straight out of +school. You didn’t understand things, and the man—” +</p> + +<p> +“What—do—you—mean?” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“You left Miss Skinner’s, said you were going to Australia, didn’t you? But you +didn’t go. Oh no, you didn’t go! You know best where you went, but there’s no +proof of any marriage at Marlbury or Morchester. Now—now do you begin to +understand?” +</p> + +<p> +She did understand, a sense of horror came to her, horror and shame that this +man should dare—dare to think evil of her! She felt that she wanted to strike +him. She saw him as through a mist—his hateful face, the face she wanted to +strike with all her might, and yet she was conscious of an even greater anger, +a very passion of hate and resentment against another man than this, against +the man who had subjected her to these insults, this infamy. She gripped her +hands hard. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you will leave this house. If you ever dare to return I will have you +flung out—you hear me? Go, and if you ever dare—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no you don’t!” he said. “Wait a moment. You can’t take me in now!” He +laughed in her face. “If I go I’ll go all right, but you’ll never hear the end +of it. You’re someone down here, aren’t you? I have heard about you. You’re a +Meredyth, and the Meredyths used to hold their heads pretty high about here. +But if you aren’t careful I’ll get talking, and if I talk I’ll make this place +too hot to hold you. You know what I mean. I hate threatening you, Joan, only +you force me to do it.” His voice altered. “I hate threatening, and you know +why. It is because I love you, and I am willing to marry you—in spite of +everything, you understand? In spite of everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Joan threw out her hand and grasped at the edge of the table. +</p> + +<p> +“My friend out there—am I to call for him? Are you driving me to do that? Shall +I call him now?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you like,” Slotman said. “If you do, I’ll have something to tell him of a +marriage that never took place in June, nineteen eighteen, and of a man who +came to my office to see you, and offered to marry you—as atonement. Oh yes, I +heard—trust me! I don’t let interviews take place in my offices that I don’t +know anything about!” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent suddenly. There was that in her face that worried him, frightened +him in spite of himself—a wild, staring look in her eyes; the whiteness of her +cheeks, the whiteness even of her lips. There was a tragic look about her. He +had seen something like it on the stage at some time. He realised that he might +be goading her too far. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go now,” he said. “I’ll go and leave you to think it all out. You can +rely on me not to say anything. I shan’t humble you, or talk about you—not me! +A man don’t run down the girl he means to make his wife, and that’s what I +mean—Joan! In spite of everything, you understand, my girl?” He paused. “In +spite of everything, Joan, I’ll still marry you! But I’ll come back. Oh, I’ll +come back, I—” He paused. He suddenly remembered the denuded state of his +finances, yet it did not seem an auspicious moment just now to ask her for +financial help. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll write,” he thought. He looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Joan. I’ll come back; you’ll hear from me soon. Meanwhile, +remember—not a word, not a word to a living soul. You’re all right, trust me!” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Johnny Everard wandered about the sweet, old-world garden, and did +not appreciate its beauties in the least. He was waiting, and there is nothing +so dreary as waiting for one one longs to see and who comes not. +</p> + +<p> +But presently there came a maid, that same maid who had earned Johnny’s +temporary hatred. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth wished me to say, sir, that she would be very glad if you would +excuse her. She’s been taken with a bad headache, and has had to go to her own +room to lie down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Johnny. The sun seemed to shine less brightly for him for a few +moments. “I’m sorry. All right, tell her I am very sorry, and—and shall hope to +see her soon!” +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later Johnny Everard was driving back along the hot high-road, +utterly unconscious that the car was running very badly and misfiring +consistently. +</p> + +<p> +In her own room Joan sat, her elbows on the dressing-table, her eyes staring +unseeingly out into a garden, all glowing with flowers and sunlight. +</p> + +<p> +She was not thinking of Johnny Everard; his very existence had for the time +being passed from her memory. She was thinking of that man, and of what he had +said, the horror and the shame of it. And that other man—Hugh Alston—had +brought this upon her—with his insulting lie, his insolent, lying statement, he +had brought it on her! Because of him she was to be subjected to the shame and +humiliation of such an attack as Slotman had made on her just now. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what—what can I do?” she whispered. “And he—he dared to call me—me +ungenerous! Ungenerous for resenting, for hating him for the position he has +put me into. Why did he do it? Why, why, why?” she asked of herself +frantically, and receiving no answer, rose and for a time paced the room, then +came back to the table and sat down once again. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman had said he would return, that she would hear. She could imagine how +that the man, believing her good name in his power, and at his mercy, would not +cease to torment and persecute her. +</p> + +<p> +What could she do? To whom could she turn? She thought of Johnny Everard for a +fleeting moment. There was something so big and strong and honest about him +that he reminded her of some great, noble, clean dog, yet she could not appeal +to him. Had he been her brother—that would have been different—but how explain +to him? No, she could not. Yet she must have protection from this man, this +Slotman. Lady Linden, General Bartholomew, Helen Everard, name after name came +into her mind, and she dismissed each as it came. To whom could she turn? And +then came the idea on which she acted at once. Of course it must be he! +</p> + +<p> +She rose and sought for pen and paper, and commenced a letter that was +difficult to write. She crushed several sheets of paper and flung them aside, +but the letter was written at last. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have subjected me +to insult and annoyance past all bearing, I ask you to meet me in London at the +earliest opportunity. I feel that I have a right to appeal to you for some +protection against the insults to which your conduct has exposed me. I write in +the hope that you may possibly possess some of the generosity which you have +several times denied that I can lay claim to. I will keep whatever appointment +you may make at any time and any place,<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“JOAN MEREDYTH.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +And this letter she addressed to Hugh Alston at Hurst Dormer, and presently +went out, bareheaded, into the roadway, and with her own hands dropped it into +the post-box. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br/> +“I SHALL FORGET HER”</h2> + +<p> +Restless and unhappy, Hugh Alston had returned to Hurst Dormer, to find there +that everything was flat, stale, and unprofitable. He had an intense love for +the home of his birth and his boyhood, but just now it seemed to mean less to +him than it ever had before. He watched moodily the workmen at their work on +those alterations and restorations that he had been planning with interested +enthusiasm for many months past. Now he did not seem to care whether they were +done or no. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” he demanded of the vision of her that came to him of nights, “why the +dickens don’t you leave me alone? I don’t want you. I don’t want to remember +you. I am content to forget that I ever saw you, and I wish to Heaven you would +leave me alone!” +</p> + +<p> +But she was always there. +</p> + +<p> +He tried to reason with himself; he attempted to analyse Love. +</p> + +<p> +“One cannot love a thing,” he told himself, “unless one has every reason to +believe that it is perfection. A man, when he is deeply in love with a woman, +must regard her as his ideal of womanhood. In his eyes she must be perfection; +she must be flawless, even her faults he will not recognise as faults, but as +perfections that are perhaps a little beyond his understanding—that’s all +right. Now in the case of Joan, I see in her nothing to admire beyond the +loveliness of her face, the grace of her, the sweet voice of her and—oh, her +whole personality! But I know her to be mean-spirited and uncharitable, +unforgiving, ungenerous. I know her to be all these, and yet—” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Linden, sir, and Miss Marjorie Linden!” +</p> + +<p> +They had not met for weeks. Her ladyship had driven over in the large, +comfortable carriage. “Give me a horse or, better still, two horses—things with +brains, created by the Almighty, and not a thing that goes piff, piff, piff, +and leaves an ungodly smell along the roads, to say nothing of the dust!” +</p> + +<p> +So she had come here behind two fine horses, sleek and overfed. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” said Hugh, and kissed her, and so the feud between them was ended. +</p> + +<p> +“You are looking,” her ladyship said, “rotten!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am looking exactly as I feel. How are you, Marjorie?” He held the small hand +in his, and looked kindly, as he must ever look, into her pretty round face. +Because she was blushing with the joy of seeing him, and because her eyes were +bright as twin stars, he concluded that she was happy, and ascribed her +happiness, not unnaturally considering everything, to Tom Arundel. +</p> + +<p> +“As the cat,” said Lady Linden, “wouldn’t go to Mahomed—” +</p> + +<p> +“The mountain, you mean!” Hugh said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know. I knew it was a cat, a mountain or a coffin that one usually +associates with Mahomed. However, as you didn’t come, I came—to see what on +earth you were doing, shutting yourself up here in Hurst Dormer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Renovations.” +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t agree with you. I expect it’s the drains. You’re doing something to +the drains, aren’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I believe—” +</p> + +<p> +“Then go and get a suitcase packed, and come back with us to Cornbridge.” +</p> + +<p> +He would not hear of it at first; but Lady Linden had made up her mind, and she +was a masterful woman. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, I think I had better—not. You see—” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see! Marjorie, go out into the garden and smell the flowers. Keep away +from the drains.... You’ll come?” she repeated, when the girl had gone out. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, I know what is in your mind; if I come, it will be on one +condition!” Hugh said. +</p> + +<p> +“I know what that condition is. Very well, I agree; we won’t mention it. Come +for a week; it will do you good. You’re too young to pretend you are a hermit!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll keep that condition; a certain name is not to be mentioned!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am no longer interested in the—young woman. I shall certainly not mention +her name. I think the whole affair—However, it is no business of mine, I never +interfere in other people’s affairs!” said Lady Linden, who never did anything +else. +</p> + +<p> +“All right then, on that condition I’ll come, and it is good of you to ask me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Rot!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh sent for his housekeeper. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to Cornbridge for a few days. I’ll leave you as usual to look after +everything. If any letters—come—there will be nothing of importance, I may run +over in a couple of days to see how things are going on. Put my letters aside, +they can wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir!” said Mrs. Morrisey. And the first letter that she carefully +put aside was the one that Joan Meredyth had written, after much hesitation and +searching of mind, in her bedroom that afternoon at Starden. +</p> + +<p> +And during the days that followed Joan watched the post every morning, eagerly +scanned the few letters that came, and then her face hardened a little, the +curves of her perfect lips straightened out. +</p> + +<p> +She had made a mistake; she had ascribed generosity and decency to one who +possessed neither. He had not even the courtesy to answer her letter, in which +she had pleaded for a meeting. She felt hot with shame of herself that she had +ever stooped to ask for it. She might have guessed. +</p> + +<p> +A week had passed since Slotman’s visit, and since she had with her own hands +posted the letter to Hugh Alston. A week of waiting, and nothing had come of +it! This morning she glanced through the letters. Her eyes had lost their old +eagerness; she no longer expected anything. +</p> + +<p> +As usual, there was nothing from “Him,” but there was one for her in a +handwriting that she knew only too well. She touched it as if it were some foul +thing. She was in two minds whether to open and read it, or merely return it +unopened and addressed to Philip Slotman, Esq., Gracebury, London, E.C. But she +was a woman. And it takes a considerable amount of strength of will to return +unopened and unread a letter to its sender, especially if one is a woman. +</p> + +<p> +What might not that letter contain? Apology—retraction, sorrow for the past, or +further insolent demands, veiled threats, and a repetition of proposals refused +with scorn and contempt—which was it? Who can tell by the mere appearance of a +sealed envelope and the impress of a postmark? +</p> + +<p> +Joan put the letter into her pocket. She would debate in her mind whether she +would read it or no. +</p> + +<p> +“A letter from Connie, dear,” said Helen. “She is coming over this afternoon +and bringing Ellice Brand with her. Joan, it is a week or more since Johnny was +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, about a week I think,” said Joan indifferently. She was thinking +meanwhile of the letter in her pocket. +</p> + +<p> +Helen looked at her. She wanted to put questions; but, being a sensible woman, +she did not. She had a great affection for Johnny. What woman could avoid +having an affection and a regard for him? He was one of those fine, clean +things that men and women, too, must like if they are themselves possessed of +decency and appreciation of the good. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, she was fond of Johnny, and she had grown very fond of late of this girl. +She looked under the somewhat cold surface, and she recognised a warm, a tender +and a loving nature, that had been suppressed for lack of something on which to +lavish that wealth of tenderness that she held stored up in her heart. +</p> + +<p> +Quite what part Hugh Alston had played in the life of Joan, Helen did not know. +But she hoped for Johnny. She wanted to see these two come together. She was +not above worldly considerations, for few good women are. It would be a fine +thing for Johnny, with his straitened income and his habit of backing +losers—from an agricultural point of view; but the main thing, as she honestly +believed, was that these two could be very happy together. So she wondered a +little, and puzzled a little, and worried a little why Johnny Everard should +suddenly have left off paying almost daily visits to Starden. +</p> + +<p> +“I like Connie, and I shall be glad to see her,” said Joan. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish Johnny were coming instead of—” +</p> + +<p> +“So do I!” said Joan heartily. “I like him, I think, even more than I like +Connie. There is something so—so honest and straight and good about him. +Something that makes one feel, ‘Here is a man to rely on, a man one can ask for +help when in distress.’ Sometimes—” She paused, then suddenly she rose, and +with a smile to Helen, went out. +</p> + +<p> +So there had been no quarrel, why should there have been? Certainly there had +not been. Joan had spoken handsomely of Johnny, and she had said only what was +true. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall tell Connie exactly what Joan said, and probably Connie will repeat it +to Johnny,” Helen thought, which was exactly what she wished Connie would do. +</p> + +<p> +In her own room Joan hesitated a moment, then tore open the envelope, and drew +out Mr. Philip Slotman’s letter. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“MY DEAR JOAN (her eyes flashed at the insolent familiarity of it). Since my +visit of a week ago, when you received me so charmingly, I have constantly +thought of you and your beautiful home, and you cannot guess how pleased I am +to feel that the wheel of fortune had taken a turn to lift you high above all +want and poverty.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +She went on reading steadily, her lips compressed, her face hard and bitter. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“Unfortunately of late, things have not gone well with me. It is almost as if, +when you went, you took my luck away with you. At any rate, I find myself in +the immediate need of money, and to whom should I appeal for a timely loan, if +not to one between whom and myself there has always been warm affection and +friendship, to say the least of it? That I am in your confidence, that I know +so much of the past, and that you trust in me so completely to respect all your +secrets, is a source of pleasure and pride to me. So knowing that we do not +stand to one another in the light of mere ordinary friends, I do not hesitate +to explain my present embarrassment to you, and ask you frankly for the loan of +three thousand pounds, which will relieve the most pressing of my immediate +liabilities. Secure in the knowledge that you will immediately come to my aid, +as you know full well I would have come to yours, had the positions been +reversed, I am, my dear Joan,<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Yours very affectionately,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“PHILIP SLOTMAN.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +The letter dropped from her hands to the carpet. Blackmail! Cunningly and +cleverly wrapped up, but blackmail all the same, the reference to his knowledge +of what he believed to be her past! He knew that she was one who would read and +understand, that she would read, as is said, between the lines. +</p> + +<p> +Three thousand pounds, to her a few short weeks ago a fortune; to her now, a +mere row of figures. She could spare the money. It meant no hardship, no +difficulty, and yet—how could she bring herself to pay money to the man? +</p> + +<p> +She would not do it. She would return the letter, she would write across it +some indignant refusal, and then—No, she would think it over, take time, +consider. She was strong, and she was brave—she had faced an unkindly world +without losing heart or courage. Yet this was an experience new to her. She +was, after all, only a woman, and this man was assailing that thing which a +woman prizes beyond all else—her good name, her reputation, and she knew full +well how he might circulate a lying story that she would have the utmost +difficulty in disproving now. He could fling mud, and some of it must stick! +</p> + +<p> +Charge a person with wrongdoing, and even though it be definitely proved that +he is innocent, yet people only remember the charge, the connection of the +man’s name with some infamy, and forget that he was as guiltless as they +themselves. +</p> + +<p> +Joan knew this. She dreaded it; she shuddered at the thought that a breath +should sully her good name. She was someone now—a Meredyth—the Meredyth of +Starden. Three thousand pounds! If she paid him for his silence—silence—of +what, about what? Yet his lies might—She paced the room, her brain in a whirl. +What could she do? Oh, that she had someone to turn to. She remembered the +unanswered letter she had sent to Hugh Alston, and then her eyes flashed, and +her breast heaved. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” she said, “I think of the two I despise him the more. I loathe and +despise him the more!” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br/> +JEALOUSY</h2> + +<p> +Joan and Constance Everard had taken a natural and instinctive liking for one +another. But to-day it seemed to Connie that Joan was silent, less friendly, +more thoughtful than usual. Her mind seemed to be wondering, wrestling perhaps +with some problem, of which Constance knew nothing, and so it was. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I do? Shall I send this man the money he demands, or shall I +refuse? And if I refuse, what then?” +</p> + +<p> +She knew that mud sticks, and she dreaded it, feared it. A threat of bodily +pain she could have borne with a smile of equanimity, but this was different. +She was so sensitive, so fine, so delicate, that the thought of scandal, of +lies that might besmirch her, filled her with fear and shame and dread. It was +weak perhaps, it was perhaps not in accord with her high courage, and yet +frankly she was afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall send the money.” She came to the decision suddenly. Connie was +speaking to her, about her brother, Joan believed, yet was not certain. Her +thoughts were far away with Slotman and his letter and his demand. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall send the money.” And having made up her mind, she felt instant relief. +Yes, cowardly it might be, yet would it not be wiser to silence the man, to pay +him this money that she might have peace, that scandal and shame might not +touch her? +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted him to come with us this afternoon, but he could not. It is the +hops!” Connie sighed. “You don’t know what a constant dread and worry hops can +be, Joan. There is always the spraying. Johnny is spraying hard now. Of course +we are not rich, and a really bad hop season is a serious thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course!” Joan said. Yes, she would send the money. She would send the man a +cheque this very day, as soon as the visitors were gone. +</p> + +<p> +“I think she is worried about something,” Connie thought. “It cannot be that +she and Johnny have had a disagreement, yet for the last week he has been +worried, different—so silent, so quiet, so unlike himself. I wonder—?” +</p> + +<p> +She had brought the dark-eyed slip of a girl with her to-day, and from a +distance Ellice sat watching the girl whom she told herself she hated—this girl +who had in some strange way affected and bewitched Johnny, Johnny who belonged +to her, Johnny whom she loved with a passionate devotion only she herself could +know the depth of. How she hated her, she thought, as she sat watching the +calm, beautiful, thoughtful face, with its strange, dreamy, far-away look in +the big grey eyes. +</p> + +<p> +She realised her beauty; she could not blind herself to it. She felt she must +admire it because it was so apparent, so glowing, so obtrusive; and because she +did admire it, she felt that she hated the owner of it the more. +</p> + +<p> +“Why can’t she leave Johnny alone? I’ve known him all these years, and it seems +as if he had belonged to me. He never looked at any other girl, and now—now—she +is here with all her money and her looks—and he is bewitched, he is different.” +</p> + +<p> +Helen rose; she wanted a few quiet words with Connie. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to show you something in the garden, Connie,” she said. “I know Joan +won’t mind.” And so the two went out and left Joan alone with the girl, who +watched her silently. +</p> + +<p> +Out in the garden Helen and Constance had what women love and hold so dear—a +heart-to-heart talk, an exchange of secrets and ideas. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think she cares for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, dear; but do you think he cares for her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am certain of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“She spoke of him very nicely to-day. She said—” Helen repeated Joan’s exact +words. +</p> + +<p> +So they talked, these two in the garden, of their hopes and of what might be, +unselfish talk of happiness that might possibly come to those they loved, and +in the drawing-room Ellice Brand eyed this girl, her rival, whom she hated. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you excuse me?” Joan said suddenly. “There is a letter I must write. I +have just remembered that the post goes at five, so—” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course!” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed sharply when Joan had gone out. “If he were here, it would be +different. She would be all smiles and graciousness, but I am not worth while +bothering about.” +</p> + +<p> +Joan wrote the cheque. It was for a large sum, the largest cheque not only that +she had ever drawn, but that she had ever seen in her life. But it would be +money well spent; it would silence the slanderous tongue. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“I am sending you the money you demand. I understand your letter thoroughly. I +am neither going to defend myself, nor excuse myself to you. I of course +realise that I am paying blackmail, and do so rather than be annoyed and +tormented by you. Here is your money. I trust I shall neither hear of you nor +see you again.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“JOAN MEREDYTH.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +And this letter Joan posted with her own hand in the same post-box into which +she had dropped that letter more than a week ago, the letter to a man who was +without chivalry and generosity. She thought of him at the moment she let this +other letter fall. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, of the two she despised him and hated him the more. +</p> + +<p> +And then when the letter was posted and gone beyond recall, again came the +self-questionings. Had she done right? Had she not acted foolishly and weakly, +to pay this man money that he had demanded with covert threats? And too late +she regretted, and would have had the letter back if she could. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no one, not a soul in the world I can turn to. Even Helen is almost a +stranger,” the girl thought. “I cannot confide in her. I seem to be so—so +alone, so utterly alone.” She twisted her hands together and stood thoughtful +for some moments in the roadway where she turned back through the garden gate +to the house. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel so—so tired,” she whispered, “so tired, so weary of it all. I have no +one to turn to.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br/> +“UNCERTAIN—COY”</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Tom Arundel, cheerful and happy-go-lucky, filled with an immense belief in +a future which he was sure would somehow shape itself satisfactorily, felt a +little hurt, a little surprised, just a little disenchanted. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t think what’s come over her. She used to be such a ripping little +thing, so sweet and good-tempered, and now—why she snaps a chap’s head off the +moment he opens his mouth. Goo-law!” said Tom. “Supposing she grows up to be +like her aunt—maybe it is in the blood!” +</p> + +<p> +The prospect seemed to overwhelm him for a moment. Certainly of late Marjorie +had been uncertain, coy, and very hard to please. Marjorie had suffered, and +was suffering. She was contrasting Tom with Hugh, and Hugh with Tom, and it +made her heart ache and made her angry with herself for her own previous +blindness. And, womanlike, being in a very bad temper with herself, she snapped +at the luckless Tom like an ill-conditioned terrier, and he never approached +her but that she, metaphorically, bared her pretty white teeth, ready to do +battle with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Rum things, girls—never know how to take ’em! She don’t seem like the same,” +thought Tom. “I wonder—” +</p> + +<p> +There had been a breeze, a distinct breeze. Perhaps Tom, anxious to propitiate +Lady Linden, had been a little more servile than usual. He did not mean to be +servile. Alluding to his attitude afterwards to Marjorie, he called it “Pulling +the old girl’s leg.” And when Marjorie had turned on him, her eyes had flashed +scorn on him, her little body had quivered and shaken with indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“If you think it clever currying favour with aunt by—by crawling to her,” she +cried, “then I don’t! If you want to—to keep my respect, you’ll have to act +like a man, a man with self-respect! I—I hate to see you cringing to aunt, it +makes me detest you. What does it matter if she has money? Do you want her +money? Do you want her money more than you want me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Goo-law, old girl, I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk to me!” cried Marjorie. “Be a man, or I shall hate you!” And she +had left him rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and wondering at the ways of women +and of Marjorie Linden in particular. +</p> + +<p> +“Blinking little spitfire, that’s what she is!” he thought. “If she means to +grow like the old girl, then—then—Hello, here’s old Alston!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh could give Tom Arundel a matter of eight years, and therefore Tom regarded +him as elderly. “A decent old bird!” was his favourite estimate. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” said Hugh. “What’s the matter? Not been rowing, have you? Tom, not +rowing with the little girl, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh’s face was serious, for he had caught a glimpse of Marjorie a while ago +hurrying through the garden, and the look on her face had sent him to find Tom. +</p> + +<p> +“Not worrying—her or rowing her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, goodness knows I haven’t said a word, but she flew at me and bit me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Metaphorically, of course,” said Tom. “I say, Alston, do you think Marjorie is +going to grow like her aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” said Hugh, and he gripped Tom by the shoulder with such strength +that Tom was surprised and a little pained. “Look here, I don’t know what +Marjorie is going to grow like, but I know this—that she is the sweetest, most +tender-hearted, dearest little soul, loyal and true and straight, and because +you’ve won her love, my good lad, you ought to go down on your knees and thank +Heaven for it. She’s worth ten, fifty, a hundred of you and of me. A good +woman—and Marjorie is that—a good woman, I tell you, is better, infinitely +better, than the finest man that walks; and you are not that, not by a long +way, Tom Arundel. So if you’ve offended the child, go after her. Ask her to +forgive you and ask her humbly. You hear me? Ask her deucedly humbly, my lad! +And listen to this—if you bring one tear to her eyes, one tear, one little stab +to that tender heart of hers, if you—you bring one breath of sorrow and sadness +into her life, I’ll break your confounded neck for you! Have you got that, Tom +Arundel?” +</p> + +<p> +A final shake that made Tom’s teeth rattle, and Hugh turned and strode away to +find Marjorie. Tom Arundel stared after him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I—hang me! Hang me if I don’t believe old Alston’s in love with her +himself!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh Alston had meant to run over to Hurst Dormer and see how things were +getting on there, and incidentally to collect any letters that might have come +for him. But the days passed, and Hugh did not go. Lady Linden required her fat +horses for her own purposes. Marjorie’s own little ancient car had developed a +serious internal complaint that had put it definitely out of commission, so +there was no means of getting to Hurst Dormer unless he walked, or wired to his +man to bring over his own car, but Hugh did not trouble to do that. They did +not want him there, everything would be all right, so Joan’s letter, with +others, was propped up on the mantelpiece in his study and dusted carefully +every morning; and Joan watched the post in vain, and with a growing sense of +anger and humiliation in her breast. +</p> + +<p> +But of this Hugh knew nothing. He was watching Marjorie and Tom. Somehow his +sacrifice did not seem to have brought about the happy results that he had +hoped for. +</p> + +<p> +So Hugh, though he had little understanding of women, felt yet that things were +not as they should be and as Marjorie of course could not possibly be to blame, +it must be Tom Arundel, and to Tom he addressed himself forcibly. +</p> + +<p> +Tom listened resentfully. “Look here, Alston, I don’t know what the lay is,” he +said. “I don’t know what’s the matter. I am not conscious of having offended +her. If I have, I am sorry—why goo-law, I worship the ground the little thing +treads on!” +</p> + +<p> +And Hugh, looking Tom straight in the eyes, knew that he was speaking the +truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” he said. “I’m glad to hear it, and she’s worth it!” +</p> + +<p> +“And—and it hurts me, by George it does, Alston,” Tom said, “the way she cuts +up rough with me. And now you go for me bald-headed, as if I’d behaved like a +pig to her. Why goo-law, man, I’d lie down and let her jump on me. I’d go and +drown myself if it would cause her any—any amusement.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a distinct suggestion of tears in the boy’s eyes, and Hugh turned +hastily away. +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie dear,” he was saying a while later, “what’s wrong? Tell me all about +it. Tell your old friend Hugh, and see if he can put things right.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing—nothing wrong, Hugh!” Marjorie gasped. “Nothing! Nothing in +the world!” And she belied her statement by suddenly sobbing and hiding her +face against his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there—there!” he said, feeling as awkward as a man must feel when a +woman cries to him. He patted her shoulder with the uncomfortable feeling that +he was behaving like an idiot. +</p> + +<p> +“It—it is nothing!” she gasped. “Hugh, it is really nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tom’s a good lad, one of the best—clean through and through!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know he is, and—and oh, I do know it, Hugh, and it isn’t Tom’s fault!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your aunt’s been worrying you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is not that—oh, it is nothing, nothing in the world. It is only that I +am a—a—little fool, an ungrateful, silly, little fool!” +</p> + +<p> +And Hugh was frankly puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going to be as happy as the day is long, little girl,” he said. “Tom +loves you, worships the ground you walk on; I think you’re going to be the +happiest girl alive. Dry your tears, dear, and smile as you used to in the old +days!” He stooped over her and pressed a kiss on her shining hair; and there +came to her a mad, passionate longing to lift her arms and clasp them about his +neck and confess all, confess her stupidity and her blindness and her folly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is you—you are the man I love. It is you I want—you all the time!” She +longed to say it, but did not, and Hugh Alston never knew. +</p> + +<p> +Hurst Dormer looked empty, and seemed silent and dull after Cornbridge. No +place was dull and certainly no place was silent where Lady Linden was, and +coming back to Hurst Dormer, Hugh felt as if he was then entering into a desert +of solitude and silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Everything has been quite all right,” said Mrs. Morrisey. “The men have got on +nicely with their work. Lane has taken advantage of your being away to give the +car a thorough overhaul, and—and I think that is all, sir. There are a few +letters waiting for you. I’ll get them.” +</p> + +<p> +From whom this letter? Whose hand this? He wondered. He had never seen “Her” +writing before, yet instinct told him that this was hers. +</p> + +<p> +Two minutes later Hugh Alston was behaving like a lunatic. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Morrisey! Mrs. Morrisey! When did this letter come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that one, sir? It came ten days ago—the very day you left, the same +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why—why in the name of Heaven—” he began, and then stopped himself, for +he remembered that he had ordered no letters should be sent on. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it is not important, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Important!” he said. “Oh no, not at all, nothing important!” Again he read— +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have subjected me +to insult and annoyance, past all bearing, I ask you to meet me in London at +the earliest opportunity...” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +At the earliest opportunity! And those words had been written eleven days ago; +and she had underscored the word “earliest” three times. Eleven days ago! “I +feel I have a right to appeal to you for protection....” +</p> + +<p> +She had written that, an appeal to him, and he had not until now read the +written words. +</p> + +<p> +What was she thinking of him? What could she think of his long silence? +</p> + +<p> +He could not blame Mrs. Morrisey. There was only himself to blame, no one else! +And there had he been, cooling his heels at Cornbridge and interfering with +other folks’ love affairs, and all the time Joan—Joan was perhaps wondering, +watching, waiting for the answer that never came. +</p> + +<p> +He wanted to send a frantic telegram; but he did nothing of the kind. He wrote +instead. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“I have been away. Only a few minutes ago did your letter reach me. I am at +your service in all things. Heaven knows I bitterly regret the annoyance that +you have been caused through me. You ask me to meet you in London. Do you not +know that I will come most willingly, eagerly. I am writing this on the evening +of Tuesday. You should receive my letter on Wednesday, probably in the evening; +but in case it may be delayed, I suggest that you meet me in London on Thursday +afternoon”—he paused, racking his brain for some suitable meeting place—“at +four o’clock, in the Winter Garden of the Empire Hotel. Do not trouble to +reply. I shall be there without fail, and shall then be, as I am now, and will +ever be,<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Yours to command,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“HUGH ALSTON.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +This letter he wrote hurriedly, and raced off with it to catch the post. +</p> + +<p> +Seven, eight, ten days ago since Joan had written that letter, and there had +come no reply. The man had ignored her, had treated her with silent contempt. +The thought made her face burn, brought a sense of miserable self-abasement to +her. She had pleaded to him for help, and he had treated her with silence and +contempt. +</p> + +<p> +Well, what did it matter? She hated him. She had always hated him. She laughed +aloud and bitterly at her own thoughts. “Yes,” she repeated to herself, “I hate +him. I feel nothing but scorn and contempt for him. I am glad he did not answer +my letter. I hope that I shall never see him again. If we do meet, by some +mischance, then I shall pass him by.” +</p> + +<p> +Several times this morning Helen had looked curiously at Joan. For Helen was in +a secret that as yet Joan did not share. It was a little conspiracy, with Helen +as the prime mover in it. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure that there never was anything between Joan and that Hugh Alston. It +was some foolish tittle-tattle, some nonsense, probably hatched by that stupid +old talkative Lady Linden.” +</p> + +<p> +Two days ago had come a letter for Helen Everard, with an Australian stamp on +it. It was from Jessie, her only sister, urging her to come out to her there, +reminding her of an old promise to make a home in that distant land with her +and her children. And Helen knew she must go. She wanted to go, had always +meant to go, for Jessie’s boys were very dear to her. Yet to leave Joan alone +in this great house, so utterly alone! +</p> + +<p> +Last night Helen had driven over quietly to Buddesby, and she and Constance had +had a long talk. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t leave Joan alone. I have written to Jessie, telling her that I shall +start in three months. I have said nothing to Joan yet; but, Connie, I can’t +leave her alone!” +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, do you think she could care for Johnny enough to become his wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe she is fond of him. I will not say that I think she is desperately +in love, but she likes him and trusts him, as she must; and so, Connie, I hope +it may come about. Joan will make an ideal wife. He is all a woman could wish +and hope for, the truest, dearest, straightest man living, and so—Connie—I +hope—” +</p> + +<p> +“I will talk to him to-night, and I will suggest that he comes over to-morrow +and puts his fate to the test. I know he loves her.” +</p> + +<p> +And to-day Johnny Everard should be here, if he had listened to his sister’s +advice, and that was a thing that Johnny ever did, save in the matter of hops. +</p> + +<p> +There was a look of subdued eagerness, of visible nervousness and uncertainty, +about Mr. John Everard that day. And Helen saw it. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan’s in the garden, John,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I—” He fumbled nervously with his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, I have been talking to Con, at least Con’s been talking to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“And she—she says—Con tells me that there is a chance for me—just a chance, +Helen. And, Helen, I don’t want to spoil my chance, if I have one, by rushing +in. You understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” Helen said, “that Joan would like you the better and admire you the +more for being brave enough to speak out.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it! I’ve got to speak out. You know I love her!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she doesn’t love me. It is not likely; how could she? Look at me, a great +ugly chap—how could such a girl care for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think any girl might very easily care for you, Johnny!” +</p> + +<p> +“An ugly brute like me? A farmer. I am nothing more, Helen, and—and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Johnny, she is in the garden. Go to her; take your courage in both your hands. +Remember— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘He either fears his fate too much.<br/> + Or his deserts are small,<br/> +That dares not put it to the touch,<br/> + To gain or lose it all.’”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go!” Johnny Everard said. “I can but lose, eh? That’s the worst that can +happen to me—lose. But, by Heaven! if I do lose, it is going to—to hurt, and +hurt badly. Helen dear, wish me luck!” +</p> + +<p> +She put both her hands on his broad shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. +She felt to him as a mother might. +</p> + +<p> +“From my heart, Johnny, I wish you luck and fortune and happiness,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Joan was at the far end of the wide, far-spreading garden. She was seated on a +bench beside a pool where grew water-lilies, and where in the summer sunshine +the dragon-flies skimmed on the placid surface of the green water—water that +now and again was broken into a ripple by the quick twist of the tail of one of +the fat old carp that lived their humdrum, adventureless years in the quiet +depths. +</p> + +<p> +She sat here, chin in hand, grey eyes watching the pool, yet seeing nothing of +its beauties, and her thoughts away, away with a man who had insulted her, had +brought trouble and shame and anger to her—a man to whom she had appealed, and +had appealed in vain; a man dead to all manhood, a man she hated—yes, hated—for +often she told herself so, and it must be true. +</p> + +<p> +And then suddenly she heard the fall of a footstep on the soft turf behind her, +and, turning, looked into the face of a man whose eyes were filled with love +for her. +</p> + +<p> +So for one long moment they looked at one another, and the colour rose in the +girl’s cheeks, and into her eyes there came a wistful regret. For she knew why +this man was here. She knew what he had to say to her, to ask of her, here by +the green pool. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br/> +“—TO GAIN, OR LOSE IT ALL”</h2> + +<p> +“Take your courage in both hands” Helen had said to him, and he was doing so; +but Johnny Everard knew himself for a coward at this moment. +</p> + +<p> +He felt tongue-tied, more than usually awkward, terribly and shamefully +nervous. Yet the grey eyes were on his face, and he knew that he must speak, +must put all to the hazard. And he knew also that if to-day he lost her, it +would be the biggest and the blackest sorrow of his life, something that he +would never live down, never forget. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, it was worth fighting for, worth taking his courage in both hands for, this +girl with the sweet, serious face and the tender mouth, the great, enquiring, +yet trusting grey eyes. He had seen her cold, stately, a little unapproachable, +but he had never seen scorn in those eyes. He had never seen the red lips +curled with contempt. He knew nothing of her in this guise, as another man did. +</p> + +<p> +And now the girl seemed to be all woman, tender, sympathetic, and the courage +came to him; he sate himself beside her and took her hand in his, and it gave +him hope that she did not draw it away. +</p> + +<p> +What he said, how he said it, how he stumbled over his story of love and +devotion he never knew. But it was an honest story, a story that did him +honour, and did honour too to the woman he told it to. +</p> + +<p> +“I love you, dear. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. I know you +are high above me. I know what I am, an unlovely sort of fellow, rough and—and +not fit to touch your hand—” for, being deeply in love, his opinion of himself +had naturally sunk to zero. The perfection of the beloved object always makes +an honest man painfully conscious of his own inferiority and unworthiness. And +so it was with Johnny Everard, this day beside the green pool. And the slim, +cool hand was not withdrawn. +</p> + +<p> +“Johnny, what are you asking me? Why have you come here to me? What do you +want—of me?” she asked, yet did not look him in the face, but sat with eyes +resting on the placid water. +</p> + +<p> +“Just to tell you that—to tell you how I love you, Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +Another man had told her that; the echo of his words came back to her from the +past. How often those words of his had come back; she could never forget them. +Yet she told herself that she hated him who had uttered them, hated him, for +was he not a proved craven? +</p> + +<p> +<i>(“If, in telling you that I love you, is a sin fast all forgiveness, I glory +in it. I take not one word of it back.”)</i> +</p> + +<p> +And now another, a worthier, better man, was telling her the same story, +holding her hand, and, she knew, looking into her face; yet her eyes did not +meet his. +</p> + +<p> +And, listening to him, her heart grew more bitter than ever before to the man +who had uttered those words she would never forget, bitter against him, yet +more against herself. For she was conscious of shame and anger—at her woman’s +weakness, at the folly of which her woman’s heart was capable. +</p> + +<p> +“I know I am not fit for you, not good enough for you, Joan. There isn’t a man +living who would be—but—I love you—dear, and with God’s help I would try to +make you a happy woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Manly words, honest and sincere, she knew, as must be all that this man said +and did—a man to rely on, a very tower of strength; a man to protect her, a man +to whom she could take her troubles and her secrets, knowing full well that he +would not fail her. +</p> + +<p> +And while these thoughts passed in her mind she sat there silently, her hand in +his, and never thought to draw it away. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, will you be my wife, dear? I am asking for more than I could ever +deserve. There is nothing about me that makes me worthy of that great happiness +and honour, save one thing—my love for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” she said, and broke her silence for the first time, “there is one +question that you do not ask me, Johnny.” +</p> + +<p> +“One question?” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not ask me if I love you!” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I ask for the impossible, the unlikely? There is nothing in me for +such a girl as you to love.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is much in you for any woman to love. There is honesty and truth and +bravery, and a clean sweet mind. I know all that, I know that you are a good +man, Johnny. I know that; but oh, I do not love you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” he said sadly. “I know that.” And his hand seemed to slip away from +hers. +</p> + +<p> +“And you would not—not take me—Johnny, without love?” she asked, and her voice +trembled. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, I—I don’t understand. I am a foolish, dense fellow, dear, and I don’t +understand!” +</p> + +<p> +She turned to him, and now her eyes met his frankly, and never had he seen them +so soft, so tender, so filled with a strange and wonderful light, the light +that is born of tenderness and sympathy and kindliness. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you make me your wife, Johnny, knowing that I—I do not love you as a +woman should love the man she takes for her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I would try to teach you, dear. I would try to win a little of your heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that would content you, Johnny?” +</p> + +<p> +“It must. I dare not ask too much, and I—I—love you so!” +</p> + +<p> +<i>(“I glory in it. I take not one word of it lack!”)</i> +</p> + +<p> +Hateful words, words she could never forget, that came back to torture and fill +her with a sense of shame. Strange that they were dinning in her memory, even +now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>(“I glory in it. I take not one word back!”)</i> +</p> + +<p> +And then suddenly she made a gesture, as to fling off remembrance. She turned +more fully to him, and her eyes met his frankly. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not love you, dear, as a woman should love the man she mates with; but I +like you. I honour you and trust you, and if—if you will take me as I am, not +asking for too much, not asking, dear, for more than I can give—” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan,” he said, “my Joan!” +</p> + +<p> +She bent her head. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will take me—as I am, not asking for more than I can give, then—then I +will come to you, if you will have it so. But oh, my dear, you are worth more +than this, far more than this!” +</p> + +<p> +He lifted her hand and held it to his lips, the only embrace that in his +humility he dare offer her. And even while she felt his lips upon her hand, +there came back to her memory eyes that glowed with love and passion, a deep +voice that shook with feeling— +</p> + +<p> +<i>(“I glory in it, and take not one word of it back!”)</i> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV<br/> +IN THE MIRE</h2> + +<p> +Women, chattering over their tea in the lounge of the Empire Hotel, followed +the tall restless young man with their eyes. He was worth looking at, so big +and fine, and bronzed, and so worried, so anxious-looking, poor fellow. +</p> + +<p> +Four o’clock, a quarter past, half past. She would not come. Of course she +would not come; he had offended past all forgiveness in taking so long to reply +to her appeal. Hugh Alston cursed the unlucky star that he must have been born +under. +</p> + +<p> +Two middle-aged women, seated at a small table, taking their tea after +strenuous shopping at the sales, watched him and discussed him frankly. +</p> + +<p> +“Evidently here to meet someone!” +</p> + +<p> +“And she hasn’t come!” +</p> + +<p> +“You can see how disappointed he looks, poor fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Too bad of her!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, what some men can see in some women...” +</p> + +<p> +“And a girl who would keep a man like that waiting deserves to lose him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope she does. See, he’s going now. I hope she comes later and is +disappointed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, I think that must be she. What a handsome girl, but how cold and proud +looking!” +</p> + +<p> +She had come, even as he was giving up in despair. As he turned to leave, she +came, and they met face to face. +</p> + +<p> +The two amiable busybodies sipped their tea and watched. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, she didn’t even offer him her hand—such a cold and stately bow. They +can’t be lovers, after all!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I ever saw a more lovely girl!” +</p> + +<p> +“But icily cold. That pink chiffon I bought at Robinson’s will make up into a +charming evening dress for Irene, don’t you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I am late,” Joan said, and her voice was clear and cold, +expressionless as a voice could be. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely I deserve that at least, after the unforgivable delay in answering your +letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “you—you were a long time answering.” And suddenly she +realised what that delay had meant. +</p> + +<p> +Yesterday, if his answer had come, perhaps she would not have done as she had +done. But it was done now, past recall. +</p> + +<p> +“I was away. I found Hurst Dormer irksome and lonely. Lady Linden came over; +she invited me to stay at Cornbridge,” he explained. “So I went, and no letters +were forwarded. Yours came within a few hours of my leaving. I hope you +understand that if I had had it—” +</p> + +<p> +“You would have answered it before, Mr. Alston? Yes, I am glad to feel the +neglect was not intentional.” +</p> + +<p> +“Intentional!” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I thought, judging from the manner in which we last parted, and what you +then said to me, that you—you preferred not to—see me again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was hurt then, hurt and bitter. I had no right to say what I said. I ask you +to accept my apologies, Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +She started a little at the sound of her name, but did not look at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you were right. I have thought it over since. Yes, I think I acted +meanly; it was a thing a woman would do. That is where a woman fails—in small +things—ideas, mean ideas come to her mind, just like that one. A man would not +think such things. Yes, I am ashamed by the smallness of it. You said +‘ungenerous.’ I think a better expression would have been ‘mean-spirited.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan!” +</p> + +<p> +“But we need not discuss that. We owe one another apologies. Shall we take it +that they are offered and accepted?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “Tea?” he asked, “or coffee?” For the hotel servant had come for his +orders. +</p> + +<p> +“Tea, please,” she said; “and—and this time I will not ask for the bill.” The +faintest flicker of a smile crossed her lips, and then was gone, and he thought +that in its place a look of weariness and unhappiness came into the girl’s +face. +</p> + +<p> +She had sent for him to ask his help. His letter had only reached her that +morning, and when she had read it, she had asked herself, “Shall I go? Shall I +see him?” And had answered “No! It is over; I do not need his help now. I have +someone else to whom I must turn for help, someone who will give it readily.” +</p> + +<p> +And yet she had come—that is the way of women. And because she had come, she +would still ask his help, and not ask it of that other. For surely he who had +brought all this trouble on to her should be the one to clear her path? +</p> + +<p> +The waiter brought the tea, and Hugh leaned back and watched her as she poured +it out. And, watching her, there came to him a vision of the bright morning +room at Hurst Dormer, a vision of all the old familiar things he had known +since boyhood: and in that vision, that day-dream, he saw her sitting where his +mother once had sat, and she was pouring out tea, even as now. +</p> + +<p> +A clearer, stronger vision this than any he had had in the old days of +Marjorie. He smiled at the thought of those dreams, so utterly broken and dead +and wafted away into the nothingness of which they had been built. +</p> + +<p> +“You sent for me to help you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” A tinge of colour rose in her cheeks and waxed till her cheeks and even +her throat were flooded with a brilliant, glorious flush, and then, suddenly as +it had come, it died away again, leaving her whiter than before. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted your help. I felt that I had a right to ask it, seeing that you—you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Have caused you trouble and annoyance? You wrote that,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head. +</p> + +<p> +“What you did, has brought more trouble, more shame, more annoyance to me than +I can ever explain. I do not ask you to tell me why you did it—it was cruel and +mean, unmanly; but you did it. And it can never be undone, so I ask for no +reasons, no explanations. They—they do not interest me now. You have brought me +trouble and—even danger—and so I turned to you, to ask your help. I have the +right, have I not the right—to demand it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The greatest right on earth,” he said. “Joan, how can I help you?” +</p> + +<p> +But she did not answer immediately, for the answer would be difficult. +</p> + +<p> +“When you played with a woman’s name,” she said, “you played with the most +fragile, the most delicate and easily breakable thing there is. Do you realise +that? A woman’s fair name is her most sacred possession, and yet you played +with mine, used it for your own purpose, and so have brought me to shame and +misery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan,” he leaned towards her, “how—how—tell me how?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three days ago,” she said quietly, “I submitted and paid three thousand pounds +blackmail, rather than that your name and mine, linked together, should be +dragged in the mire!” +</p> + +<p> +It was almost as though those white hands of hers had struck him a heavy blow +between the eyes. Hugh sat and stared at her in amaze. +</p> + +<p> +Her words seemed obscure, scarcely possible to understand, yet he had gathered +in the sense of them. +</p> + +<p> +“Three days ago I submitted and paid three thousand pounds blackmail rather +than your name and mine, linked together, should be dragged in the mire.” +</p> + +<p> +A girl might well shrink to tell a man what she must tell him, to go into +explanations that were an offence to the purity of her mind. Yet, listening to +her, looking at her, at the pale, proud young face, white as marble, Hugh +Alston knew that he had never admired and reverenced her as he did now. +</p> + +<p> +“The story that you told of our marriage, that lie that I can never understand, +passed from lip to lip. Many have heard it; it has caused many to wonder. I do +not ask why you uttered it. It does not matter now, nothing matters, save that +you did utter it, and it has gone abroad. Then one day you came to the office +where I was employed, and the man who employed me put his private room at your +disposal, knowing that by means of some spyhole he had contrived he could hear +all that passed between us. And then you offered me marriage—by way of +atonement. Do you remember? You offered to—to atone by marrying me.” +</p> + +<p> +“In my mad, presumptuous folly, Joan!” +</p> + +<p> +“And it was overheard; the man heard all. He did not understand—how should he? +His vile mind grasped at other meanings. He went down to Marlbury and to +Morchester to make enquiries, to look for an entry in a register that was never +made. He went to General Bartholomew and then Cornbridge, where he saw Lady +Linden, and heard from her all that she had to tell, and then—then he came to +me. He told me that he knew the truth, and that if I would marry him he would +forgive—forgive everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh Alston said nothing. He sat with his big hands gripped hard, and thinking +of Philip Slotman a red fury passed like a mist before his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I told him to go, and then came a letter from him, a friendly letter, a letter +that could not cause him any trouble. He assured me of his friendship and of +his—silence, you understand, his silence—and asked me as a friend to lend him +three thousand pounds. It was blackmail—oh, I knew that. I hesitated, and did +not know what to do. There was none to whom I could turn—no one. I had no +friend. Helen Everard is only a friend of a few short weeks. I felt that I +could not go to her, I felt somehow that she would never understand. And +then—then at last, because, I suppose, I am a woman and therefore a coward, and +because I was so alone—so helpless—I sent the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Remember,” she said, “remember I had written to you, asking your help. I had +waited days, and no answer had come. I had no right to believe that I could ask +your help.” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, Joan, didn’t you know that you could? Have you forgotten what I told you +once—that stands true to-day as then, will stand true to the last hour of my +life. I have brought shame and misery on you, God forgive me—yet +unintentionally, Joan.” He leaned forward, and grasped at her hand and held it, +though she would have drawn it free of him. “I told you that I loved you that +night. I love you now—my love for you gives me the right to protect you!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no rights, no rights,” she said, and drew her hand away. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you will not give me those rights. I asked you to marry me once. I +came to you, thinking in my small soul that I was doing a fine thing, offering +atonement—my—my very words, atonement—for the evil I had unwittingly done. And +you refused to accept the prize!” He laughed bitterly. “You refused with scorn, +just scorn, Joan. You made me realise that I had but added to my offence. I—I +to offer you marriage, in my lordly way, when I should have sued on my knees to +you for forgiveness, as I would sue now, humbly and contritely, offering love +and love alone—love and worship and service to the end of my days, as please +Heaven I shall sue, Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot!” she said quietly. “You cannot, and if you should, the answer will +be the same, as then!” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you can never forgive?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I have no power to give what you would ask for!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your love?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer. She turned her face away, for she knew she could not in +truth say “No” to that, for the knowledge that she had been trying to stifle +was with her now, the knowledge that meant that she could not love the man +whose wife she had promised to be. +</p> + +<p> +“My—my hand—” she said. +</p> + +<p> +And he, not understanding for the moment, looked at her, and then suddenly +understanding came to him. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you did not answer my letter, and I—I waited,” she said, and her voice was +low and muffled. There was no pride in her face now; all its hardness, all its +bitterness and scorn were gone. +</p> + +<p> +“I waited and waited—and thought—hoped,” she said, “and nothing came. And +yesterday a man—a man I like and admire, a fine man, a good man, honest and +noble, a man who—who loves me better than I deserve, came to me—and—and so +to-day it is too late! Though,” she cried, with a touch of scorn for herself, +“it would have made no difference—nothing would have made any difference. +You—you understand that I scarcely know what I am saying!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have given your promise to another man?” he asked quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you do not love him?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a man,” she cried, “a man who would not make a jest of a woman’s name.” +</p> + +<p> +“And even so, you do not love him, because that would not be possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to say that,” and she wrenched her hand free. +</p> + +<p> +“I have the right, the right you gave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I gave you no right.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have. You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart. You do +not love that man, because you love me!” +</p> + +<p> +Back into the white face came all the hardness and coldness that he so well +knew. She rose; she looked down on him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is—untrue. I do not. I have but one feeling for you always—always—the same, +the one feeling. I despise you. How could I love a thing that I despise?” +</p> + +<p> +And, knowing that it was a lie, she dared not meet the scrutiny of his eyes, +and turned quickly away. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan!” he said. He would have followed her, but then came the waiter with his +bill, and he was forced to stay, and when he reached the street she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“I quite thought that they were going to make it up, and then it seemed that +they quarrelled again,” one of the ladies at the other table said. +</p> + +<p> +The other nodded. “I think that they do not know their own minds, young people +seldom do. I wish I had bought three yards more of that cerise ninon. It would +have made up so well for Violet, don’t you think?” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br/> +MR. ALSTON CALLS</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Philip Slotman sat in his office; he was slowly deciphering a letter, +ill-written and badly spelled. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“DEAR SIR,<br/> +<br/> +“According to promise I am writing to you hopeing it finds you as it leaves me +at present. Dear sir, having some news I am writing to tell you saime. +Yesterday Mr. John Everard of Buddesby was here and him and Miss Jone was in +the garden for a long time. I seen them from my window, but could not get near +enuff to hear. Anyhow I see him kissing her hand. Laiter, after he had gone, I +seen Miss Jone and Mrs. Everard together, and listened as best I could. From +what I heard I imadgined that Miss Jone and Mr. John Everard is now engaged to +be married, which Mrs. Everard seems very pleased to hear. +</p> + +<p> +“This morning Miss Jone gets a letter and the postmark is Hurst Dormer, like +you told me to look out for. She is now gone to London. Please send money in +accordance with promise and I will write and tell you all the news as soon as +there is any more.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Youres truley,<br/> +</span> <span style="margin-left: 2em;">“MISS ALICE BETTS.”</span> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +The door opened, a boy clerk came in. Slotman thrust the letter he had been +reading into an open drawer. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman to see you, sir. Mr. Alston from—” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t see him!” Slotman said quickly. “Tell him I am out, and that—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am already here, and you are going to see me.” Hugh Alston came in. “You can +go!” to the boy, who hesitated. “You hear me, you can go!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh closed the door after the lad. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not going to be too busy to see me this morning, Slotman, for I have +interesting things to discuss with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a busy man,” Slotman began nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Very!” said Hugh—“very, so I hear.” +</p> + +<p> +He stepped into the room, and faced Slotman across the paper-littered table. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been hearing about some of your enterprises,” he said, and there was +that in his face that caused Mr. Slotman a feeling of insecurity and +uneasiness. “One of them is blackmail!” +</p> + +<p> +“How dare—” Slotman began, with an attempt at bluster. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I am here for; to dare. You have been blackmailing a young lady +whose name we need not mention. You have obtained the sum of three thousand +pounds from her, by means of threats. I want that money—and more; I want a +declaration from you that you will never molest her again; for if you do—if you +do—” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh’s face was not good to see, and Mr. Slotman quivered uneasily in his +chair. +</p> + +<p> +“The—the money was lent to me. Miss Meredyth worked for me, and—and I went to +her, explaining that my business was in a precarious condition, and she very +kindly lent me the money. And I haven’t got it, Mr. Alston. I’ll swear I +haven’t a penny of it left. I could not repay it if I wanted to; it—it was a +friendly loan.” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman leaned back in his chair; he looked at Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“You have done me a cruel wrong, Mr. Alston,” he said, in the tone of a deeply +injured man. “Miss Meredyth worked for me, and while she was here I respected +her, even more.” He paused. “At any rate I respected her. She attracted me, +and, I will confess it, I fell in love with her. She was poor; she had nothing +then to tempt a fortune hunter, and thank Heaven I can say I was never that. I +asked her to be my wife, no man could do more, no man could act more +honourably. You’ll admit that, eh? You must admit that?” +</p> + +<p> +“And she refused you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not—not definitely. It was too good an offer for a girl in her position to +refuse without consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“You lie!” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman shifted uneasily. “I cannot force your belief.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re right, you can’t. Well, go on—what more?” +</p> + +<p> +“She came into this money; my proposal no longer tempted her. She then refused +me, even though I told her that the past—her past—would be forgotten, that I +would never refer to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What past?” Hugh shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Hers and yours,” Slotman said boldly. “A supposed marriage that never took +place, her sudden disappearance from her school in June, nineteen hundred and +eighteen, when that marriage was supposed to have been celebrated—but never +was. Her story of leaving England for Australia—an obvious lie, Mr. Alston. All +those things I knew. All those things I can prove—against her—and against +you—and—and—” Slotman’s voice quivered. He leaped to his feet and uttered a +shout for help. +</p> + +<p> +The blood-red mist was before Hugh’s eyes, and out of that mist appeared a +vision of a face, an unpleasant face, with starting eyes and gaping mouth. +</p> + +<p> +This he saw, and then his vision cleared, and with a shudder he released his +hold on the man’s throat, and Philip Slotman subsided limply into his chair. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br/> +THE WATCHER</h2> + +<p> +Helen Everard’s pleasant face was beaming. Her smile expressed complete +contentment and satisfaction, for everything was going as everything should go. +Johnny was an accepted lover, Joan’s future would be protected; she herself +would be left free to make her long journey to the dear ones at the other side +of the world. All was well! +</p> + +<p> +Joan had been to London yesterday, had rushed off with scarcely a word, and had +returned at night, tired and seemingly dispirited. +</p> + +<p> +Joan, quiet and calm, smiled at Helen and kissed her good morning, but spoke +hardly at all. +</p> + +<p> +“You had a tiring day in Town yesterday, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very!” +</p> + +<p> +“Shopping?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +Helen asked no more questions. She thought of Hugh Alston. Could it be anything +to do with him? She could never quite understand the position of Hugh Alston. +Of course the talk about a marriage having taken place years ago between Hugh +Alston and Joan was absurd, was ridiculous. Joan was proving the absurdity of +it even now by accepting Johnny. +</p> + +<p> +“Connie is coming over this afternoon to see you, Joan,” she said. “She sent me +a note over yesterday by a boy. Johnny has told her of course, and Connie is +delighted beyond words. She sends you her dear love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you!” Joan said calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” Helen hesitated, “the marriage need not be long delayed. You see—” +She paused, and then went into explanations about Jessie and the children out +in Australia, and her own promise to go to them. +</p> + +<p> +“So this afternoon I want you and Connie to have a long, long talk,” Helen +said. “There will be so much for you to discuss. Connie is the business man, +you know. Poor Johnny is hopeless when it comes to discussing things and—and +arrangements. Of course, dear, you quite understand that Johnny is not well +off.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, but that does not matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, but even though Johnny is one of the finest and straightest men +living, it will be better if in some way your own money is so tied up that it +belongs to you and to you only. Johnny himself would wish it. He doesn’t want +to touch one penny of your money!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure of that.” Joan rose. She went out into the garden. She wanted to get +away from Helen’s well-meant, friendly, affectionate chatter about the future, +and about money and marriage. She went to the bench beside the pool and sat +there, staring at the green water. +</p> + +<p> +“It was true,” she whispered to herself, “all true, what I said. I—I do despise +him. How could I love a thing that I despised; and I do despise him!” +</p> + +<p> +It was not of Johnny Everard she was thinking. +</p> + +<p> +“He said—he said that he had a right, that my love for him gave him the right! +How dared he?” A deep flush stole into her cheeks, and then died out. +</p> + +<p> +She rose suddenly with a gesture of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie! It is wrong, and it is nonsense. I am engaged to marry Johnny +Everard, and there is no finer, better man living! I shall never see that other +man again. Yesterday he and I parted for good and for always, and I am +glad—glad!” And she knew even while she uttered the words that she was very +miserable. +</p> + +<p> +Connie Everard drove the pony-trap over to Starden. She brought with her a boy +who would drive it back again. Later in the afternoon Johnny would drive the +car over for her and take her back. +</p> + +<p> +Connie, having attended carefully to her toilet, descended to the waiting +pony-trap, and found, to her surprise and a little to her annoyance, that +Ellice was already seated in the little vehicle. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellice, dear, I am sorry, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t want to take me, Connie; but, all the same, I am going. I want to +see—her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to see her,” the girl said. A dusky glow of sudden passion came into +her face. “I want to see her. There is no harm, is there?” She laughed shrilly. +“I shan’t hurt her by looking at her. I want to see her again, the woman that +he loves.” There was a shake in her voice, a suggestion of passionate tears, +but the child held herself in check. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellice, darling, it will be better if you—” +</p> + +<p> +“If I don’t go. I know, but I am going. You—you can’t turn me out, Connie. I am +too strong; I shall cling to the sides of the cart.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a look, half of laughter, half of defiance, in the girl’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Connie, I am going, and nothing shall prevent me!” +</p> + +<p> +Connie sighed, and stepped into the cart and took up the reins. “Very well, +dear!” she said resignedly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are angry with me, Connie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you want to go to Starden?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to see her again. I want to—to understand, to—to know things.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, to understand, to know things?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to watch her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ellice, you will make me angry presently. Ellice,” Connie added suddenly, “I +suppose you don’t intend to make a scene, and make yourself foolish and—and +cheap?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall say nothing. I only want to watch and to try and understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are acting foolishly and wrongly, Ellice. I think you are a very +foolish child!” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish,” Ellice said, and said it without passion, but with a deep certainty +in her voice, “I wish that I were dead, Connie.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself,” said Connie, who could think +of nothing better to say. +</p> + +<p> +She made one more attempt when Starden was reached. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellice, child, why not go back with Hobbins?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am coming with you,” Ellice said. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you will not—I mean you will—not be silly or rude to—” +</p> + +<p> +Ellice drew herself up with a childish dignity. “I shall not forget that I am a +lady, Connie,” she said, and said it with such stateliness and such dignity +that Connie felt no inclination to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +Helen frowned. She was annoyed at the sight of Ellice, frankly she did not like +the girl. Helen was a good, honest woman who liked everything that was good and +honest. Ellice Brand might be good and honest, but there was something about +the girl that was beyond Helen’s ken. She was so elfin, so gipsy-like, so +different from most girls Helen knew, and had known. +</p> + +<p> +During the long afternoon, when they sat for a time in the garden, or in the +shady drawing-room, Joan was aware of the fixed and intent gaze of a pair of +dark eyes. Strangely and wonderfully dark were those eyes, and they seemed to +possess some magnetic power, a power of making themselves felt. More than once +in the middle of saying something to Helen or to Connie, Joan found herself at +a loss for words, and impelled by some unknown force to turn her head and look +straight into those eyes that blazed in the little white face. +</p> + +<p> +Why did the girl stare at her so? Why, Joan wondered? A strange, elfin-like +child, a bud on the point of bursting into a wondrous beauty, Joan realised, +and realised too that there was enmity in the dark eyes that stared at her so +mercilessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ellice, child, go out into the garden,” Helen said presently. “Come with me, +we will leave Connie and Joan to have a little talk. Come, there are lots of +things to see. This is a wonderful garden, you know—far, far better than +Buddesby.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t,” Ellice said quietly. “There’s no garden in the world like Buddesby +garden, and no place in the world like Buddesby, but I will come with you if +you want me to.” +</p> + +<p> +“A strange girl!” Joan said. +</p> + +<p> +“A very dear, good, lovable, but passionate child,” Connie said. “Now let us +talk of you and Johnny, Joan, of the future. Helen has told you that—that she—” +</p> + +<p> +“She wishes to leave us soon? Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so,” Connie slipped her hand into Joan’s, “the marriage need not be long +delayed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whenever—he wishes it,” Joan said, and for her life she could not put any +warmth into her voice, and Connie, who noticed most things, noticed the chill +coldness of it. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet she must love Johnny, or she would not marry him,” Connie thought. +</p> + +<p> +“I leave everything to you, and to Helen and to him.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed almost as if Joan had a strange disinclination to utter Johnny’s +name. Johnny sounded so babyish, so childlike, so affectionate, yet she felt +that she could not speak of him as “John.” It would sound hard and crude in the +ears of those who loved him, and called him by the more tender name. +</p> + +<p> +It was another shock to Connie later when Johnny came. She watched for the +greeting between these two, and felt shocked and startled when Johnny took +Joan’s hand and held it for a moment, then lifted it to his lips. No other kiss +passed between them. +</p> + +<p> +And Connie felt her own cheeks burning, and wondered why. +</p> + +<p> +How strange! Lovers, and particularly accepted lovers, always kissed! +</p> + +<p> +There was that about Johnny that for the first time in her life almost +irritated Connie. She watched him, and saw that his eyes were following Joan +with that look of strange, dog-like devotion that Connie remembered with a +start she had herself surprised in Ellice’s eyes before now. +</p> + +<p> +And as she watched, so watched another, herself almost forgotten as she sat in +a corner of the room. The big black eyes were on these two, drifting from the +face of one to the face of the other, taking no heed, and no count of anything +else but of these two affianced lovers. +</p> + +<p> +Very clearly and almost coldly Joan had expressed her own wishes. +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish the marriage to take place soon, I am content. I would like it +to—to be—not very soon—not just yet,” she added, and seemed to be speaking +against her own will, and as though in opposition to her own thoughts. “Still, +whatever you arrange, I will willingly agree to. I prefer to leave it all to +you, Helen, and you, Connie, and—and you, Johnny. But it might take place just +before Helen goes away. That would be time enough, would it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was the very thing I was going to suggest,” Helen said. “In three months’ +time then, Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +Joan bowed her head. “In three months’ time then,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +They were all three very silent as Johnny drove the little car back to Buddesby +that evening. The sun was down, but the twilight lingered. Ellice sat crushed +in between Johnny’s big bulk and Connie, and she would not have changed places +with the queen on her throne. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s Rundle with that horrible lurcher dog of his,” said Johnny, and spoke +more to make conversation than anything else. +</p> + +<p> +They could see the man, the village poacher, slouching along under a hedge with +the ever-faithful dog close at heel. +</p> + +<p> +“A horrible, fierce-looking beast,” said Connie. “It fights with every dog in +the place, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“But it loves him; it loves its master,” Ellice said passionately. “It would +die for its master, wouldn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I daresay it would, Gipsy,” Johnny said. “But why so excited about it, +little girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you—if you,” Ellice said, “had the offer of two dogs, the one splendid, a +thoroughbred deerhound, graceful, beautiful, fine to look at, but cold and with +no love to give its master, and the other—a hideous beast like Rundle’s +lurcher—but a beast who could love and die for its master, and dying lick the +hand of the master it loved, glad and grateful to—to die for him—which would +you have, which would you have, Johnny?” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny was hardly listening. He was looking down the dusky road and seeing in +imagination a face, the most beautiful, wonderful face that his world had ever +held. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, Gipsy girl,” he said. “I don’t know!” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Ellice said; and her voice shook and quavered in an unnatural laugh. “You +don’t know, Johnny; you don’t know!” +</p> + +<p> +And Connie, who heard and understood, shivered a little at the sound of the +girl’s laughter. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br/> +“HE DOES NOT LOVE ME NOW”</h2> + +<p> +“Tom,” said Lady Linden, “is by no means a fool, Marjorie.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has ideas. I don’t say that they are brilliant, but he gets the germ of a +plan into his brain. And now I will tell you what he suggests about Partridge’s +cottage and land when the lease falls in.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Linden proceeded to explain Tom Arundel’s idea, and Marjorie sat and +stared out into the garden and thought of Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +Was he at Hurst Dormer now? If not, where was he? What was he doing? What was +he thinking about? Did he still love her, or had he fallen in love with Joan? +And, if he had, would he marry Joan? and if not. +</p> + +<p> +“So there you see, and what do you think of that?” asked Lady Linden, coming to +the end of her remarks. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it would be very nice!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very nice!” Lady Linden snorted. “Very nice! What a feeble remark. My good +Marjorie, do you take no intelligent interest in anything? Upon my word, now I +come to look back I wonder at myself, I do indeed. I wonder at myself to think +that a man like Hugh Alston, an intellectual, deep-thinking man, a man with +common-sense and plenty of it—what was I saying? Oh yes, I wonder at myself for +ever hoping or believing that a man like Hugh could fall in love with a silly +little donkey like you. And yet men do, even clever men—I’ve known several +quite clever men fall in love with perfect fools of women. But I was wrong, and +you are right. I see it now. Tom Arundel is the man for you; you are fitted for +one another. He is not quite a fool, but you are. He’s not clever enough to be +annoyed by your folly. Hugh, on the other hand, would positively dislike you +after a month. There! don’t howl, for goodness’ sake—don’t snivel, child! Run +away and play with your doll” +</p> + +<p> +“Patience!” said Lady Linden, when her niece went out—“I have the patience of +ten Jobs rolled into one. She’s a good little soul, but an awful idiot! And +bless my wig!” added her ladyship, who did not wear one, but her own luxuriant +hair, “what’s that hopeless idiot of a Perkins doing with those standard +roses?” She sallied out, battle in her eyes, to tell Perkins, the +under-gardener, something about the culture of roses, and incidentally to point +out what her opinion of himself was in plain and straightforward language. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Marjorie had hurried out. It was not true! She was not so stupid and +so silly that Hugh could never have fallen in love with her. Why, he had fallen +in love with her! He had wanted her for his wife, and she—she in her blindness +and her folly, in her stupidity, which her aunt had but now been flinging in +her teeth, had not realised that he was the one man in her world, the only man, +and that she loved him as never, never could she love Tom Arundel or anyone +else. +</p> + +<p> +The little ancient disreputable car had been repaired by Rodding, the village +handyman, who by some conjuring trick had made it run again. Marjorie started +it. +</p> + +<p> +She had made up her mind. She would go to Hurst Dormer, she would see Hugh +and—and quite what she would do she did not know. Everything was on the knees +of the gods, only she knew that she was very unhappy, a very miserable, +unhappy, foolish girl, who had got what she had asked for, and found that she +did not want it now she had it. +</p> + +<p> +Piff, piff, paff, paff went the car, and Marjorie rolled off with a succession +of jerks, leaving behind an odoriferous cloud of smoke and exhaust gases that +lay like a blue mist along the drive, and presently made Lady Linden cough and +speak in uncomplimentary terms of motoring and motorists generally. +</p> + +<p> +On to Hurst Dormer Marjorie plugged, sad at heart, realising her folly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my fault,” she felt miserably; “it is all my fault, and I am not fair to +Tom. He doesn’t understand me. I see him look at me sometimes, and I don’t +wonder at it. He doesn’t understand me a bit; he has every right to—to think—I +love him, and I don’t—I don’t. I love Hugh!” +</p> + +<p> +It was an hour later that Marjorie put in an appearance at Hurst Dormer. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh was there, and Hugh was in. It brought relief. She wanted to cry with the +relief she felt. +</p> + +<p> +Over the tea-table, where she poured out the tea from the old silver Anne +teapot, she looked at him, and saw many changes that one not loving him, as she +knew she did now, might have missed. The cheery frank smile was there yet, but +it had lost much of its happiness. His eyes were no less kind, but they had a +tired look about them, a wistful look. Oh, that she might cheat herself into +believing that their wistfulness was for her! But Marjorie was not the little +fool her aunt called her. She was a woman, and was gifted with a woman’s +understanding. +</p> + +<p> +“He does not love me now, not as he did. I had my chance, and I said no, and +now—now it is gone for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +And he, leaning back in his chair, watched her pouring out the tea as he had a +few days ago watched another pouring out tea in a London hotel. The sight of +Joan performing that domestic duty had brought to him then a vision of this +same old room, this very old teapot, that his mother had used. And now, seeing +Marjorie here, pouring out the tea, the only vision, the only remembrance that +it brought to him was the memory of another girl pouring out tea in a London +hotel. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh, have you seen her—Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +He started—started at the sound of the name that was forever in his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear,” he said simply, for why should he lie to this child? +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said. “Oh, and—and Hugh, she and you—” She paused, she held her face +down that he might not see it. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan Meredyth,” he said slowly, “and I met in Town a few days ago. She told me +then, that she is engaged to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” Marjorie said, and her heart leaped with a new-born hope. +</p> + +<p> +“And I,” Hugh went on, “am worried and anxious about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh!” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t worry you, little girl. It is nothing in which you could help; it is +my fault, my folly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is mine. The whole idea was mine; I shoulder the blame of it all. It +has succeeded in what we attempted. You are all right, you and Tom. I’ve made a +lovely mess of everything else. But that does not matter so much. What we +wanted, we won, eh?” He smiled at her, little dreaming that she had only won +dead-sea fruit. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you worried and anxious about Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going to tell you, dear. I can’t very well. Besides, you couldn’t +help. You are happy, you are all right. Tom is in high favour with her +ladyship, so that’s good, and you—you and Tom are happy, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said miserably. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a good fellow, Marjorie. Make allowances for him. He’ll need ’em, he’s no +angel; but he means well, and he’s a good clean, honest man, is Tom Arundel, +and you’ll be a happy girl when you are his wife; please God!” he added, and +put his hand on her shoulder, and did not notice that she was weeping silently. +</p> + +<p> +He drove her back to Cornbridge in the moonlight, and left her at the gates of +the Manor House. “Little girl,” he said, “in this life there’s a good deal of +give and take. Don’t expect too much, and don’t be hurt if you don’t get +everything that you ask for. Remember this—I—I cared for you very much.” +“Cared!” she thought. “Cared?” He spoke in the past—Cared!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I gave you up because you loved another man; you loved a man more worthy +than I am. I wouldn’t have stood aside if I had felt that the other man was not +good enough, that he was a waster and would not make you happy; but I knew Tom +better than that. Stick to him, don’t ask for too much. Believe always that he +loves you, and that he is built of the stuff that keeps straight and true, and +so, God bless you, dear!” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her frankly as a brother might, and sat there watching her up the +drive to the house. He did not guess that when she gained the house she slipped +in by a garden door and ran up to her own room to indulge in that relief that a +woman may ever find when the grief is not too black and too bitter, the relief +of tears. +</p> + +<p> +“I am worried about her,” Hugh thought to himself; but “her” to him meant Joan, +not Marjorie. +</p> + +<p> +When he said, “I am worried about her,” he meant that he was worried about +Joan. If he said, “She would have liked this,” “She” would mean Joan. +</p> + +<p> +“I am worried about her and that blackguard Slotman,” he thought. “There is +something about that man—snake—toad—something uncanny. She’s there; she has +money and he’s out for money. If I can sit here and tell myself that I have +scared Slotman from offending and annoying her again, I am an idiot. When +there’s money to be gained, a man like Slotman will want a lot of scaring off +it.” +</p> + +<p> +A week had passed since Marjorie’s visit. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh sent for his housekeeper, Mrs. Morrisey. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Morrisey, I am going to London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Alston, when the men are—” +</p> + +<p> +“The men are all right. I have to go to London on business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very queer and restless he’s been,” Mrs. Morrisey thought. “I never known him +like it before. When I thought he was in love with that pretty little Miss +Linden and wanting to marry her, he was not a bit like he is now. He kept +cheerful and smiling, and now; forever on the move. No sooner does he get here +than back to London he wants to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you be away for long, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said Hugh. “Perhaps; perhaps not, I can’t say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. Very good, sir. I’ll see to things, of course. And about letters, +perhaps you won’t want them forwarded as you didn’t last time, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall want every letter forwarded, the very hour it arrives,” said Hugh +quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir. Where shall I send them to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know yet. I’ll wire you an address.” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, he must go to London. He could not go and watch Joan at Starden, but he +could go to London and watch Mr. Philip Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +“What I’ll do is this—I’ll have a watch kept on that man. There are private +detective chaps who’ll do it for me. If he goes down to Starden, I’ll be after +him hot-foot. And if he does go there to annoy and insult Joan—I’ll break his +neck!” he added, with cheerful decision. +</p> + +<p> +“And she—she is going to marry another man, a man she doesn’t love—she can’t +love. I know she cannot love.” He added aloud: “Joan, you don’t love him, my +darling, you know you don’t. You dared not stay and face me that day. Your +words meant nothing. You may think you despise me, but you don’t: you want to, +my dear, but you can’t; and you can’t because, thank God, you love me! Oh, +fool! Cheer yourself up, slap yourself on the back. It doesn’t help you. She +may love you as you boast, but she’ll never marry you. She wants to hate you, +and she’ll keep on wanting to hate, and I believe—Heaven help me—that her will +is stronger than her heart. But—but anyhow, that brute Slotman shan’t worry her +while I can crawl about.” +</p> + +<p> +He was driven to the station the following morning. And now he was in the train +for London. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll find out a firm of detectives and put ’em on Slotman,” he thought, “but +first I’ll go and have a look round. What’s the name of the place?—Gracebury.” +</p> + +<p> +At the entrance to Gracebury, which as everyone knows is a cul-de-sac of no +considerable extent, Hugh stopped his taxi and got out. He walked down the wide +pavement till he came to the familiar door. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see him,” he thought. “I’ll go in and have a few words with him, just to +remind him that his neck is in jeopardy.” +</p> + +<p> +He went up the stone steps and paused. +</p> + +<p> +The door of Mr. Philip Slotman’s office was closed. On the door was pasted a +paper, stating that a suite of three offices was to let. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br/> +“WHY DOES SHE TAKE HIM FROM ME?”</h2> + +<p> +“Why—why—why?” Ellice asked herself. Why should this woman who did not love him +wish to take him away from her, who worshipped the ground he trod on, who +looked up to him as the best, the finest of all God’s created creatures? +</p> + +<p> +That Joan Meredyth did not love John Everard no one understood more clearly +than Ellice Brand. She had watched them when they were together, she had +watched the girl apart; and the watcher’s body might be that of a child, but +her eyes were the eyes of a woman, as was her heart too. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should she take him from me?” she asked herself, and all her being rose in +passionate revolt and resentment. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she does not know that I love him. Perhaps she looks on me only as a +child—a silly, foolish, infatuated child. But I am not! I am not!” Ellice +cried. “I am not! I love him. I loved him when I was a baby, when I came here +eight years ago, and now I am eighteen and a woman, and I have never changed +and never shall!” +</p> + +<p> +During the days that followed the announcement of Joan Meredyth’s engagement to +John Everard, Connie watched the girl. She felt troubled, anxious, and yet +scarcely could say why. She knew the girl’s passionate nature. Connie almost +dreaded something reckless even tragic. She was more worried than she could say +and of course she could not consult Johnny. There was no one to consult but +Helen, and Helen did not understand Ellice in the least. Helen was inclined to +look down on Ellice from her superior height as a wayward, wilful, foolish +child—nothing more. +</p> + +<p> +“Send her away. I suppose she is really too old to go to school now, Connie. +How old is she, sixteen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eighteen.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has the heart and the body of a child.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the soul of a woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes, Connie dear,” said Helen sweetly, “you make me almost angry. You +actually seem to be siding with this foolish little thing!” +</p> + +<p> +Connie sighed. “In—in some ways I do. She loves him so, and I know it. I can’t +be hard-hearted, I can’t blind myself to the truth. Of course, I know that +Johnny’s marriage with Joan is the best thing in the world for both of them, +but—” +</p> + +<p> +“But just because a stupid, self-willed girl of eighteen believes herself +deeply in love with Johnny—Oh, Connie, do be your own reasonable self.” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny Everard, blind as most men are, did not notice how quiet and reserved +Ellice had grown of late, how seldom she spoke to him, how when he spoke to her +she only answered him in brief monosyllables, and how never came a smile now to +her red lips, and certainly never a smile into her great dark eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He did not see what Connie saw—the heaviness about those eyes, the suggestion +of tears during the night, when she came down silently to her breakfast. She +had changed, and yet he did not see it, and if he had seen it might never guess +at the cause. +</p> + +<p> +And Connie too, always kindly and gentle, always sweet and unselfish; during +these days the girl’s unselfishness was something to wonder at. +</p> + +<p> +She had always loved Ellice; she had understood the child as none other had. +And now there seemed to be a bond between them that drew them closer. +</p> + +<p> +Three years ago Johnny had bought a bicycle for Ellice. She had been going +daily then to Miss Richmond’s school at Great Langbourne, three miles away, and +he had bought the bicycle that she might ride to school and back again. Since +she had left school the bicycle had remained untouched and rusted in one of the +outhouses, but now Ellice had got the machine out and cleaned it and put new +tyres on it. +</p> + +<p> +Deep down in her mind was a plan, as yet not wholly formed, a desperate venture +that one day she might embark on, and the old bicycle was part of that plan, +for she would need it to carry out the plan. She had not decided yet, not even +if she would ever carry it out, but she might. +</p> + +<p> +Day after day saw her on the road; more often than not her way lay towards +Starden village. She would ride the six and a half miles to Starden, wait there +for a time, and then ride back. She never called at Starden Hall. Helen knew +nothing of these trips. +</p> + +<p> +Connie watched the girl with misgivings and doubts, and Ellice knew that the +elder girl was watching her. +</p> + +<p> +“Connie, I want to speak to you,” she said quietly one morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, darling?” +</p> + +<p> +Ellice slipped her small brown hand into Connie’s. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I know that you are worrying, dear, that you are anxious—and for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Connie nodded, tears came into her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to understand, Connie, that I—I promise you I will do +nothing—nothing, I will never do anything unless I come to you first and tell +you. I promise you that I will do nothing—nothing that I should not do, nothing +mad and foolish and wrong, unless I come to you first and tell you just what I +am going to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, dear, for telling me this. It lifts a great weight and a great +anxiety from my heart. Thank you, dear—oh, Ellice darling, I thought once that +it would be a fine thing for him, but now—now I could wish it otherwise!” +</p> + +<p> +Another moment and the girl was in her arms, clasping her passionately, and +kissing her passionately and gratefully. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly Ellice broke away, and a few minutes later was riding hard down +the road to Starden. +</p> + +<p> +It was always to Starden that she rode. Always she passed the great gates of +Starden Hall, yet never even glanced at them. She rode into the little village, +propped her bicycle against the railings that surrounded the old stocks that +stood on the village green, and there sat on a seat and watched the ducks in +the green village pond and the children playing cricket. Then, after waiting +perhaps an hour, she would mount and ride slowly back to Buddesby again. +</p> + +<p> +It was the programme that she carried out this morning. It was twelve o’clock +when she came in sight of Buddesby village, a mile distant as yet. +</p> + +<p> +“Missy! Missy!” Someone was calling. Ellice slowed down and looked about her. +On the bank beside the road a man sat, and he was nursing an ugly yellow +lurcher dog in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Missy!” the man called, and his voice was broken and harsh with suffering. +</p> + +<p> +It was Rundle, the poacher, and his dog, and there was blood on Rundle’s hand, +blood trickling down from a wound in the dog’s side. The man was holding the +dog as he might have held a child. The big ugly yellow head was against the +man’s breast, and in its agony the dog was licking the man’s rough hand. +</p> + +<p> +And watching, there came back to Ellice’s memory what she had said of this man +and his dog. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll do something for me, missy, something as I—I can’t do myself!” He +shuddered. “Will you ride on to Taylor’s and ask him to come here and bring—his +gun?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I can’t do it myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“He might be cured.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s only Mister Vinston, the Vet, and he wouldn’t look at this poor tyke +of mine. He hates him too bad for that, because Snatcher killed one of them +fancy poodle dogs of his two years ago; and Mr. Vinston ain’t never forgot +it—and never will. He wouldn’t do nothing to save Snatcher, miss. Ask Taylor to +come and bring his gun.” +</p> + +<p> +Ellice nodded. She stretched out her hand and touched the shaggy yellow head, +and in her eyes was infinite pity. Then she mounted the bicycle, and rode like +the wind to Buddesby. What she said to Mr. Ralph Vinston, the smart young +veterinary surgeon, only she and Mr. Ralph Vinston knew. +</p> + +<p> +He had refused definitely and decidedly. “It’ll be a blessing to the place if +the beast dies,” he said. “You’d better take his message to Taylor. The gun’s +the best remedy for Rundle’s accursed dog, Miss Ellice.” +</p> + +<p> +And then the girl had talked to him, had talked with flashing eyes and heaving +breast, and the end of it was that Ralph Vinston made a collection of surgical +instruments, bandages, and other necessaries, bundled them into his little car, +and was away down the road with Ellice in company within ten minutes. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX<br/> +“WAITING”</h2> + +<p> +Hugh Alston had certainly not attempted anything in the way of picturesque +disguise. There was nothing brigandish or romantic about the appearance of the +very ordinary-looking young man who put in an appearance at Starden village. +</p> + +<p> +Quite what his plans were, what he proposed doing and how he should do it, Hugh +had not the slightest idea. He mistrusted Slotman. He experienced exactly the +same feelings as would a man who, hearing that there was a savage wild beast +let loose where an immense amount of harm may be done, puts a gun under his arm +and sallies forth. +</p> + +<p> +Even if Joan had not the immense claim on him that she had, he believed he +would do exactly what he was doing now. He might be wrong about Slotman, of +course. The man might have cleared out and left the country, but Hugh fancied +that he had not. Here was a little gold-mine, a young girl, rich and +unprotected, a girl of whom this villain believed certain things, which if true +would give him a great power over her. That they were not true, Slotman did not +know, and he would use his fancied knowledge to obtain his ends and to make +Joan’s life unbearable. +</p> + +<p> +So Hugh Alston was here in rough, shaggy tweeds, sitting on the self-same seat +beside the old stocks where most mornings Ellice Brand came. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m here,” he said to himself, and pulled hard on his pipe. “I am here, and +here I am going to stay. Sooner or later, unless I am dead out in my +reckonings, that brute will turn up, and when he does he’ll find me here ahead +of and waiting for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Meredyths,” said Mrs. Bonner, “hev lived at Starden”—she called it +‘Sta-a-arden’—“oh, I wouldn’t like to say for how long, centuries anyhow. Then +for a time things got despirit with them, and the place was sold. Bought it was +by Mr. Gorridge, a London gentleman. Thirty years he lived here. I remember him +buying it; I would be about eighteen then, just before I married Bonner. Master +Roger I think it was, anyhow one of ’em—the Meredyths I mean—went to Australia +and kep’ sheep or something there, and made money, and he bought the old place +back, Mr. Gorridge being dead and gone. You’ll see ’is tomb in the church, Mr. +Alston.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” Hugh said. “I’ll be sure to look for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A wonderful expensive tomb, and much admired,” said Mrs. Bonner. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure it must be in the best taste. And then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, then Mr. Roger died at sea and left it all, Starden Hall and his money, to +Miss Joan Meredyth. And she lives there now, and I suppose she’ll go on living +there when she is married.” +</p> + +<p> +“When she is married,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“To Mr. John Everard of Buddesby, a rare pleasant-spoken, nice gentleman as no +one can speak a word against. Passes here most days in his car, he does—always +running over from Buddesby, as is but natcheral.” +</p> + +<p> +Starden Hall gates stood about a quarter of a mile out of Starden village, and +midway between the village and the Hall gates was Mrs. Bonner’s clean, +typically Kentish little cottage. +</p> + +<p> +Artists were Mrs. Bonner’s usual customers. The cottage was old, half-timbered +and hipped-roofed. The roof was clad with Sussex stone, lichen-covered, and a +feast of colour from grey and vivid yellow to the most tender green. Mrs. +Bonner herself was a comfortable body, built on ample and generous lines, a +born house manager, a born cook, and of a cleanliness that she herself +described as “scrutinous.” +</p> + +<p> +So Hugh, casting about for a retreat, had happened on Mrs. Bonner’s cottage and +had installed himself here—for how long he knew not, for what purpose he +scarcely even guessed at. Yet here he was. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner had seen Philip Slotman, as she saw most things and people that at +one time or another passed within range of her windows. +</p> + +<p> +She recognised him from Hugh’s description. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be about best part of a fortnight ago,” she said. “He had shammy +leather gloves on, and was in Hickman’s cab. Hickman waited for him at the hall +gates and then took him back.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he’s not been here since?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy, but I ain’t sure, that I did see him one day in a car,” said Mrs. +Bonner; “but I couldn’t swear to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Twice he had seen “Her” from the window of Mrs. Bonner’s little cottage, once a +mere glimpse as she had flashed by in a car; the other time she had been afoot, +walking and alone. He had gazed on the slim grace of her figure, himself hidden +behind Mrs. Bonner’s spotless white lace curtains. He had watched her, his soul +in his eyes, the woman he loved and who was not for him, could never be for him +now, and there fell upon him a sense of desolation, of loneliness, of utter +hopelessness. +</p> + +<p> +Three days had passed since his coming to Starden. He had seen Joan twice, he +had seen the man she was to marry. Once he had caught a glimpse of John Everard +hurrying to Starden Hall in his little car, he himself had been standing by +Mrs. Bonner’s gate. Everard had turned his head and glanced at him, with that +curiosity about strangers that all dwellers in rustic places feel. +</p> + +<p> +“An artist, I suppose,” Johnny thought as he drove on. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh watched him down the road; he had seen Everard’s glance at him, and had +summed him up. The man was just what he would have imagined, a man of his own +stamp, no Adonis—just an ordinary, healthy, clean-living Englishman. +</p> + +<p> +“I rather like the look of him,” thought Hugh. “He seems all right.” And then +he smiled at his thoughts a trifle bitterly. “By every right on earth I ought +to hate him.” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny drove his small car to the doors of the Hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan,” he said, “come out. Come out for a spin—the car’s running finely +to-day. Come out, and we’ll go and have lunch at Langbourne or somewhere. What +do you say?” His face was eager. “You know,” he added, “you have never been out +with me in my car yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you would like me to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go and get ready then, and I’ll tell Helen,” he said. “We shan’t be back to +lunch.” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh had been on his way to the village when he saw Everard in his little car. +He went to the village because, if he went in the opposite direction, it would +take him to the Hall gates, and he did not wish to go there. He did not wish +her to see him, to form the idea that he was here loitering about for the +purpose of seeing her. +</p> + +<p> +Sooner or later he knew she must be made aware of his presence, then he hoped +for an opportunity to explain, but he would not seek it yet. So he made his way +to the village, stopped to give pennies to small white-haired children, patted +the shaggy dusty heads of vagrant dogs, and finally came to anchor on the seat +beside the railed-in stocks. +</p> + +<p> +And there on that same seat sat a small, dark-eyed maiden, whose rusty bicycle +reclined against the railings. She had been here yesterday for fifteen minutes +or so. He and she had occupied the seat without the exchange of a word, +according to English custom. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh looked at her. Because he regarded one woman as the embodiment of all that +was perfect and graceful and beautiful, it did not blind him to beauty in +others. He saw in this girl what those blinder than he had not yet +recognised—the dawning of a wonderful, a radiant and glowing beauty. And +because he had a very sincere and honest appreciation of the beautiful, she +interested him, and he smiled. He lifted his hat. +</p> + +<p> +The girl stared at him; she started a little as he raised his hat. She gave the +slightest inclination of her head. It was not encouraging. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh sat down. He was thinking of the man he had seen a while ago—a clean, +honest, open-faced man, a man he felt he could like, and yet by every reason +ought to hate. +</p> + +<p> +The girl was studying his profile. +</p> + +<p> +She had the suspicion that is inherent in all shy wild things, and yet, looking +at him, she felt that this man was no dangerous animal to be feared and +avoided. +</p> + +<p> +Turning suddenly, he caught her glance and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“You live here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you—oh, I see, you are staying here—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I live at Little Langbourne.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled, having no idea where Little Langbourne might be. +</p> + +<p> +They talked—of nothing, of the ducks and geese on the green, of the weather, of +the sunshine, of the ancient stocks. +</p> + +<p> +“You are staying here?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, at Mrs. Bonner’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, then you are an artist?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing so ornamental, I am afraid. No—quite a useless person.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you are not an artist, and have no friends here, do you not find it a +little dull?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but I am a patient animal. I am waiting, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Waiting—for what?” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh smiled. “For something that may happen, and yet may not. I am waiting in +case it does. Of course you don’t understand, little girl, I—I mean—I am +sorry,” he apologised. “I was forgetting, thinking of a friend, another girl I +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not offended. Why should I be? I am a girl and—and not very big, am I?” +She rose and smiled at him, and held out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” Hugh said. He took her hand and held it. “I think you are +generous.” +</p> + +<p> +“For not being offended by a silly thing like that!” She laughed and turned to +get the bicycle. But it had slipped, the handle-bar had become wedged in the +railings; it took all Hugh’s strength to persuade the handle-bar to come out. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you can’t ride it like this, the bar’s got twisted. If you have a +spanner—” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t,” said Ellice. +</p> + +<p> +“Then if you will permit I will wheel it into the village. There’s a cycle shop +there, and I’ll fix it up for you.” +</p> + +<p> +So, he wheeling the bicycle, and she beside him, they crossed the green and +came to the village street. And down the road came a little grey-painted car, +which Johnny Everard was driving with more pride than he had ever experienced +before. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, hello!” thought Johnny. “What on earth is Ellice doing here, and who is +the fellow she is with? He’s the man I saw at Mrs. Bonner’s gate and—” +</p> + +<p> +He turned his head and glanced at Joan. He was going to say something to her, +something about the unexpectedness of seeing Ellice here, but Johnny Everard +said nothing. He was startled, for Joan’s face was white, and her lips were +compressed. And in Joan’s brain was dinning the question. “He here—what does he +do here? Has he come here to torment me further, to pester and plague and annoy +me with his speeches that I will never listen to? How dare he come here?” +</p> + +<p> +He had seen her, had paused. He lifted his hand to his hat and raised it, but +Joan stared straight before her. +</p> + +<p> +It was the cut direct, and there came a dusky red into Hugh’s face as he +realised the fact. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br/> +“IF YOU NEED ME”</h2> + +<p> +Naturally enough, Johnny Everard, seeing Ellice, would have stopped. He had his +foot on the clutch and was feeling for the brake when Joan realised his +intention. +</p> + +<p> +“Please drive on! Please drive straight on!” +</p> + +<p> +And Johnny, receiving his instructions, obeyed them without hesitation. Another +moment, and Joan regretted. But it was too late, the car had gone on; the two +figures, the man and the girl with the bicycle, were left behind. It was too +late—and the girl felt almost shocked by what she had done. +</p> + +<p> +But Joan’s temper was on edge, the day had lost any beauty that it might have +held for her. She wanted to get back, she wanted to be alone, she wanted to +decide, to think things out for herself. +</p> + +<p> +Johnny looked at her. This was beyond his understanding. What had happened? Was +it the man who had caused Joan to look so white and angry, or was it Ellice? +</p> + +<p> +It could hardly be the man after all, for she had evidently not known him. She +had not recognised him in any way. +</p> + +<p> +Johnny was not good at guess-work. Here was something beyond him. If it were +Ellice, then why should the sight of Ellice upset Joan? And why—it came to him +suddenly—had Joan cut Ellice? +</p> + +<p> +For in cutting the man Joan had also cut the girl, and had not thought, the +girl meaning little or nothing to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Johnny, I—I—don’t think me unkind—or ungracious—but—I would like to go back +soon. I don’t mean—” She paused. “Let’s go back by way of Bennerden.” +</p> + +<p> +It meant that she did not want to go back by the same road with the chance of +seeing those two again. +</p> + +<p> +Ellice’s cheeks were burning, and her eyes were bright with anger. Joan +Meredyth had cut her, and it seemed to her that Johnny had aided and abetted. +</p> + +<p> +Then she happened to glance at Hugh Alston, and intuition prompted her. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you know her,” she said quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I—I know her.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she was not pleased to see you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Apparently not!” he laughed, but the laughter was shaky. “Here we are! We’ll +soon get the bicycle fixed up.” +</p> + +<p> +Ellice stood watching him while with a borrowed spanner he adjusted the +handle-bars. +</p> + +<p> +What did this man know of Joan, and why had Joan cut him dead? Perhaps they +were old lovers, perhaps a thousand things? Ellice shrugged her shoulders. It +was nothing to her. If she must fight this woman, this rich, beautiful woman +for her love’s sake, she would not fight with underhand weapons. There would be +no digging in pasts, for Ellice. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she said. “You have been very kind!” Again she held out her hand +to him, and gave him a frank and friendly smile. “I hope that we shall meet +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” he said, “that we shall often meet again.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood and watched the graceful little figure of her as she sped swiftly down +the road, then turned and walked slowly back towards Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +So Joan had seen him, and had cut him dead. +</p> + +<p> +“If I was not so dead sure, so dead certain sure that Slotman will turn up +eventually, I would clear out,” Hugh thought to himself. “I’d go back to Hurst +Dormer and stick there, whether I wanted to or not.” +</p> + +<p> +Ellice, pedalling homeward, went more slowly now she was clear of the village. +She wanted to think it all over in her mind, and arrived at conclusions. At +first she had thought that Joan Meredyth and Johnny too had deliberately cut +her dead. But that was folly; they had cut her, but then in this matter she had +not counted. She was gifted with plenty of common-sense. Connie’s teaching and +precept had not gone for nothing with the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan Meredyth knows that man, and he knows her.” +</p> + +<p> +Half a mile out of Little Langbourne, Ellice put on the brake and alighted. +</p> + +<p> +“How is Snatcher?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Rundle touched his hat. A big and fearsome-looking man was Rundle. Village +mothers frightened small children into good behaviour by threatening them that +Rundle would come and take them away—a name to conjure with. Little Langbourne +only knew peace and felt secure when Rundle was undergoing one of his temporary +retirements from activity, when, as a guest of the State, he cursed his luck +and the gamekeepers who had been one too many for him. +</p> + +<p> +But there was nothing fearsome about the Rundle who faced little Ellice Brand. +There was a smile on the man’s lips, in his eyes a look of intense gratitude. +</p> + +<p> +Ragged and disreputable person that he was, he would have lain down and allowed +this little lady to wipe her feet on him, did she wish it. +</p> + +<p> +“How is Snatcher?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fine, missy!” he said. “Fine—fine!” His eyes glistened. “Snatcher’s going to +pull through, missy. ’Twas a car did hit he,” he added, “and I saw the chap who +was in it. I saw him, and I saw him laugh when Snatcher went rolling over in +the dust. I’ll watch out for that man, missy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me about Snatcher!” +</p> + +<p> +“Leg broke, and a terrible cut from a great flint; but he’ll pull +through—thanks to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“To Mr. Vinston, you mean!” +</p> + +<p> +Rundle shook his head. “To you. He wouldn’t ’a come for me, nor Snatcher; he +hates my poor tyke. But he’s put Snatcher right for all that, and because you +made him do it, and I don’t wonder!” Rundle looked at her. “I don’t wonder,” he +added. “There’s be few men who wouldn’t do what you’d tell ’em to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Ellice, “you are talking absurdly. Of course I just shamed Mr. +Vinston into doing it. I’d like to come and see Snatcher, Rundle.” +</p> + +<p> +“The queen wouldn’t be as welcome,” he said simply. +</p> + +<p> +Helen expressed no surprise at the unseasonable return of Joan and Johnny from +their trip. There was no accounting for Joan’s moods; the main and the great +thing was, it was due to no quarrel between them. +</p> + +<p> +Johnny stayed to lunch. After it, Joan left him with Helen and went to her own +room. She wanted to be alone, she wanted to think things out, to decide how to +act, if she were to act at all. +</p> + +<p> +“He called me ungenerous—three times,” she said, “ungenerous and—and now I know +that I am, I deserve it.” She felt as a child feels when it has done wrong and +longs to beg for forgiveness. In spite of her pride, her coldness and her +haughtiness, there was much of the child still in Joan Meredyth’s +composition—of the child’s honesty and the child’s frankness and innocence and +desire to avoid hurting others. +</p> + +<p> +“It was cruel—it was cowardly. But why is he here? What right has he to come +here when I—I told him—when he knows—that I, that Johnny and I—” +</p> + +<p> +And now, with her mind wavering this way and that way, anxious to excuse +herself and blame him one moment, condemning herself the next, Joan took pen +and paper and wrote hurriedly. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“I am sorry for what I did. It was inexcusable, and it was ungenerous. I ask +you to forgive me, it was so unexpected. Perhaps I have hurt myself by doing it +more than I hurt you. If I did hurt you, I ask your forgiveness, and I ask you +also, most earnestly, to go, to leave Starden.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +She would have written more, much more, words were tumbling over in her brain. +She had so much more to say to him, and yet she said nothing. She signed her +name and addressed the letter to Hugh Alston at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. She took +it out and gave it to a gardener’s boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Take that letter and give it the gentleman it is addressed to, if he is there. +If he is not there, bring it back to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss.” The boy pocketed the letter and a shilling, and went whistling +down the road. +</p> + +<p> +So she had written, she had confessed her fault and asked for forgiveness—that +was like Joan. One moment the haughty cold, proud woman, the next the child, +admitting her faults and asking for pardon. +</p> + +<p> +The letter had been duly delivered at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage, and, coming in +later, Hugh found it. +</p> + +<p> +“Bettses’ Bob brought it,” said Mrs. Bonner. “From Miss Meredyth at the Hall,” +she added, and looked curiously at Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right, thanks!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner quivered with curiosity. Who was this lodger of hers who received +letters from Miss Meredyth, when he had not even admitted that he knew her? +</p> + +<p> +“Very funny!” thought Mrs. Bonner. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh read the letter. “I am sorry—for what I did.... I ask you to forgive +me.... Perhaps I have hurt myself more than I have hurt you ...” +</p> + +<p> +“Any answer to go back to the Hall?” +</p> + +<p> +“None!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Mrs. Bonner hesitated. “I didn’t know you knew Miss Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going out,” said Hugh. Avoid Mrs. Bonner while she was in this curious +mood, he knew he must. +</p> + +<p> +“If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it is secretiveness,” said Mrs. Bonner, as +she watched him up the road towards the village. +</p> + +<p> +Should he answer the letter? Hugh wondered. Or should he just accept it in +silence, as an apology for an act of rudeness? He hated that idea. She might +think that he did not forgive, that he bore malice and ill-will. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I must answer it,” he decided, “but what shall I say?” He knew what he +wanted to say, he knew that he wanted to ask her to meet him, and he knew only +too well that she would refuse. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no sense,” said Hugh deliberately, “no sense whatever in riding for a +certain fall.” He was staring at a small flaxen-haired, dirty-faced boy as he +spoke. The boy grinned at him. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a sense of humour,” said Hugh, “and, no doubt, a sweet tooth.” He +felt in his pocket for the coin that the Starden children had grown to expect +from him. The boy took it, yelled and whooped, and sped down the street to the +sweetstuff shop. +</p> + +<p> +“But the fact remains,” said Hugh to himself, “there is no sense in +deliberately riding for a fall. If I asked her to meet me, she would either +refuse or ignore the request, so I shall not ask. Yet, all the same, she and I +will meet sooner or later, and when we meet, it will be by accident, not by—” +He paused. Outside the cycle-shop stood a small two-seater car that had a +familiar look to Hugh. As he glanced at the car its owner came out of the shop +with a can of petrol in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +He saw Hugh, looked him in the eyes, and nodded in friendly fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“A nice day!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have to thank you for helping my—” Johnny paused; he had almost said sister, +but of course Ellice was not his sister—“my little friend yesterday, about the +bike I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s nothing! Excuse interference on my part, but if you pour that petrol +into the radiator, you will probably develop trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny Everard laughed. “I am new to it, and I am always doing odd things like +that. Of course, that’s for water. Lawson over at Little Langbourne generally +sees to things for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh nodded. He looked at the man standing but a few feet from him, the man who +was to gain that which Hugh coveted and desired most in the world, looked at +him and yet felt no dislike, no great enmity, no furious hate. +</p> + +<p> +“It was very good of you to help the kiddie with her bike,” said Johnny, as he +splashed the petrol into the tank. “If you find yourself at any time over at +Little Langbourne, we’d be glad to see you. My name’s Everard, my place is +Buddesby.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks! It is very good of you, and I shan’t forget!” He nodded, smiled, and +walked on, then glanced back. He could see Johnny fumbling with the car, and he +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my hated rival, and he seems a decent sort of chap.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour later he was back at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“The post’s come in since you went, Mr. Alston,” said Mrs. Bonner, “and there’s +a letter for you.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a bulky envelope from Hurst Dormer. There was a note from Mrs. Morrisey, +to say that everything was going as it should go, and she enclosed all the +letters that had come by post. +</p> + +<p> +And the first letter that Hugh opened was one on pink paper, delicately +scented. How well he remembered that scent! How it brought back to him a +certain pretty little face, and a pair of sweet blue eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear little maid,” he said. He read the letter, and stared at it in +astonishment and dismay. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br/> +THE SPY</h2> + +<p> +It seemed to Hugh Alston that he had not read the letter aright; it was so +amazing, so disconcerting, that he felt bewildered. What on earth is wrong? he +thought, then he took the letter to the better light at the window and read +again. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“MY DEAR HUGH,<br/> +<br/> +“I have been over to Hurst Dormer three times in the car, each time hoping and +praying that I might find you; but you are never there now, so I am writing, +Hugh, hoping that you will get my letter. I know I have no right to.” (This, +Hugh noticed, had been carefully crossed out.) “I want to see you so much. I +want to ask your advice and help. I don’t know what to do, and I am so unhappy, +so wretched. Forgive me, dear, for troubling you, but if—if only I could see +you I am sure you would help me, and tell me what it is right I should do. Ever +and ever<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Your loving,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“MARJORIE.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +“So unhappy, so wretched!” Hugh read, and it was this that had amazed him. Here +was a girl engaged to be married to the man she loved, the man she had told him +she could not live without, the man of her own choice, of her own heart—he +himself smoothed the way for her, had taken away his own undesirable person, +had stepped aside, leaving the field to his rival, and now ... +</p> + +<p> +Hugh blinked at the letter. “What on earth should she be unhappy about? She has +had a quarrel with Tom perhaps, and she wants me to go and talk to him like a +Dutch Uncle. Poor little maid! I daresay it is all about twopence! But it seems +very real and tragic to her.” Hugh sighed. He ought to stay here. This was his +place, watching and keeping guard and ward for Joan, yet Marjorie wanted him. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go. I can be there and back in a couple of days. I’ll go.” +</p> + +<p> +He had just time to write and catch the early outward mail from Starden, to-day +was Thursday. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“MY DEAR MARJORIE,<br/> +<br/> +“I have had your letter, and it has worried me not a little. I can’t bear to +think of you as unhappy, little girl. I shall come back to Hurst Dormer, and +shall be there to-morrow, Friday, early in the afternoon. Send me a wire to say +if you will come, or if you would rather that I came to Cornbridge. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, be sure that if you are in any trouble or difficulty, or are +worried and anxious, you have done just the right thing in appealing for help +to<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Your old friend,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“HUGH.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +He rang the bell for Mrs. Bonner. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bonner, I find I am obliged to go away for a time.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean—” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “I don’t. I mean that my absence will be temporary. I can’t say +exactly how long I shall be away, but in the meantime I would like to keep my +rooms here.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner’s face cleared. “Oh yes,” she said, “ezackly, I see!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall run up to Town to-night, and I will write you or wire you when you may +expect me back. It may be a week, it may be less; anyhow, I shall come back.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad to hear that, Mr. Alston,” said Mrs. Bonner heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t take many things with me, just enough for the night. I’ll go and pack +my bag, and clear off to catch the six o’clock up train.” +</p> + +<p> +Why not go down to Hurst Dormer to-night, and send off this letter to Marjorie +from Town instead of posting it here? He could see to a few things in Hurst +Dormer on the morrow, see Marjorie, arrange her little troubles and then be +back here by Saturday; but as he was not sure of his movements he left it that +he would wire Mrs. Bonner his probable time of returning. +</p> + +<p> +“One thing, I’ll be able to have a good clear-up when he’s gone,” Mrs. Bonner +thought. Forever her thoughts turned in the direction of soap and water. The +temporary absence of anyone meant to Mrs. Bonner an opportunity for a good +clean, and she had already started one that very evening when there came a +tapping on her door. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, whoever is that worriting this time of the night?” With sleeves rolled up +over bare and plump arms she went to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Bonner. I ’eard about you losing your lodger.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner stared into the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s you!” Judging by the expression of her voice, the visitor was not a +favoured one. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it’s me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what do you want, Alice Betts?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nothing. I thought I’d just call in friendly-like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good of you, only I’m busy cleaning up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Men do make a mess, don’t they? Fancy ’is going off like that. I wonder if the +letter had anything to do with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the one Miss Joan give our Bob to bring ’im this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” said Mrs. Bonner. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor should I. I wonder what he is to her, don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t. I ain’t bothered my head thinking. It ain’t none of my business, +Alice Betts.” +</p> + +<p> +Alice Betts giggled. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, any’ow he’s gone,” she said, and Mrs. Bonner did not contradict her. +“And gone sudden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very!” +</p> + +<p> +“Depend on it, it was the letter done it. Well, I won’t be keeping you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I ain’t got no time for talking,” said Mrs. Bonner, and closed the door. +“A nosey Parker if ever there was one! Always shoving ’er saller face where she +ain’t wanted. I can’t abide that gel!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Alice Betts hurried off to the Bettses’ cottage in Starden. +</p> + +<p> +“I got a letter to write in a ’urry. Give me a paper and envelope,” she +demanded. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“MISTER P. SLOTMAN, Dear sir,” Alice wrote. “This is to imform you, as agreed, +that Mister Alston has gone. Miss Jone writ him a letter, what about cannot +say, only as soon as he gets it, he packs up and leaves Starden. I have been to +Mrs. Bonner’s to make sure and find it is correck, him having packed up and +gone to London. So no more at present from yours truely, MISS ALICE BETTS.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +And this letter, addressed to Mr. P. Slotman at the new address with which he +had furnished her, went out from Starden by the early morning mail. +</p> + +<p> +After Mrs. Bonner’s comfortable but restricted cottage, it was good to be back +in the spacious old rooms of Hurst Dormer. Hugh Alston was a home man. He had +wired Mrs. Morrisey, and now he was back. To-night he slept once again in his +own bed, the bed he had slept in since boyhood. +</p> + +<p> +The following morning brought a telegram delivered by a shock-headed village +urchin. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“I will be with you and so glad to see you on Saturday—MARJORIE.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Saturday, and he had hurried so that he might see her to-day. +</p> + +<p> +It was not till late Saturday afternoon that Marjorie came at last, and Hugh +had been fuming up and down, looking for her since early morning. Yet if he +felt any ill-temper at her delay it was gone at a sight of the little face, so +white and woebegone, so frankly miserable and unhappy that his heart ached for +the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hugh, it is so good to see you again.” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her. What else could he do? And then, holding her hand and drawing it +through his arm, he led her into the house. He rang the bell for tea, for it +was tea-time when she came. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going to have a good tea first, then you are going to tell me all your +troubles, and we are going to put them all straight and right. And then—then, +Marjorie, you are going to smile as you used to.” +</p> + +<p> +A faint smile came to her lips, her eyes were on his face. “Oh, Hugh, if—if you +knew how—how good it is to see you again and hear you speak to me.” +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand on her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“It is always good to me to see you,” he said softly. “You’re one of the best +things in my world, Marjorie, little maid.” +</p> + +<p> +She bent her head, so that her soft cheek touched his hand, and what man could +draw his hand away from that caress? Not Hugh Alston. +</p> + +<p> +And now came Phipps with the tea, which he arranged on the small table and +retired. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right between them two,” he announced in the kitchen a little later. +“She’ll be missus here after all, I’ll lay ten to one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Law bless and save us!” said cook. “I thought it was off, and she was going to +marry young Mr. Arundel.” +</p> + +<p> +Ordinarily, Marjorie had the sensible appetite of a young country girl. To-day +she ate nothing. She sipped her tea, and looked with great soulful, miserable +eyes at Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, little girl, come, tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hugh, not now. It is so difficult, almost impossible to tell you. I wrote +that letter days and days before I posted it, and then I made up my mind all of +a sudden to post it, and regretted it the moment after.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“There is something wrong between you and Tom? Tell me, girlie!” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for a moment. “There is—everything wrong between Tom and—and me. +But it is my—my fault, not his. Oh, Hugh, it is all my fault!” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I don’t love him!” the girl gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” Hugh started. He sat back and stared at her. “Why—you—I—I thought—” +</p> + +<p> +“So did I!” she cried, bursting into tears, “but I was wrong—wrong—all wrong. I +didn’t understand!” Her breast was heaving, there were sobs in her throat, sobs +she fought and struggled against. +</p> + +<p> +The dawn of understanding came to him. He believed he saw. She had fancied +herself in love with Tom, and now she knew she was not—how did she know? For +the simple reason that she found she was in love with someone else. Now who on +earth could it be? he wondered. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you tell me all about it, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I can’t. Don’t ask me—I ought not to have written, I ought not to have come. +I wish—I wish I had not. It is my fault, not Tom’s; he is good and kind and—and +patient with me, and I know I am unkind and cross to him, and I feel ashamed of +myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Hugh?” She looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me the truth, dear,” he said gravely. “Do you realise that you are not in +love with Tom because you know now that you are in love with someone else?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer in words, nodding speechlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he a good man, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“The best in the world, Hugh,” she said softly—“the finest, the dearest, and +best.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s bad!” Hugh thought. “But I might have guessed that she would say that, +bless her little heart! Poor Tom!” He sighed. “So, after all, this beautiful +muddle I have made of things goes for nothing! Do you care to tell me who he +is, Marjorie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ask me—don’t ask me! I can’t tell you! I wish I hadn’t come. I had no +right to ask you to—to listen to me. I wish I hadn’t written now!” +</p> + +<p> +He came across to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He bent and kissed the +bright hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Little girl, remember always that I am your old friend and your true friend, +who would help you in every way at any time. I am not of much use, I am afraid; +but such as I am, I am at your service, dear, always, always! Tell me, what can +I do? How can I help you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, nothing, you—you can’t help me, Hugh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Can I see Tom?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, oh no, you must not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Can I see—the other? Marjorie, does he know? Has he spoken to you—not knowing +perhaps of your engagement to Tom?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. “He—he doesn’t know anything!” +</p> + +<p> +Silence fell on them. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t think about it any more, you can’t help me. Hugh, where have you been +all this long time?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been in Kent, at Starden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is—is that where she—” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan? Yes! she lives there. I have been there, believing I can help her, and I +shall help her!” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you love her so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Better than my life,” he said quietly, and never dreamed how those four words +entered like a keen-edged sword into the heart of the girl who heard them. +</p> + +<p> +She rose almost immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a foolish, silly girl, and—and, Hugh, I want you to forget what I told +you. I shall forget it. I shall go back to—to Tom, and I will try and be worthy +of him, try and be good-tempered and—all he wants me to be. Good-bye, Hugh!” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to him that she had changed suddenly, changed under his very eyes; +the tenderness and the tears seemed to have vanished. She spoke almost coldly, +and with a dignity he had never seen in her before, and then she went with +scarce a look at him, leaving him sorely puzzled. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br/> +GONE</h2> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“DEAR JOAN,<br/> +<br/> +“I daresay you will wonder at not having heard from me for so long, but I have +been busy. Things have been going from bad to worse with me of late, and I have +been obliged to give up the old offices in Gracebury. I often think of the days +when we were so much together, as I daresay you do. Naturally I miss you, and +naturally I want to see you again. I feel that you seemed to have some +objection to my coming to your house. That being so, I wish to consult your +wishes in every way, and so I am writing to suggest that you meet me to-morrow, +that is Saturday night, on the Little Langbourne Road. I daresay you will +wonder why I am so familiar with your neighbourhood, but to tell you the truth +I am naturally so interested in you that I have been down quietly several +times—motoring, just to look round and hear news of you from local gossip, +which is always amusing. I have heard of your engagement, of course, and I am +interested; but we will talk of that when we meet—to-morrow night at the gate +leading into the field where the big ruined barn stands, about half a mile out +of Starden on the Little Langbourne Road at nine o’clock. This is definite and +precise, isn’t it? It will then be dark enough for you to be unobserved, and +you will come. I am sure you will come. You would not anger and pain an old +friend by refusing. +</p> + +<p> +“I hear that the happy man is a sort of gentleman farmer who lives at Buddesby +in Little Langbourne. If by any chance I should fail to see you at the place of +meeting, I shall put up at Little Langbourne, and shall probably make the +acquaintance of Mr. John Everard.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Believe me,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Your friend,</span><br/> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">“PHILIP SLOTMAN.”</span><br/> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +It was a letter that all the world might read, and see no deep and hidden +meaning behind it, but Joan knew better. She read threat and menace in every +line. The man threatened that if she did not keep this appointment he would go +to Langbourne and find John Everard, and then into John Everard’s ears he would +pour out his poisoned, lying, slanderous story. +</p> + +<p> +Better a thousand times that she herself should go to Johnny and tell him the +whole truth, hiding nothing. Yet she knew that she could not do that; her pride +forbade. If she loved him—then it would be different. She could go to him, she +could tell him everything, laying bare her soul, just because she loved him. +But she did not love him. She liked him, she admired him, she honoured him; but +she did not love him, and in her innermost heart she knew why she did not love +Johnny Everard, and never would. +</p> + +<p> +But the letter had come, the threat was here. What could she do? to whom turn? +And then she remembered that hard by her own gate was a man, the man to whom +she owed all this, all her troubles and all her annoyance and shame, but a man +who would fight for and protect and stand by her. Her heart swelled, the tears +gathered for a moment in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He had not answered the letter she had sent him a couple of days ago. She had +looked for an answer, and had felt disappointed at not receiving one, though +she had told herself that she expected none. +</p> + +<p> +For long Joan hesitated, pride fighting against her desire for help and +support. But pride gave way; she felt terribly lonely, even though she was soon +to be married to a man who loved her. To that man ought she to turn, yet she +did not, and hardly even gave it a thought. She had made no false pretences to +Johnny Everard. She had told him frankly that she did not love him, yet that if +he were willing to take her without love, she would go to him. +</p> + +<p> +So now, having decided what she would do, Joan went to her room to write a +letter to the man she must turn to, the man who had the right to help her. She +flushed as the words brought another memory into her mind; the flush ran from +brow to chin, for back into her mind came the words the man had uttered. +Strange it was how her mind treasured up almost all that he had ever said to +her. +</p> + +<p> +<i>“You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart!”</i> +</p> + +<p> +That was what he had said, and she would never forget, because she knew—that it +was true. +</p> + +<p> +She went to her own room, where was her private writing-table. She found the +room in the hands of a maid dusting and sweeping. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not go, Alice,” she said. “I am only going to write a letter.” The +girl went on with her work. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think to appeal to you, yet I find I must appeal for help that I +know you will give, because but for you I should not need it. I—” +</p> + +<p> +She paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Funny, miss, Mrs. Bonner’s lodger going off like that in such a hurry, wasn’t +it?” said the girl on her knees beside the hearth. +</p> + +<p> +Joan started. “What do you mean, Alice?” +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman you gave our Bob a letter for—Mr. Alston,” said Alice Betts. +“Funny his going off like he did in such a hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you—you mean he is gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thursday night, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +Gone! A feeling of desolation and helplessness swept over Joan. +</p> + +<p> +Gone when she had counted so on his help! She remembered what she had written: +“I ask you earnestly to leave Starden,” and he had obeyed her. It was her own +fault; she had driven him away, and now she needed him. +</p> + +<p> +The girl was watching her out of the corner of her small black eyes. She saw +Joan tear up the letter she had commenced to write. +</p> + +<p> +“It was to him, she didn’t know he had gone,” Alice Betts thought, and Alice +Betts was right. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Mr. Philip Slotman had fallen on evil days, yet Mr. Philip Slotman’s wardrobe +of excellent and tasteful clothes was so large and varied that poverty was not +likely to affect his appearance for a long time to come. +</p> + +<p> +Presumably also his stock of cigars was large, for leaning against the gate +beside the tumble-down barn he was drowning the clean smell of the earth and +the night with the more insinuating and somewhat sickly smell of a fine +Havannah. +</p> + +<p> +Some way down the road, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, stood a large +shabby car drawn up against a hedge, and in that car dozed a chauffeur. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Slotman took out his watch and looked at it in the dim light. +</p> + +<p> +It was past nine, and he muttered an oath under his breath. +</p> + +<p> +“She won’t be such a fool as not to come now that fellow’s gone!” he thought, +and he was right, for a few moments later she was there. +</p> + +<p> +“So you did come?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here,” Joan said quietly. “You wish to speak to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be so confoundedly hold-off! Aren’t you going to shake hands?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well!” he snarled. “Don’t then. Still putting on your airs, my lady!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here to hear anything you wish to say to me. Any threats that you have to +make, any bargain that you wish to propose. I thought when I paid you that +money—” +</p> + +<p> +“That money’s gone; it went in a few hours.” +</p> + +<p> +He felt savagely angry at her calmness, at her pride and superiority. Why, +knowing what he knew, she ought to be pretty well on her knees to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Please tell me what you wish to see me about and let me go. It is money, of +course?” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice was level, filled with scorn and utter contempt, and it made the man +writhe in helpless fury. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, stow that!” he said coarsely. “Don’t ride the high horse with me. +Remember I know you, know all about you. I know who you are and what you are, +and—and don’t—don’t”—he was stuttering and stammering in his rage—“don’t think +you can put me in my place, because you can’t!” +</p> + +<p> +Joan did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“If I want money I’ve got a right to ask for it! And I do. I’ve got something +to sell, ain’t I?—knowledge and silence. And silence is worth a lot, my girl, +when a woman’s engaged to be married, and when there’s things in her past she +don’t care about people knowing of. Yes, Miss Joan Meredyth, my lady clerk on +three quid a week was one person, but Miss Meredyth of Starden Hall, engaged to +be married to Mr. John Everard of Buddesby, is another, ain’t she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please say what you have to say,” she said coldly. “I do not wish to stay here +with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are going to,” he said. “You are going to!” He reached out suddenly +and gripped her hand. He had expected that she might struggle; it would have +been human if she had, but she didn’t. +</p> + +<p> +“Please release my hand,” she said coldly. “I do not wish to stay here with +you!” She paused. “Tell me why you wish to see me!” +</p> + +<p> +He dropped her hand with a snarling oath. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you want to know, it is money, and this time it is good money. I am +up against it, and I’ve got to have money. I’ve been down here several times, +hunting round, listening to things, hearing things. I heard about your +engagement. I have heard about you. Oh, everyone looks up to you round +here—Miss Meredyth of Starden!” He laughed. “And it is going to pay Miss +Meredyth of Starden to shut my mouth, ain’t it? June, nineteen eighteen, ain’t +so long ago, is it? Mr. Hugh Alston—hang him!—you set him on to me, didn’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“So you have seen him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him, curse him! He came and—and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Thrashed you?” Joan asked quietly “I thought he might!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop it! Stop your infernal airs!” he almost shouted. “I am here for money, +and I want it, and mean to have it—five thousand this time!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not pay you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you won’t—you won’t! Then I go to Buddesby. I’ll have a little chat there. +I’ll tell them a few things about Marlbury and about a trip to Australia that +did not come off, and about a marriage that never took place. I’ve got quite a +lot to chat about at Buddesby, and I shan’t be done when I’m through there +either. There’s a nice little inn in Starden, isn’t there? If one talked much +there it would soon get about the place!” +</p> + +<p> +Under cover of the darkness her cheeks flamed, but her voice was still as cold +and as steady as before. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever considered,” she asked quietly, “that what you think you know, +may not be true?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true! And if it isn’t true, it is good enough for me; but it is true!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not!” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. “It is—at any rate I think so, and others’ll think so. It’ll want a +lot of explaining away, Joan, won’t it? if even it isn’t true. But I know +better. Well, what about it—about the money?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall consider,” she said quietly. “I paid you before, blackmail! If I asked +you if this was the final payment, and you said Yes. I know that I need not +believe you, so—so I shall consider. I shall take time to think it over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you will?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” +</p> + +<p> +Down the road came a cart. It lumbered along slowly, the carter trudging at the +horse’s head. Slotman looked at the slow-coming figure and cursed under his +breath. +</p> + +<p> +“When shall I hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall think it over, decide how I shall act, whether I shall pay you this +money or not,” she said. “In a few days, this day week, not before.” She turned +away. +</p> + +<p> +“And—and if I go to Buddesby and get talking?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then of course I pay you nothing!” she said calmly. +</p> + +<p> +That was true. Slotman gritted his teeth. Two minutes later the carter trudging +on his way passed a solitary man smoking by a gate, and far down the road a +woman walked quickly towards Starden. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV<br/> +“FOR HER SAKE”</h2> + +<p> +Into Hugh Alston’s life had come two women, women he had loved, both now +engaged to be married to other men, and Hugh Alston was a sorely worried and +perplexed man about both of them. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go to Cornbridge to-morrow,” said Hugh, and he went. +</p> + +<p> +“Where,” asked Lady Linden, “the dickens have you been?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the country!” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t your own country good enough for you?” She looked at him shrewdly. She +saw the worry in his face; it was too open and too honest to make concealment +of his feelings possible. +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie welcomed him with tearful gladness in her eyes. She said nothing, she +held his hand tightly. Not till afterwards did she thank him for coming. +</p> + +<p> +“I felt you would,” she said. “I knew you would!” +</p> + +<p> +And so he was glad he came. +</p> + +<p> +And was she? She wondered, better a thousand times for her and her happiness if +she never saw him again. So long as she lived she would not forget those four +words that had entered like a sword into her heart and had slain for ever the +last hope of happiness for her—“Better than my life!” +</p> + +<p> +It was odd how women remembered Hugh Alston’s words. How even on this very day +another woman was remembering, and was fighting a fight, pride and obstinacy +opposed to fear and loneliness and weariness of soul. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh noticed a change in Tom. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Alston,” said Tom, and gripped him by the hand; but it was a weary and +dispirited voice and grip, unlike those of Tom Arundel of yore. +</p> + +<p> +They walked about Lady Linden’s model farm together, Tom acting as showman with +no little pride, and yet behind even the enthusiasm there was a weariness that +Hugh detected. +</p> + +<p> +“And the wedding, Tom?” Hugh asked him presently. “When is it to be?” +</p> + +<p> +Tom looked up. “I don’t know, Alston, sometimes I think never. Alston, +you—you’ve seen her. You remember her as she was, the sweetest, dearest girl in +the world, her eyes and her heart filled with sunshine, and now...” The lad’s +voice trailed off miserably. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh, I can’t make her out; it worries me and puzzles me and—and hurts me. She +is so different, she takes me up so sharply. I—I know I am a fool, I know I am +not fit to touch her little hand. I know that I am not a man—like you, a man a +girl could look up to and respect, but I’ve always loved her, Hugh, and I’ve +kept straight. There are things I might have done and didn’t do—for her sake. I +just thought of her, Hugh, and so—so I’ve lived a decent life!” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh’s eyes kindled, for he knew that what the boy said was truth. +</p> + +<p> +Thursday afternoon saw Hugh back at Hurst Dormer. It was a week now since he +had left Starden. She had asked him to leave, and he had left, yet not exactly +for that reason. His coming here had done no good, had only given him fresh +worry and anxiety, and now he realised that all his sympathy was for Tom and +not for Marjorie. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my Lord! Uncertain, coy and hard to please is correct, and I suppose some +of them can be ministering angels—yes, God bless them! I’ve seen them!” His +face softened, his thoughts flew back to other days, days of strife and +bloodshed, of misery and death, days when men lay helpless and in pain, and in +memory Hugh saw the gentle, soft-footed girls at their work of mercy. +Ministering angels—God’s own! +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Morrisey, I am going to London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir!” Mrs. Morrisey was giving up all hopes of this restless young +master of hers. “Very good, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be back”—he paused—“eventually, if not sooner!” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, sir!” said Mrs. Morrisey, who had no sense of humour. +</p> + +<p> +“Meanwhile, send on any letters to the Northborough Hotel. I shall catch the +seven-thirty,” said Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll order the car round, sir,” said Mrs. Morrisey. +</p> + +<p> +And this very day at Starden pride broke down; the need was so great. It was +not the money that the man demanded, but the bonds that paying it would forge +about her, bind her for all time. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“Please come to me here. I want your help. I am in great trouble, and there is +no one I can turn to but you.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“JOAN.”</span> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +And not till after the letter was in the post did she remember that she had +signed it with her Christian name only. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV<br/> +CONNIE DECLARES</h2> + +<p> +“My dear Connie!” Helen Everard was amazed. “My dear Connie, why talk such +nonsense? This marriage between Joan and Johnny is the best, the very best +possible thing in the world for him. Joan is—” +</p> + +<p> +“I know all she is, Helen,” said Connie; “no one knows better than I do. I know +she is lovely; she is good, she is rich, and she is cold—cold to Johnny. She +doesn’t love him; and I love him, Helen, and I hate to think that Johnny should +give his life to a woman who does not care for him!” +</p> + +<p> +Helen shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes, Connie with her queer unworldly +notions annoys me,” she thought. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, dear child, it is all arranged, and whatever you and I say will +not matter in the least. But, all the same, I am sorry you are opposed to the +marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am!” said Connie briefly. +</p> + +<p> +She had declared herself, as she had known sooner or later she must, and she +had declared on the side of the girl who loved Johnny Everard better than her +life. +</p> + +<p> +At home Johnny wondered at the change that had come to the two women whom he +loved and believed in. It seemed to him that somehow they were antagonistic to +him, they seemed to cling together. +</p> + +<p> +Ellice deliberately avoided him. When he asked her to go out, as in the old +days, she refused, and when he felt hurt Connie sided with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Con, what does it mean?” he cried in perplexity. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. What should it mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“But it does. Ellice hardly speaks to me. When I speak to her she just answers. +You—you”—he paused—“and you are different even. What have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have done nothing—yet, Johnny. It is what you are going to do—that +troubles me and makes me anxious.” +</p> + +<p> +He stared, open-eyed. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your marriage!” +</p> + +<p> +“With Joan. You mean that you are against her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am against any woman who would have you for a husband and give you none of +her heart,” cried Connie. +</p> + +<p> +“Why—why?” he stammered. “Con, you couldn’t expect that Joan would fall in love +with a chap like me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why is she going to marry you? Isn’t marriage a union of love and hearts? +Oh, Johnny, I am anxious, very anxious. I hate it, this loveless marriage—” +</p> + +<p> +“But I love her!” he said reverently. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you—can you go on loving her? Can you? Your own heart starved, can you +continue to love and give again and again? No, no, I know better—the time will +come when you will realise you have married a cold and beautiful statue, and +your heart will wither and shrivel within you, Johnny.” +</p> + +<p> +“Con, in time I will make her care for me a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“She never will!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +Connie looked out of the window. “Johnny, dear, if I am saying something that +will hurt you, will you forgive me?—knowing that I love you so dearly, that all +I want to see is your happiness, that I hate to see you imposed on, made a fool +of, made a convenience of!” +</p> + +<p> +“Connie, what do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that I believe that Joan Meredyth will never love you, because all the +heart she has to give has been given to someone else.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to say that. What do you know? What can you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing. I can only guess. I can only stumble and grope in the dark. +Think! That woman, lovely, sweet, brilliant, could she accept all that you +offer her and give nothing in return if she were heart-free? Wouldn’t your love +for her appeal to her, touch her, force some tenderness in response? Oh, I have +watched her. I have seen, and I have guessed what I know must—must be true. For +she is all woman; she is no cold icicle, but you have not touched her heart, +Johnny, and you never will, and so—so, my dear,” Connie’s voice choked with a +sob, “you’ll hate me for this—Johnny!” +</p> + +<p> +He went to her, put his arm about her, and held her tightly and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“To prove my hate, dear,” he whispered, and then he went out with a very +thoughtful look on his face. +</p> + +<p> +In the yard he saw Ellice. +</p> + +<p> +“Gipsy girl,” he said, “come with me. Let’s go out—anywhere in the car for a +ride—it doesn’t matter where. Come with me!” +</p> + +<p> +Her face flushed, then paled. +</p> + +<p> +“No thank you!” she said coldly. “I am busy doing something for Joan.” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny sighed with disappointment, there was pain in his eyes too. In the old +days she would not have refused; she would have come gladly. +</p> + +<p> +“My little Gipsy girl is against me too!” He walked away slowly and dejectedly, +and the girl watched him. She lifted her hands and pressed them hard against +her breast, and then—then Johnny heard the light fall of swift-moving feet. He +felt a clutch on his arm, and turned. He saw a flushed face, bright eyes were +looking into his. +</p> + +<p> +“If—if you want me to, I’ll come,” she said. “I’ll come with you—anywhere!” +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer. His hands had dropped on to her shoulders; he stood there +holding her and looking into her face, glowing with a beauty that he had never +seen in it before, and in his eyes was still that puzzled look, the look of a +man who does not quite understand. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Gipsy girl!” he said slowly, “you are a woman—you have grown up all +suddenly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am—I am a woman!” She laughed, but the laughter ended in a sob. She +bent her head, and Johnny, strangely puzzled, slipped his arm about her and +drew her a little closer to him. +</p> + +<p> +He had thought her a child; but she was a woman, and he had seen in her eyes +that which set his dull wits wondering. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI<br/> +“HE HAS COME BACK”</h2> + +<p> +It was exactly a week since his departure that Hugh returned to Starden, and +found Mrs. Bonner a little surprised, but by no means unready. +</p> + +<p> +“You said as you’d send me a message, sir,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I did, and I haven’t done it—I’ll take the consequences.” But there were no +consequences to take. She prepared him an ample meal at the shortest notice, +and was willing enough to stop and talk to him while he ate it. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything new, anything fresh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“No strangers about Starden?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +Had Slotman been? That was what Hugh wanted to know. Presently he asked the +question direct. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t happen to have seen that man I described to you some time back, a +stout man with a lean face, overdressed, thick red lips, small eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Law bless us! yes. I see him two days ago, drove past he did in a car—a +shabby-looking car it was, but he didn’t stop. He just stared at the cottage as +he drove past, and I got an idea he smiled, only I ain’t sure. I am sure of one +thing, however; he did stare terribul hard at this cottage!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure it is the man?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner described Mr. Slotman’s appearance vividly, and Mr. Slotman, had he +been there, might not have been pleased to hear of the impression he had made +on the good woman. +</p> + +<p> +“A man,” she concluded, “as I wouldn’t trust, not a hinch!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the man!” Hugh thought. “And he’s come back, as I thought he would. Funny +he should look at the cottage! Good Lord! I wonder if he has spies about here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyone else been? I suppose no one came here to ask about me, for instance, +Mrs. Bonner?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one, sir, not a soul, no—stay a moment. The day you left that there nosey +Parker of a gel Alice Betts came. I couldn’t make out whatever she came for. +Me, I don’t ’old with them Bettses, anyhow she came. It was her brother that +brought you that letter from Miss Joan Meredyth the day you went, sir, and she +said something about ’earing as I’d lost my lodger.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. And who is Alice Betts?” +</p> + +<p> +“Her—she be a maid at Starden Hall.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” Hugh repeated. “I see! Mrs. Bonner,” he said, “will you do something +for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything, of course!” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take a letter for me to Miss Joan Meredyth?” +</p> + +<p> +Would she not? Mrs. Bonner caught her breath. Then there was something between +these two, even though Miss Joan Meredyth was engaged to marry Mr. John Everard +of Buddesby! +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bonner,” said Hugh a few minutes later, “I am going to trust you +absolutely. Miss Meredyth and I—are—old friends. It is urgent that I see her. I +want you to take this letter to her; tell no one at the Hall that the letter is +from me, tell no one that I am back. No one knows. I did not meet a soul on the +road from the station, and I don’t want my presence here known. I am trusting +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“You can, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure of it. Take that note to Miss Meredyth, ask to see her personally. +Don’t mention my name. Give her that letter, and if, when she has read it, she +will come with you, bring her here, because I must see her, and to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Alice Betts who opened the door to Mrs. Bonner. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Bonner!” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t come ’ere to bandy no words with you,” said Mrs. Bonner. “I never +held with you, Alice Betts,” she added severely. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see what I’ve done!” +</p> + +<p> +“No pre-aps you don’t. Anyhow, I’m here to see your mistress. You go and tell +her I am here.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I say I’ve brought a letter that gel will guess who it is from,” Mrs. +Bonner thought, so, wisely, she held her peace. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later Mrs. Bonner was shewn into the drawing-room. She dropped a +curtsey. +</p> + +<p> +“You want to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss, but first—excuse me, miss!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner hurriedly opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so,” she said. “Didn’t you best be getting off to your work?” +</p> + +<p> +Alice Betts went. +</p> + +<p> +“A spy! If I might make so bold, miss, I’d get rid of her. Them Bettses never +was no good, what with the drink and things. I got a letter for you, miss, only +I didn’t want that gel to know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, I am back again. No one knows that I am, here except Mrs. Bonner and now +yourself. I have reasons for wishing my return to remain unknown. But I must +see you. You will believe that I would not ask you to come to me here if there +was not urgent need.” +</p> + +<p> +There was urgent need, and she knew it, for had she not written that appeal to +him barely twenty-four hours ago? There had been no delay this time in his +coming. +</p> + +<p> +“And he, Mr. Alston, is at your cottage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss, came back only about a hour ago, and he’s waiting there. He told me +maybe you might come back with me, and he’s trusting me not to tell anyone he’s +here, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I understand. And, Mrs. Bonner, you think that girl is a spy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it. Wasn’t she starting to listen at the keyhole and me hardly inside +the room?” +</p> + +<p> +Joan was silent for a moment. “Go back! Tell him—I shall come—presently. Tell +him I am grateful to him for coming so quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner was gone, and Joan sat there hesitating. A trembling fit of +nervousness had come to her, a sense of fear, strangely mingled with joy. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go, there is no one else, but—I do not wish to see him,” and yet she +knew that she did. She wished to see him more than she wanted to see anything +on earth. So presently when Helen, who retired early, had gone upstairs, Joan +slipped a cloak over her shoulders and stole out of the house as +surreptitiously as any maid stealing to a love tryst. +</p> + +<p> +In Mrs. Bonner’s tiny sitting-room Hugh was pacing restlessly in the confined +space, pausing now and again to listen. +</p> + +<p> +She was coming—coming. Presently she would be here, presently he would see her, +this girl of his dreams, standing before him with the lamplight on her sweet +face. +</p> + +<p> +But it was not to pour out the story of his love that he had sent for her +to-night. He must remember that she came unattended, unprotected, relying on +his chivalry. Hugh took a grip on himself, and now he heard the familiar +creaking of the little gate, and in a moment was at the door. But the +excitement, the enthusiasm of just now was passed. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her standing before him. Looking at her, he pictured her as he had +seen her before, cold and haughty, her eyes hard and bright, her lips curved +with scorn for him, and now—he saw her with a flush in her cheeks, and the +brightness of her eyes was not cold, but soft and misty, and her red-lipped +mouth trembled. +</p> + +<p> +Once he had seen her as now, all sweetness and tenderness. And so in his dreams +of her had he pictured her, and now he saw her so again, and knew that his love +for her and need of her were greater even than he had believed. +</p> + +<p> +“I sent for you, Hugh.” She hesitated, and again the colour deepened in her +cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“You sent for me, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I need you. I want your advice, perhaps your help. He—he came back +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“When?” +</p> + +<p> +“Last Saturday.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I left here Thursday,” he smiled. “Joan, you have a spy in your house who +reports my movements and yours to Slotman. No sooner was I gone from here than +he was advised, and so he came. Now do you understand why I am here. I knew +that man would come. He needs money, there is the magnet of your gold. He will +never leave you in peace while he thinks you alone and unprotected, but while I +was here you were safe, for he is a very coward.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that was why you came, knowing that he—” +</p> + +<p> +She paused. “And I—I cut you in the street, Hugh.” +</p> + +<p> +“And hurt yourself by doing it,” he said softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” She bowed her head, and then suddenly she thrust the softness and the +tenderness from her, for they must be dangerous things when she loved this man +as she did, and was promised to another. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not forget that—I am—” She paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Promised to another man? But you will never carry out that promise, Joan—you +cannot, my dear! You cannot, because you belong to me. But it was not of that +that you came to speak. Only remember what I have said. It is true.” +</p> + +<p> +“It cannot be true. I never break a promise! What am I to do? Tell me and +advise me. You know—what he—he says—what he thinks or—or pretends to think.” +Again the burning flush was in her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“I know!” +</p> + +<p> +“And even though it is all a vile and cruel lie, yet I could not bear—” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall not suffer!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t—don’t you understand that if people should think—think of such a thing +and me—that they should speak of it and utter my name—Lies or truth, it would +be almost the same; the shame of it would be horrible—horrible!” She was +trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, have you seen this man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, last Saturday. He wrote ordering me to meet him. In every line of the +letter I read threats. I—I had to go; it was money, of course, five thousand +pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you didn’t promise?” His voice was harsh and sharp, and looking at him she +saw a man changed, a man whose face was hard and stern, and whose mouth had +grown bitter. And, knowing it was for her, she knew that she had never admired +him before as she did now. +</p> + +<p> +“I promised nothing. I am to meet him again to-morrow night and—and tell him +what I have decided. It is not the money, but—but to pay would seem as if I—I +were afraid. And oh, I have paid before!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know! And to-morrow you will meet him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—but—” +</p> + +<p> +“You will meet him, Joan, but I shall be there also. Tell me where!” +</p> + +<p> +She described the place, and he remembered it and knew it well enough. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be there, remember that. Go without fear—answer as you decide, but +remember you pay nothing—nothing. And then I,”—he paused, and smiled for the +first time—“I will do the paying.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII<br/> +THE DROPPING OF THE SCALES</h2> + +<p> +It was like turning back the pages of a well-loved book, a breath out of the +past. For this afternoon it seemed to John Everard that his little friend, +almost sister, had come back to him. +</p> + +<p> +And yet it seemed to Johnny, who studied her quietly, that here was one whom he +had never known, never seen before. The child had been dear to him as a younger +sister, but the child was no more. +</p> + +<p> +And to-day, for these few brief hours, Ellice gave herself up to a happiness +that she knew could be but fleeting. To-day she would be the butterfly, living +and rejoicing in the sun. The darkness would come soon enough, but to-day was +hers and his. +</p> + +<p> +How far in his boldness John Everard drove that little car he did not quite +realise, but it was a slight shock to him to read on a sign-post “Holsworth +four miles,” for Holsworth was more than forty miles from Little Langbourne. +</p> + +<p> +“Gipsy, we must go back,” he said. “We’ll get some tea at the farmhouse we +passed a mile back, and then we will hurry on. Con will be worrying.” +</p> + +<p> +They had tea at the little farmhouse, and sat facing one another, and more than +ever grew the wonder in Johnny’s mind. Why—why had this girl changed so? What +was the meaning of it, the reason for it? It was not the years, for a few days, +a few short weeks had wrought the change. And then he remembered with a sense +of shame and wrongdoing that, strangely enough, he had scarcely flung one +thought to Joan all that long afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +And now in the dusk of the evening they set off on the homeward journey. And at +Harlowe happened the inevitable, when one has only a small-sized tank, and +undertakes a journey longer than the average, the petrol ran out. The car +stopped after sundry spluttering explosions and back-firings. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing else for it, Gipsy. I must tramp back to Harlowe and get some +petrol—serves me right, I ought to have thought of it. Are you afraid of being +left there with the car?” +</p> + +<p> +“Afraid!” She laughed. “Afraid of what, Johnny?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, dear!” +</p> + +<p> +He set off patiently with an empty petrol tin in each hand, and she watched him +till he was lost in the dusk. +</p> + +<p> +“Afraid!” she repeated. “Afraid only of one thing in this world—of myself, of +my love for him!” And then suddenly sobs shook her, and she buried her face in +her hands and cried as if her heart must break. +</p> + +<p> +It took Johnny a full hour to tramp to Harlowe and to tramp back with the two +heavy tins, and then something seemed to go wrong. The car would not start up: +another hour passed, and they had a considerable way to go, and then suddenly, +seemingly without rhyme or reason, the car started and ran beautifully, and +once more they were off and away. +</p> + +<p> +But they were very late when they came into Starden, and with still some six +and a half miles to go before they could reassure Connie. +</p> + +<p> +“Connie will be worrying, Gipsy,” Johnny said. “You know what Connie is, bless +her! She’ll think all sorts of tragedies—and—” He paused, his voice faltered, +shook, and became silent. +</p> + +<p> +They were running past Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. The door of the cottage stood +open, and against the yellow light within they could see the figure of a man +and of a girl, and both knew the girl to be Joan Meredyth, and the man to be +Mrs. Bonner’s lodger, the man that Joan had cut that day in Starden. +</p> + +<p> +The car was a quarter of a mile further down the road before either spoke, and +then Johnny said, and his voice was jerky and uncertain: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Connie will be getting nervous. I shall be glad to have you home—Gipsy.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII<br/> +“HER CHAMPION”</h2> + +<p> +Why should Joan have been at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage at such an hour? Why should +she have been there talking to the very man whom she had a week ago cut dead in +the village? Why, if she had anything to say to him, whoever he was, had she +not sent for him rather than seek him at his lodgings? +</p> + +<p> +Questions that puzzled and worried Johnny Everard sorely, questions that he +could not answer. Jealousy, doubt, and all the kindred feelings came +overwhelmingly. Honest as the day, he never doubted a soul’s honesty. If he +found out that a man whom he had trusted was a thief, it shocked him; he kicked +the man out and was done with him, and nothing was left but an unpleasant +memory, but Joan was different. +</p> + +<p> +Trust Joan? Of course he did, utterly and entirely. +</p> + +<p> +“I should be unworthy of her if I didn’t,” he thought. “In any case, I am not +worthy of her. It is all right!” +</p> + +<p> +But was it all right? +</p> + +<p> +Connie had been naturally a little anxious. She, womanlike, had built up a +series of tragedies in her mind, the worst of which was Johnny and Ellice lying +injured and unconscious on some far distant roadway; the least a smashed and +disabled car, and Johnny and Ellice sitting disconsolate on a roadside bank. +</p> + +<p> +But here they were, all safe and sound, and Connie bustled about, hurrying up +the long delayed dinner, making anxious enquiries, and feeling a sense of +relief and gratitude for their safe return, about which she said nothing at +all. +</p> + +<p> +And now Connie was gone to bed, and Ellice too; and Johnny smoked his pipe and +frowned over it, and asked himself questions to which he could find no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“But I trust her, absolutely,” he said aloud. “Still, if she knows the man”—he +paused—“why hasn’t she spoken to me about him? I am to be her husband soon, +thank Heaven, but—” +</p> + +<p> +And then came more doubts and worries crowding into his mind, and his pipe went +out, and he sat there, frowning at thoughts, greatly worried. +</p> + +<p> +Johnny Everard looked up at the sound of the opening of the door. In the +doorway stood a little figure. He had never realised how little she was till he +saw her now, standing there with her bare feet and a thin white dressing-gown +over her nightdress, her hair hanging in great waving tresses about her oval +face and shoulders and far down her back. +</p> + +<p> +She looked such a child—and yet such a woman, her great eyes anxiously on his +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Johnny,” she said softly, “you have been worrying.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded, speechless. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Johnny?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because—because, Gipsy, I am a fool—a jealous fool, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you doubt her honour and her honesty, Johnny, then you are a fool,” she +said bravely, “because Joan could not be mean and treacherous and underhand. It +would not be possible for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you did not—like Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +“And does that make any difference? Even if I do not like her, must I be unjust +to her? I know she is fine and honourable and true and straight, and you must +know that too, so—so why should you worry, Johnny? Why should you worry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why has she never said one word to me about this man? Why did she refuse to +recognise him that day when she saw you and him together? Why does she go to +Mrs. Bonner’s cottage to meet him late at night?” +</p> + +<p> +He hurled at her all those questions that he had been asking himself vainly. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know why,” Ellice said gravely, “but I know that, whatever the reason +is, it is honourable and honest. Joan Meredyth,” she paused a little, with a +catch of the breath, “Joan Meredyth could not be other than honest and true +and—and straight, Johnny. It would not be her nature to be anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you come here? Why do you come to tell me this, Gipsy?” He had risen, +he stood looking at her—such a little thing, so graceful, so lovely with the +colour in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the light of her fine generosity. +“Gipsy—” He became silent; looking at her, strange thoughts came—wild, +impossible thoughts, thoughts that come when dreams end and one is face to face +with reality. So many years he had known her, she had been part and parcel of +his life, his everyday companion, yet it seemed to him that he had never known +her till now—the fineness, the goodness of her, the beauty of her too, the +womanliness of this child. +</p> + +<p> +“I came here to tell you, Johnny, because you let yourself doubt,” she said. “I +heard you moving about the room restlessly, and that is not like you. Usually +you sit here and smoke your pipe and think or read your paper. You never rise +and move about the room as to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed shortly. “I know—everything,” she said. “I listen to you night +after night. I always have for years. I have heard you come up and go to your +room, always. I always wait for that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Gipsy, why—why should you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” she said—“because—” And then she said no more, and would have turned +away, her errand done, but that he hastened to her and caught her by the hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Gipsy, wait. Don’t go. Why did you come to tell me this of Joan to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because since you have asked her to be your wife, you belong to her, and you +should not doubt her. She is above doubt—she could not be as some women, +underhand and treacherous, deceitful. That would not be Joan Meredyth.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you do not like her, dear. Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t—tell you.” She tried to wrench her hand free, yet he held it strongly, +and looked down into her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +What did he see there? What tale did they in their honesty tell him, that hers +lips must never utter? Was he less blind at this moment than ever before in his +life? Johnny Everard never rightly understood. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night,” he said, “Gipsy, good night,” and would have drawn her to him to +kiss her—as usual, but she resisted. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, please don’t!” she said, and looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +Her lips were quivering, there was a glorious flush in her cheeks; and in her +eyes, a kind of fear. So he let her go, and opened the door for her and stood +listening to the soft swish of her draperies as she sped up the dark stairs. +</p> + +<p> +Then very slowly Johnny Everard came back to his chair. He picked up his pipe +and stared at it, yet did not see it. He saw a pair of eyes that seemed to burn +into his, eyes that had betrayed to him at last the secret of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know—I didn’t know,” Johnny Everard said brokenly. “I didn’t know, +and oh, my God! I am not worthy of that! I am not worthy of that!” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX<br/> +“THE PAYING”</h2> + +<p> +Once again Mr. Philip Slotman was tainting the fragrant sweetness and freshness +of the night with the aroma of a large and expensive J.S. Muria. +</p> + +<p> +Once again the big shabby old car stood waiting in the shadows, a quarter of a +mile down the road, while he who hired it leaned against the gate under the +shadow of the partly ruined barn. +</p> + +<p> +He had not the smallest doubt but that she would come. It was full early yet; +but she would come, though, being a woman, she would in all probability be +late. +</p> + +<p> +And she would pay, she dared not refuse him. Yet he needed more than the money, +he thought, as he leaned at his ease against the gate and smoked his cigar. +</p> + +<p> +And now she was coming. He flung the half-smoked cigar away and waited as the +dark figure approached him in the night. +</p> + +<p> +“You are early to-night, Joan.” He endeavoured to put softness and tenderness +into his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I am here at the time I appointed.” +</p> + +<p> +“To give me my answer—yes, but we won’t discuss that now. I want to speak to +you about something else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something other than money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, do you think I always put money first?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had thought so, Mr. Slotman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do me a wrong—a great wrong. There is something that I put far ahead of +money, of gold. It is you—Joan, listen! you must listen!” He had gripped her +arm and held tightly, and as before she did not struggle nor try to win free of +him. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall listen to me. I have told you before many times that I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +He tried to drag her closer to him. And now she wrenched herself free. +</p> + +<p> +“I came to discuss money with you, not—not impossibilities.” +</p> + +<p> +“So—so that is it, is it? I am impossible, am I?” +</p> + +<p> +“To me—utterly. I have only one feeling for you, the deepest scorn. I don’t +hate you, because you are too mean, too paltry, too low a thing to hate. I have +only contempt for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He writhed under the cold and cutting scorn of her words and her voice, the +evil temper in him worked uppermost. +</p> + +<p> +“So—so that’s the talk, is it?” he cried with a foul oath. “That’s it, is it? +You—you two-penny ha’penny—” He choked foolishly over his words. +</p> + +<p> +“You!” he gasped, “what are you? What have you been? What about you and—” +</p> + +<p> +Again he was silent, writhing with rage. +</p> + +<p> +“Money—yes, it is money-talk, then, and by thunder I’ll make you pay! I’ll +bleed you white, you cursed—” Again more foolish oaths, the clumsy cursing of a +man in the grip of passion. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall pay! It’s money-talk, yes—you shall pay! We will talk in thousands, +my girl. I said five thousand. It isn’t enough—what is your good name worth, +eh? What is it worth to you? I could paint you a nice colour, couldn’t I? What +will this fellow Everard say when I tell him what I can tell him? How the +village fools will talk it over in their alehouse, eh? And in the cottages, how +they will stare at Miss Meredyth of Starden when she takes her walks abroad. +They’ll wink at one another, won’t they. They’ll remember! Trust ’em, they’ll +never forget!” +</p> + +<p> +She felt sickened, faint, and horrified, yet she gave no sign. +</p> + +<p> +“Money you said!” he shouted, “and money it shall be! Ten thousand pounds, or +I’ll give you away, so that every man and woman in Starden will count ’emselves +your betters! I’ll give you away to the poor fool you think you are going to +marry! There won’t be any wedding. I’ll swear a man couldn’t marry a thing—with +such a name as I shall give you! Money, yes! you’ll pay! I want ten thousand +pounds! Not five, remember, but ten, and perhaps more to follow. And if you +don’t pay, there won’t be many who will not have heard about your imaginary +marriage to that dog, Hugh Alston.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl drew a deep shuddering sigh. She pressed her hands over her breast. +From the shadows about the old barn a deeper shadow moved, something vaulted +the gate lightly and came down with a thud on the ground beside Mr. Philip +Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan,” said a voice, “you will go away and leave this man to me. I will attend +to the paying of him.” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman turned, his rage gone, a cold sweat of fear bursting out on his +forehead; his loose jaw sagged. +</p> + +<p> +“A—a trap,” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“To catch a rat! And the rat is caught! Joan, go. I will follow presently.” +</p> + +<p> +No word passed between the two men as they watched the girl’s figure down the +road. She walked slowly; once she seemed to hesitate as though about to turn +back. And it was in her mind to turn back, to plead for mercy for this man, +this creature. Yet she did not. She flung her head up. No, she would not ask +for mercy for him: Hugh Alston was just. +</p> + +<p> +So in silence they watched her till the darkness had swallowed her. +</p> + +<p> +“So you refused to accept my warning, Slotman?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I refuse to have anything to do with you. It is no business of yours, kindly +allow me—” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman would have gone. Hugh thrust out a strong arm and barred his way. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait!” he said, “blackmailer!” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I was asking for a loan.” +</p> + +<p> +“A gift of money with threats—lying, infamous threats. How shall I deal with +you?” Hugh frowned as in thought. “How can a man deal with a dog like you? +Dog—may all dogs forgive me the libel! Shall I thrash you? Shall I tear the +clothes from your body, and thrash you and fling you, bleeding and tattered, +into that field? Shall I hand you over to the Police?” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you dare not,” Slotman said; his teeth were chattering. “It will mean her +name being dragged in the mud, the whole thing coming out. You—you dare not do +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right. I dare not, for the sake of her name—the name of such a woman +must never be uttered in connection with such a thing as yourself. How, then, +shall I deal with you? It must be the thrashing, yet it is not enough. It is a +pity the duel has gone out, not that you would have fought me with a sword or +pistol, Slotman, still—Yes, it must be the thrashing.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you touch me—” +</p> + +<p> +Hugh laughed sharply. “If I touch you, what?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall call for help. I shall summon you. I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Put your hands up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Help! help! help!” +</p> + +<p> +Down the road the tired chauffeur slumbered peacefully on the seat of the +shabby car. He heard nothing, save some distant unintelligible sounds and the +cooing of a wood-pigeon in an adjacent thicket. +</p> + +<p> +And then presently there came down the road a flying figure, the figure of a +man who sobbed as he ran, a man from whom the clothes hung in ribbons, a man +with wild staring eyes, and panting, labouring chest. He stumbled as he ran, +and picked himself up again, to fall again. So, running, stumbling, falling, he +came at last to the car and shrieked at the driver to awaken. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL<br/> +“IS IT THE END?”</h2> + +<p> +Lady Linden, wearing a lilac printed cotton sunbonnet, her skirts pinned up +about her, was busy with a trowel, disordering certain flower-beds that +presently the gardeners would come and put right. +</p> + +<p> +“Idle women,” said her ladyship, “are my abomination. How a woman can moon +about and do nothing is more than I can understand. Look at me, am I not always +busy? From early morning to dewy eve I—Curtis!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come here at once,” said her ladyship. “I have dug up a worm. I dislike worms. +Carry the creature away; don’t hurt it, Curtis. I dislike cruelty even to +worms. Ugh! How you can touch the thing!” +</p> + +<p> +Curtis, under-gardener, trudged away with a large healthy worm dangling from +thumb and forefinger, a sheepish grin on his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Those creatures have none of the finer feelings,” thought her ladyship. “Yet +we are all brothers and sisters according to the Bible. I don’t agree with that +at all. Curtis, come back; there is another worm.” +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie stood at the window, watching her aunt’s operations, yet seeing none +of them. Her face was set and white and resolute, the soft round chin seemed to +be jutting out more obstinately than usual. +</p> + +<p> +For Marjorie had made up her mind definitely, and she knew that she was about +to hurt herself and to hurt someone else. +</p> + +<p> +But it must be. It was only fair, it was only just. Silence, she believed, +would be wicked. +</p> + +<p> +The door behind her opened, and Tom Arundel came into the room. He was fresh +from the stable, and smelled of straw. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, darling, is there anything up? I got your note asking me to come here at +once. Joe gave it to me just as we were going to take out the brute Lady Linden +has bought. Of all the vicious beasts! I wish to goodness she wouldn’t buy a +horse without a proper opinion, but it is useless talking to her. She said she +liked the white star on its forehead—white star! black devil, I call it! But +I’ll break him in if I break my neck—doing it. But—I am sorry. You want me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you might turn and look at a chap, Marjorie.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I prefer to—to look out through the window,” she said in a stifled voice. +</p> + +<p> +Standing in the room he beheld her, slim and graceful, dark against the light +patch of the window, her back obstinately turned to him; looking at her, there +came a great and deep tenderness into his face, the light of a very honest and +intense love. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, sweetheart, then,” he said—“tell me in your own way, what is it? +Nothing very serious, is it?” There was a suggestion of laughter in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very serious, Tom.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“It—it concerns you—me and you—our future.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, then it is serious.” The laughter was gone; there came a look of +fear, of anxiety into his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +It could not be that she was going to discard him, turn him down, end it all +now? But she was. +</p> + +<p> +“Tom, it is only right and honest of me to tell you that—that”—her voice +shook—“that I have made a mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“That you do not love me?” he said, and his voice was strangely quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Tom, I believed I did. It all seemed so different when we used to meet, +knowing that everyone was against us. It seemed so romantic, so—so nice, and +now ...” Her voice trailed off miserably. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, now, sweet,” and his voice was filled with tenderness and yearning, +“now I fall far short of what you hoped for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it isn’t that. It is I—I—who am to blame, not you. I was a senseless, +romantic little fool, a child, and now I am a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t love me, Marjorie?” +</p> + +<p> +Silence for a moment, then she answered in a low voice: “No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor ever will, your love can’t come back again?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think it—it was ever there. I was wrong; I did not understand. I was +foolish and weak. I thought it fine to—to steal away and meet you. I think I +put a halo of romance about your head, and now—” +</p> + +<p> +“A halo of romance about my head,” he repeated. He looked down at his hands, +grimed with the work he had been at; he smiled, but there was no mirth in his +smile. +</p> + +<p> +This was the end then! And he loved her, Heaven knew how he loved her! He +looked at the unyielding little figure against the light, and in his eyes was a +great longing and a subdued passion. +</p> + +<p> +“So it—it is the end, Marjorie?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want it to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I understand. I knew that I was not good enough, never good enough for +you—far, far beneath you, dear. Only I would have tried to make you happy—that +is what I meant, you understand that? I would have given my life to making you +happy, little girl. Perhaps I was a fool to think I could. I know now that I +could not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tom, I am sorry,” she said. “I am sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +He came to her, he put his hand on her arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t blame yourself, dear,” he said, “don’t blame yourself. You can’t help +your heart; you—you only thought you cared for me for a time, but it was just a +fancy, and it—it passed, didn’t it? And now it is gone, and can never come back +again. Of course it must end. Your wishes—always—mean everything to me.” He +bent, he touched the white hand with his lips, and then turned away. Once at +the door he looked back; but she did not move, the tears were streaming down +her cheeks, and she did not want him to see them. +</p> + +<p> +How well he had taken it! How well, and yet he loved her! She realised now how +much he loved her, how fine he was, and generous, even Hugh could not have been +more generous than he. +</p> + +<p> +And Marjorie stood there like one in a dream, watching, yet seeing nothing, +going over in her mind all that had passed, suffering the pain of it. And she +had loved him once! Those mystic moonlight meetings, his young arms about her, +his lips against hers—oh, she had loved him! And then had come the commonplace, +the everyday, sordid side of it, he the accepted lover, high in Lady Linden’s +favour, which meant the gradual awakening from a dream, her dream of love. +</p> + +<p> +“I am fickle, I am false. I do not know my own mind, and—and I have hurt him. I +am not worthy of hurting him. He is better, finer than I ever thought.” +</p> + +<p> +Still Lady Linden prodded and trowelled at the neat bed, still she demanded +occasional help from the patient Curtis; and now came a man, breathless and +coatless, rushing across the lawn. He had news for her, something that must be +told; gone was his accustomed terror of her ladyship. He told her what he had +to say, and she dropped the trowel and ran—actually ran as Marjorie had never +seen her run. +</p> + +<p> +She could have laughed, but for the pain at her heart. He had taken it so well; +he had risen to a height she had not suspected him capable of, and the fault +was hers, hers. +</p> + +<p> +What was that? What were they carrying? God help her! What was that they were +carrying across the lawn? Why did they walk so quietly, so carefully? Why ask? +</p> + +<p> +She knew! Instinct told her. She knew! She flung out her hands and gripped at +the window-frame and watched. She saw her aunt, her usually ruddy face drawn, +haggard, and white. She saw something that lay motionless on a part of the old +barn-door, which four men were carrying with such care. She saw a man on a +bicycle dashing off down the drive. +</p> + +<p> +Why ask? She knew! And only just now, a few short minutes ago—no, no, a +lifetime ago—she had told him she did not love him. +</p> + +<p> +“An accident, Marjorie.” Lady Linden’s voice was harsh, unlike her usual round +tones. “An accident—that brute of a horse—girl, don’t, don’t faint.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going to. I want to help—him.” +</p> + +<p> +They had brought Tom Arundel into the house, had laid him on a bed in an upper +room. The village doctor had come, and, finding something here beyond his +skill, had sent off, with Lady Linden’s full approval, an urgent message to a +surgeon of repute, and now they were waiting—waiting the issues of life and +death. +</p> + +<p> +The servants looked at the white-faced, distraught girl pityingly. They +remembered that she was to have been the dying man’s wife. The whole thing had +been so sudden, was so shocking and tragic. No wonder that she looked like +death herself; they could not guess at the self-reproach, the +self-denunciation, nor could Lady Linden. +</p> + +<p> +“No one,” said her ladyship, “is to blame but me. It was my doing, my own +pig-headed folly. The boy told me that the horse was a brute, and I—I said that +he—if he hadn’t the pluck to try and break him in—I would find someone who +would. I am his murderess!” her ladyship cried tragically. “Yes, Marjorie, look +at me—look at the murderess of the man you love!” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true. Revile me! I alone am guilty. I’ve robbed you of your lover.” Lady +Linden was nearer to hysterics at this moment than ever in her life. +</p> + +<p> +“How long? how long?” she demanded impatiently. “How long will it be before +that fool comes?” +</p> + +<p> +The fool was the celebrated surgeon wired for to London. He had wired back that +he was on his way; no man could do more. +</p> + +<p> +But the waiting, the horrible waiting; the ceaseless watching and listening for +the sound of wheels, the strange hush that had fallen upon the house, the +knowledge that there in an upper chamber death was waiting, waiting to take a +young life. +</p> + +<p> +Hours, every minute of which had seemed like hours themselves, hours had +passed. Lady Linden sat with her hands clenched and her eyes fixed on +nothingness. She blamed herself with all her honest hearty nature; she blamed +herself even more unsparingly than in the past she had blamed others for their +trifling faults. +</p> + +<p> +Her self-recriminations had got on Marjorie’s nerves. She could not bear to sit +here and listen to her aunt when all the time she knew that it was she—she +alone who was to blame. She had told him that she did not love him, that all +his hopes must end, that the future they had planned between them should never +be, and so had sent him to his death. +</p> + +<p> +She waited outside in the big hall, her eyes on the stairs, her ears tensioned +to every sound from above, and at every sound she started. +</p> + +<p> +Voices at last, low and muffled, voices pitched in a low key, men talking as in +deep confidence. She heard and she watched. She saw the two men, the doctor and +the surgeon, descending the stairs; she rose and went to meet them, yet said +never a word. +</p> + +<p> +She watched their faces; she saw that they looked grave. She saw that the face +of the great man was worn and tired. She looked in vain for something that +would whisper the word “Hope” to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Linden is engaged to Mr. Arundel,” the local doctor said. +</p> + +<p> +The great man held out his hand to her. He knew so well, how many thousands of +times had he seen, that same look of questioning, pitiful in its dumbness. +</p> + +<p> +He held her hand closely, “There is hope. That is all I care say to you—just a +hope, and that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +It was all that he dared to say, the utmost to which he could go. He knew that +false hopes, raised only to be crushed, were cruelty. And he had never done +that, never would. “There is yet one ray of hope. He may live; I can say no +more than that, Miss Linden.” +</p> + +<p> +And, little though it was, it was almost more than she had dared to hope for. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI<br/> +MR. RUNDLE TAKES A HAND</h2> + +<p> +Battered and sorely bruised, Philip Slotman lay on his bed in the Feathers Inn +in Little Langbourne, and cursed his luck. Every time he moved he swore to +himself. +</p> + +<p> +He was hurt in mind, body, and estate; he was consumed by a great rage and a +sense of injury. He had suffered, and someone should pay—Joan mainly, after +Joan, Hugh Alston. But it would be safer to make Joan pay. Not in money. Alston +had insisted on it that he had nothing to expect in the way of cash from Miss +Meredyth. +</p> + +<p> +Slotman lay writhing, and cursing and planning vengeance. There were few things +that he would not have liked to do to Hugh Alston, but finally he decided he +could better hurt Hugh Alston through Joan, so thereafter he devoted his +thoughts to Joan. +</p> + +<p> +The church bells of Little Langbourne Church were ringing pleasantly when +Philip Slotman, with many a grunt and inward groan, rose from his couch. +</p> + +<p> +Except for a slight discoloration about the left eye and a certain stiffness of +gait, there was nothing about Philip Slotman when he came down to the +coffee-room for his breakfast to suggest that he had seen so much trouble the +previous evening. But there were some who had seen Slotman come in, and among +them was the waiter. He put his hand over his mouth, and smirked now at the +sight of Slotman, and Slotman noticed it. +</p> + +<p> +The bells rang no message of peace and good-will to Mr. Slotman this morning. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Joan would be the one. He would make her pay; he would hurt Alston through +her, and hit her hard at the same time. He would stay here at Little +Langbourne. +</p> + +<p> +“Buddesby, sir?” said the waiter. “Yes, sir. Mister John Everard’s place about +a quarter of a mile beyond the village. Very interesting old ’ouse, sir, one of +the best farms hereabouts. Mr. Everard’s a well-to-do gentleman, sir, old +family, not—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, go away!” +</p> + +<p> +The waiter withdrew. “Anyhow,” he thought, “he got it all right last night, and +serve him right. Law! what a mess ’e were in when he came in.” +</p> + +<p> +A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Slotman nodded. He would go. He +remembered that Alston had said something last night about this man Everard, +had suggested all sorts of things might happen to him, Slotman, if he +communicated in any way with Everard. +</p> + +<p> +“Anyhow I shall tell him, and unless he is a born fool he will soon get quit of +her. By thunder! I’ll make her name reek, as I told her I would. I’ll set this +place and Starden and half the infernal country talking about her! If she shews +her face anywhere, she’ll get stared at. I’ll let her and that beast Alston see +what it means to get on the wrong side of a chap like me.” +</p> + +<p> +A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Thank Heaven it was no further. +</p> + +<p> +The church bells had ceased ringing, from the church itself came the pleasant +sounds of voices. The village street lay white in the sunlight with the blue +shadows of the houses, a world of peace and of beauty, of sweet scenes and of +sweet sounds; and now he had left the village behind him. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this Buddesby, my man? Those gates, are they the gates of Buddesby?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, they be,” said the man. He was a big, gipsy-looking fellow, who slouched +with hunched shoulders and a yellow mongrel dog at his heels. +</p> + +<p> +“The gates of Buddesby they be, and—” He paused; he stared hard into Slotman’s +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said slowly, “oh, so ’tis ’ee, be it? I been watching out for ’ee.” +</p> + +<p> +“What—what do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember ’ee, I do. I remember your grinning face. I’ve carried it in my +memory all right. See that dawg?” The man pointed to the lurcher. “See him: +he’s more’n a brother, more’n a son, more’n a wife to me. That’s the dawg you +run over that day, and you grinned. I seen it—you grinned!” The man’s black +eyes sparkled. He looked swiftly up the road and down it, and Slotman saw the +action and quivered. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give you—” he began. “I am very sorry; it was an accident. I’ll pay you +for—” +</p> + +<p> +But the man with the blazing eyes had leaped at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I been waiting for ’ee, and I’ve cotched ’ee at last!” he shouted. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Johnny Everard, hands in pockets, mooning about his stock and rickyard, this +calm Sunday morning, never guessed how near he had been to receiving a visitor. +</p> + +<p> +He had not seen Joan since that night when, with Ellice beside him, he had seen +her and the man at the door of Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +He had meant to go, but had not gone. He was due there to-day; this very +morning Helen would expect him. He had never missed spending a Sunday with them +since the engagement; and yet he felt loath to go, and did not know why. +</p> + +<p> +He had seen Connie off to Church. Con never missed. Ellice had not gone. Ellice +was perhaps a little less constant than Con. He wondered where the girl was +now, and, thinking of her, the frown on his face was smoothed away. +</p> + +<p> +Always there was wonder, a sense of unreality in his mind; a feeling that +somehow, in some way, he was wrong. He must be wrong. Strangely enough, these +last few days he had thought more constantly of Ellice than of Joan. He had +pictured her again and again to himself—a little, white-clad, barefooted figure +standing against the dusky background of the hallway, framed by the open door. +He remembered the colour in her cheeks, and her brave championship of the other +woman; but he remembered most of all the look in her eyes when she had said to +him, “Please, please don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall never kiss her again,” he said, and said it to himself, and knew as he +said it that he was denying himself the thing for which now he longed. +</p> + +<p> +He had kissed Joan’s cold cheek, he had kissed her hand, but her lips had not +been for him. He had wondered once if they ever would be, and he had cared a +great deal; now he ceased to wonder. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall never kiss Gipsy again,” he thought, and, turning, saw her. +</p> + +<p> +“So you—you didn’t go to Church, Gipsy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you had gone to Starden.” +</p> + +<p> +They stood and looked at one another. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I don’t think I shall go to Starden to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they expect you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I don’t think I shall go to-day, Gipsy. Shall we go for a walk across the +fields?” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to go to Starden,” she said. “She—she will expect you.” +</p> + +<p> +But a spirit of reckless defiance had come to him. +</p> + +<p> +“She won’t miss me if I don’t go.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, she won’t miss you,” the girl said softly, and her voice shook. +</p> + +<p> +“So—so come with me, Gipsy girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I do.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet when they went together across the fields, when they came to the edge of +the hop-garden and saw the neatly trailing vines, which this year looked better +and more promising than he could ever remember before, they had nothing to say +to one another, not a word. Once he took her hand and held it for a moment, +then let it go again; and at the touch of her he thrilled, little dreaming how +her heart responded. +</p> + +<p> +He scarcely looked at her. If he had, he might have seen a glow in her cheeks, +a brightness in her eyes, the brightness born of a new and wonderful hope. +</p> + +<p> +“After all, after all,” the girl was thinking. “I believe he cares for me a +little—not so much as he loves her, but a little, a little, and I love him.” +</p> + +<p> +Connie smiled on them as they came in together. It was as she liked to see +them. She noticed the deep colouring in the girl’s cheeks, the new brightness +in her eyes, and Connie, who always acted on generous impulses, kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that for?” Johnny cried. “Haven’t you one for me too, Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Always, always,” she said. She put her arms about his neck and hugged him. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed as if the clouds that had so long overcast this little house had +drifted away this calm Sabbath day, and the sun was shining down gloriously on +them. +</p> + +<p> +For some time Connie had been quietly watching the girl. There came back into +her memory a promise given long ago. “I will do nothing, nothing, Con, unless I +tell you first.” +</p> + +<p> +She knew Ellice for the soul of honour; she had felt safe, and now she was +waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Ellice, have you anything to say to me?” Johnny was gone after dinner to +his tiny study to wrestle with letters and figures that he abhorred. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Ellice said. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you had—well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to Starden,” the girl said. “I am going to Starden this afternoon, +Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“To see—her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why—why, darling, why?” +</p> + +<p> +“To ask her if she can be generous—and oh, I believe she can—to ask her why she +is taking him away from me when I love him so, and when—oh, Con—Con, when I +believe that he cares a little for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Con held out her arms, she caught the girl tightly. +</p> + +<p> +“My love and my prayers and my wishes will go with you, darling.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII<br/> +“WALLS WE CANNOT BATTER DOWN”</h2> + +<p> +“Why?” Helen asked. “Why isn’t Johnny here to-day, Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” Joan said. She had scarcely given a thought to Johnny Everard +that morning. All her thoughts had been of two men, the men she had left in the +darkness by the roadside. She blamed herself bitterly now that she had left +them; she trembled to think what might have happened. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, if Johnny Everard does come, I wish to speak to him. I have a good deal +to say to him. I want to be alone with him for some time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, darling.” But there was anxious enquiry in Helen’s face. +</p> + +<p> +Surely, surely there had been no quarrel between them? Johnny was not one to +quarrel with anyone, yet it was strange that he had not been here for so many +days, and that this being Sunday still he was not here. +</p> + +<p> +“When he comes,” Joan was thinking, “I shall tell him—everything.” She knew she +would hate it; she knew that she would feel that in some way she was lowering +herself. It would be a horrible confession for one with her stubborn pride to +have to make. Not of guilt and wrongdoing, but that such should be ascribed to +her. +</p> + +<p> +Helen was watching from the window, her mind filled with worries and doubts. +</p> + +<p> +A man had turned in by the gates, was walking slowly up the winding drive. +</p> + +<p> +It was Johnny, of course. Helen saw it all. The car had gone wrong, but Johnny, +not to miss this Sunday, had walked. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, Johnny is coming,” she called out. “He is walking. He—” She paused; it +was not Johnny. She was silent; she stared for a moment. The man looked +familiar, then she knew who it was. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, it is Mr. Alston,” she said quietly. “What does he want here?” And +Helen’s voice was filled with suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank Heaven,” Joan thought, “thank Heaven that he is here.” +</p> + +<p> +For the first time Hugh Alston knocked for admission on the Starden door. A +score of times he had asked himself, “Shall I go?” And he could find no answer. +He had come at last. +</p> + +<p> +“What can he want? I did not know he was here in Starden. I didn’t even know +that he knew where Joan was. I don’t understand this business at all,” Helen +was thinking. +</p> + +<p> +A servant shewed him in. Joan shook hands with him. Helen did so, under an air +of graciousness which hid a cold hostility. What was this man doing here? If he +was nothing to Joan, and Joan was nothing to him, why did he come? And how +could he be anything to Joan when she was to marry Johnny? +</p> + +<p> +So this was her home! A fit setting for her loveliness, and yet he knew of a +fitter, of another home where she could shine to even greater advantage. They +talked of commonplace things, hiding their feelings behind words, waiting, Joan +and Hugh, till Helen should leave them. But Helen lingered with less than her +usual tact, lingered with a mind filled with vague suspicions, wondering why +Johnny had not come. +</p> + +<p> +Sitting near the window she could see the drive, and presently a young girl on +an old bicycle coming up it. Helen stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, here is Ellice Brand,” she said, and fears took possession of her. There +was something wrong! Johnny was ill, or had met with an accident. Ellice had +ridden over to tell them. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go and see her, Joan,” she said, and so at last was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh closed the door after her. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been anxious?” he said briefly. +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally!” +</p> + +<p> +“There was no need. I had to give him what I had promised him, one must always +keep one’s word. It was rather a brutal business, Joan, but I had to go through +with it. I’d sooner not tell you anything more. I am not proud of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I understand, and you can understand that I was anxious.” +</p> + +<p> +“For him?” +</p> + +<p> +“For—for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“For me?” He took two long strides to her. “Joan, are you going to let your +pride rear impassable walls between us for ever? Can’t you be fair, generous, +natural, true to yourself? Can’t you see how great, how overwhelming my love +for you is?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is—is something more than pride between us, Hugh.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing—nothing that cannot be broken; that cannot be forced and +broken down,” he said eagerly. “You are to marry a man you do not love. Why +should you? Would it be fair to yourself? Would it be fair to me? Would it be +fair to your future? Think while there is time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” she said. “I have given him my promise—and I shall stand by it.” +She drew her hands away. “It is useless, Hugh. Useless now—if I did rear walls +of pride between you and myself. I confess it now, I did; but they are so +strong that we may not break them down.” +</p> + +<p> +“They shall be broken down!” he said. “Answer me this—this question truthfully, +and from your soul. Look into my eyes, and answer me in one word, yes or no?” +He held her hands again; he held her so that she must face him, and so holding +her, looking into her eyes, he asked her: “Do you love me? Have you given to me +some of your heart, knowing that I have given all of mine to you, knowing that +I love you so, and need you and long for you? Do you love me a little in +return, Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent; her eyes met his bravely enough, yet it seemed as if she had no +control upon her lips, the word would not come. Once before she had lied to +him, and knew that she could not lie again, not with his eyes looking deep into +hers, probing the very secrets of her soul. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, do you love me? My Joan, do you love me?” And then the answer came at +last—“Yes.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII<br/> +“NOT TILL THEN WILL I GIVE UP HOPE”</h2> + +<p> +“There is nothing wrong, nothing the matter with Johnny or Connie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why—why did not Johnny come?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is busy.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you—” +</p> + +<p> +“I came to see Joan Meredyth,” said Ellice quietly. She and Helen did not like +one another; they were both frank in their dislike. Helen looked down on Ellice +as a person of no importance, who was entirely unwanted, a mere nuisance, +someone for ever in the way. +</p> + +<p> +Ellice looked on Helen as the promoter of this engagement and marriage, as the +woman who was responsible for everything. She did not like her. She resented +her; but for Helen, there would never have been any break in the old happy life +at Buddesby. +</p> + +<p> +“So you wish to see Joan, why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Privately.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear child, surely—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not a child, and I wish to see Joan Meredyth privately, and surely I have +the right, Mrs. Everard?” +</p> + +<p> +Helen frowned. “Well, at any rate you cannot see her now. She is engaged, a +friend is with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” Helen said. “If you insist. Does Johnny know that you are here?” +she asked with sudden suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“No; Connie knows. I told her, and I am willing to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +Helen looked at her. Helen was honest. “I thought the child pretty,” she +reflected, “and I was wrong; she is beautiful. I don’t understand it. In some +extraordinary way she seems to have changed.” But her manner towards Ellice was +as unfriendly as before. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not in the least know how long Joan will be. You may have to wait a +considerable time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not mind.” +</p> + +<p> +In the room these two stood, Joan had made her confession frankly, truthfully. +She had admitted her love for him, but of hope for the future she had none. +That she loved him now, in spite of all the past, in spite of the troubles and +shame he had brought on her, was something that had happened in spite of +herself, against her will, against her desire; but because it was so, she +admitted it frankly. +</p> + +<p> +“But my love for you, Hugh, matters nothing,” she said. “Because I love you I +shall suffer more—but I shall never break my word to the man I have given it +to.” +</p> + +<p> +“When you stand before the altar with that man’s ring on your finger, when you +have promised before God to be his wife, then and not till then will I give up +hope. And that will be never. It is your pride, dear, your pride that ever +fights against your happiness and mine; but I shall beat it down and humble it, +Joan, and win you in the end. Your own true, sweet self.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I have any pride left,” she said. “I was prouder when I was poor +than I am now. My pride was then all I had; it kept me above the sordid life +about me. I cultivated it, I was glad of it, but since then—Oh, Hugh, I am not +proud any more, only very humble, and very unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +And because she was still promised to another man, he could not, as he would, +hold out his arms to her and take her to his breast and comfort her. Instead, +he took her hand and held it tightly for a time, then lifted it to his lips and +went, leaving her; yet went with a full hope for the future in his heart, for +he had wrung from her the confession that she loved him. +</p> + +<p> +In the hall a girl, sitting there waiting patiently, looked at him with great +dark eyes, yet he never saw her. A servant let him out, and then the servant +came back to her. “Tell Miss Meredyth that I am here waiting to see her,” +Ellice said. +</p> + +<p> +And as the man went away she wondered what had brought Hugh Alston here to-day, +why he should be here so long with Joan when she could so distinctly remember +Joan’s lack of recognition of him in the village. She could also remember the +sight of them that night, their dark shapes against the yellow glow of the +lamplight in Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +How would she find Joan? she wondered. Softened, perhaps even confused, some of +her coldness shaken, some of her self-possession gone? But no, Joan held out a +hand in greeting to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that you were here, Miss Brand,” she said. “Have you not seen +Mrs. Everard?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen her,” Ellice said, “but I didn’t come here to-day to see her. I +came to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“To see me?” Joan smiled—a conventional smile. “You will sit down, won’t you? +Is it anything that I can do? It is not, I hope, that Mr. Everard is ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“And—and if he were,” the girl cried, “would you care?” +</p> + +<p> +Joan started, her face grew colder. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you—you do. Why are you marrying him? Why are you taking him from me +when—” +</p> + +<p> +“Taking him from—you?” Joan’s voice was like ice water on flames of fire. +Ellice was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth, I came here to-day to see you, to speak to you, to—to open my +heart to you.” Her lips trembled. “Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps I have no right +to be here to say what I am going to say. I told Connie; she—she knows that I +have come here, and she knows why.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“If—if you loved him it would be different. I would not dare think of saying +anything then. I think I would be glad. I could, at any rate, be reconciled to +it, because it would be for his happiness. If you loved him—but you don’t—you +don’t! He is a man who could not live without love. It is part of his life. He +might think, might believe that he would be content to take you because you are +lovely and—and good and clever, and all those things that I am not, even though +you do not love him, but the time would come when his heart would ache for the +love you withheld. Oh, Joan—Joan, forgive me—forgive me, but I must speak. I +think you would if you were in my place!” +</p> + +<p> +The cold bitterness was passing slowly from Joan’s face. There came a tinge of +colour into her cheeks; her eyes that watched the girl grew softer and more +tender. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” she said; “go on, tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing more to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you have—you have much more. You have this to say—you love him and want +him, you wish to take him from me. Is that it, Ellice?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you loved him I would not have dared to come. I would have told myself that +I was content. But you don’t. I have watched you—yes, spied on you—looking for +some sign of tenderness that would prove to me that you loved him; but it never +came. And so I know that you are marrying Johnny Everard with no love, +accepting all the great love that he is offering to you and giving him nothing +in exchange. Oh, it is not fair!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not fair,” Joan said; “it is not fair, and yet I thought of that. I told +him just what you have told me, and still he seemed to be content.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he loves you so, and because he has hope in the future, because in +spite of everything he still hopes that he might win your heart, and I know +that he never can.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I—I think you have already given your heart away.” +</p> + +<p> +And now Joan’s eyes flamed, the anger came back. “By what right do you say +that? How dared you say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is only what I believed. I believed that a woman so sweet, so beautiful, so +good as you, must love. You could not live your life without love. If it has +not come yet, then it will come some day, and then if you are his—his wife, it +will come too late. You are made for love, Joan, just as he is. You could not +live your life without it—you would feel need for it. Oh yes, you think I am a +child, a foolish, romantic schoolgirl, a stupid little thing, talking, talking, +but in your heart you know that I am right.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if he—loves me,” Joan said softly, “if he loves me, little Ellice, then +how can I break my word to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not ask you to break your word to him, only tell him, tell him the truth +again. Tell him what I have told you, tell him—if there is someone else, if you +have already met someone you care for—tell him that too, so that he will know +how impossible it must ever be that you will give him the love he hoped to win. +Tell him that, be frank and truthful. Remember, it is for all your lives—all +his life and all yours. When he realises that your heart can never be his, do +you think he will not surfer more, will not his sufferings be longer drawn out +than if you told him so frankly now? If the break was to come now, to come and +be ended for ever—but to live together, to live a mock life, to live beneath +the same roof, to share one another’s lives, and yet know one another’s souls +to be miles and miles apart—oh, Joan, you would suffer, and he too, he perhaps +even more than you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you love him?” Joan said softly. “You love him, Ellice?” +</p> + +<p> +“With all my heart and soul. I would die for him. It—it sounds foolish, this +sort of thing is foolish, the kind of words a silly girl would say, yet it is +the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is,” Joan said. “But then, dear, if he loves me, he could not love +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he might,” Ellice said softly. +</p> + +<p> +She was thinking of the morning, of the look she had seen in his eyes, the +awakening look of a man who sees things he has been blind to. +</p> + +<p> +“I think he might,” her heart echoed. “I think he might, in time, in a little +time.” And did not know, could not guess, that even at this moment Johnny +Everard, sitting alone in his little study with untended papers strewn about +him, was thinking of her—thinking of the look he had seen in her eyes that very +day, out in the sunshine of the fields. +</p> + +<p> +“So you came to me to tell me. It was brave of you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had to come. I could not have come if you had been different from what you +are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, even though I am taking away the man you love from you, you do not hate +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hate you? Sometimes I think I wished I could—but I could not. If I had hated +you, if I had thought you cold and hard to all the world, I would not be here. +I have come to plead to you because you are generous and honest, true and good. +I could not have come otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“What must I do, little Ellice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him the truth, if there is—” +</p> + +<p> +“There is—yet that could never come to anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because—ah, you can’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, your heart is not your own; you could never give it to Johnny Everard.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I must tell him so, and then—” +</p> + +<p> +“And then you will ask him if he would be content to live all his life without +love, knowing that he will never, never win your heart, because it would be +impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have given him my promise, Ellice.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, I know; and you will not break it, because you could not break a +promise. But you will tell him this, and offer him his freedom; it will be for +him to decide.” +</p> + +<p> +Joan stood for many moments in silence, her hand still resting on the girl’s +shoulder. Then she drew Ellice to her; she thrust back the shining hair, and +kissed the girl’s forehead. “I think—yes, I think I shall do all this, Ellice,” +she said. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV<br/> +POISON</h2> + +<p> +“Johnny! Johnny! Have you gone to sleep, dear? There is someone here to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” Johnny started into wakefulness, he huddled his untidy papers together. +“I must have been dozing off. I was thinking. Con, is Gipsy back yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet, and I am getting a little anxious about her; it is almost dusk. But +there is someone here asking for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“A man, a—a—gentleman, I suppose. He looks as if he has been drinking, though.” +</p> + +<p> +“A nice sort of visitor for a Sunday evening. What is his name, Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Slotman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know it. I suppose I’d better see him. Wait, I’ll light the lamp. If +Ellice isn’t back soon I shall go and hunt for her. Do you know which direction +she went in?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I think—” Connie hesitated; she was never any good at concealment. “I think +she went towards Starden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then when we’ve got rid of this fellow I’ll get out the car and go and find +her. Show him in, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Philip Slotman, looking shaken, bearing on his face several patches of +court plaster, which were visible, and in his breast a black fury that was +invisible, came in. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Slotman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you are Mr. Everard?” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny nodded pleasantly. “If it is business, Sunday evening is hardly the +time—” +</p> + +<p> +“It is personal and private business, Mr. Everard.” +</p> + +<p> +The man, Johnny decided, was not, as Con had supposed, drunk, but he had +evidently been in the wars. It was surprising the number of places in which he +seemed to be wounded. He walked stiffly, he carried his right arm stiffly. His +face was decorated with plaster, and his obviously very good clothes were torn; +for what Hugh Alston had commenced so ably last night, Rundle had completed +this morning. +</p> + +<p> +“It is private and personal, my business with you. I understand you are engaged +to be married to a lady in whom I have felt some interest.” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny looked up and stiffened. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I allude to Miss Joan Meredyth, for some time engaged by me as a typist in my +city office.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Meredyth did not always hold the position in society that she does now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am aware of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“There may be a great deal that you are not aware of,” said Slotman; and +Slotman was quivering with rage at the indignities he had been subjected to. +</p> + +<p> +“You will forgive me,” said Johnny, “but I do not propose to discuss my future +wife with a stranger—with anyone at all, in fact, and certainly not with a +stranger.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will forgive me,” said Slotman, “but when you have heard what I have +to say, I very much doubt if you will regard Miss Joan Meredyth in the light of +your future wife.” +</p> + +<p> +Johnny moved towards the door and opened it. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it will be better if you go,” he said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you do, you will be sorry when it is too late. I come here as a friend—” +</p> + +<p> +“You will go!” +</p> + +<p> +“In June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, when Joan Meredyth was a girl at +school—” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you that I will not listen.” +</p> + +<p> +“She gave it out that she was leaving England for Australia. She never went in +reality, she— +</p> + +<p> +“Once more I order you to go before I—” +</p> + +<p> +“In reality she was living with Mr. Hugh Alston as his wife—” +</p> + +<p> +Philip Slotman laughed nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Liar!” +</p> + +<p> +“I had to tell you in spite of yourself, and it is true. It is true. Ask Lady +Linden of Cornbridge; she knows. She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth +and Alston were married, and they never were. I have searched the registers at +Marlbury and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you go? You seem to have been hurt. You have probably carried this lying +story elsewhere and have received what you merited. I hardly like to touch you +now, but unless you go—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going.” Slotman moved stiffly towards the door. “Ask Lady Linden of +Cornbridge. She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth is Hugh Alston’s wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“By heavens! If you don’t go—” +</p> + +<p> +Slotman glanced at him; he saw that he was over-stepping the danger-line. Yes, +he must go, and quickly, so he went. But he had planted the venom; he had left +it behind him. He had forced this man to hear, even though he would not listen. +</p> + +<p> +“First blow,” Slotman thought, “the first blow at her! And I ain’t done yet! +no, I ain’t done yet. I’ll make her writhe—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused. He had not carried out his intention in full, this man had not given +him time. Of course, if it was only Joan’s money that this fellow Everard was +after, the story would make little or no difference. The marriage would go on +all the same, if it was a matter of money, but— +</p> + +<p> +Philip Slotman retraced his painful steps. Once again he tapped on the door of +Buddesby. +</p> + +<p> +“There was something that I wished to say to Mr. Everard that I entirely +forgot—a small matter,” he said to the servant. “Don’t trouble, I know the +way.” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed past the girl into the house. Johnny, staring before him into +vacancy, trying to realise this incredible, impossible thing that the man had +told him, started. He looked up. In the doorway stood Mr. Slotman. +</p> + +<p> +“By Heaven!” said Johnny, and sprang up. “If you don’t go—” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait! You don’t think I should be such a fool as to come to you with a lying +story, a story that could not be substantiated? What I have told you is the +truth. You may not believe it, because you don’t want to. You are marrying a +young lady with ample possessions; that may weigh with you. Now, rightly or +wrongly, I hold that Miss Meredyth owes me a certain sum of money. I want that +money. It doesn’t matter to me whether I get it from her or from you. If you +like to pay her debt, I will guarantee silence. I shall carry this true story +no further if you will undertake to pay me immediately following your marriage +with her the sum of ten thousand—” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of his stiffness and his sores, Mr. Slotman turned; he fled, he ran +blindly down the hall, undid the hall door, and let himself out, and then +without a glance behind, he fled across the wide garden till he reached the +road, panting and shaking. And now for the first time he looked back, and as he +did so a blinding white glare seemed to strike his eyes; he staggered, and +tried to spring aside. Then something struck him, and the black world about him +seemed to vomit tongues of red and yellow flame. +</p> + +<p> +The occupants of the fast-travelling touring car felt the horrible jolt the car +gave. A woman shrieked. The chauffeur shouted an oath born of fear and horror +as he applied his brakes. He stood up, yet for a moment scarcely dared to look +back. The woman in the car was moaning with the shock of it; and when he looked +he saw something lying motionless, a dark patch against the dim light on the +road. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV<br/> +THE GUIDING HAND</h2> + +<p> +Tom Arundel opened his eyes to the sunshine. He had left behind him a world of +darkness and of pain, a curiously jumbled unreal world, in which it seemed to +him that he had played the part of a thing that was being dragged by unseen +hands in a direction that he knew he must not go, a direction against which he +fought with all his strength. And yet, in spite of all his efforts, he knew +himself to be slipping, slowly but surely slipping. +</p> + +<p> +Then out of the blackness and chaos grew something real and tangible, a pair of +small white hands, and on the finger of one of these hands was a ring that he +remembered well, for it was a ring that he himself had placed on that finger, +and the hands were held out to him, and he clutched at them. +</p> + +<p> +Yet still the fight was not over, still the unseen force dragged and tugged at +him, yet he knew that he was winning, because of the little white hands that +yet possessed such wonderful strength. +</p> + +<p> +And now he lay, wide-eyed in the sunshine, and the blackness and chaos were +gone, but he could still see the hands, for one of them was clasped in his own, +and lifting his eyes he saw the face that he knew must be there—a pale face, +thinner than when he had seen it last, a face that had lost some of its +childish prettiness. Yet the eyes had lost nothing, but had gained much. There +was tenderness and pity and joy too in them. +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie,” he said, and the weakness of his own voice surprised him, and he +lay wondering if it were he who had spoken. “Thank you,” he said. He was +thanking her for the help those little hands had given him, yet she was not to +know that. So for a long time he lay, his breath gentle and regular, the small +hand clasped in his own. And now he was away in dreams, not the black and +terrifying dreams of just now, but dreams of peace and of a happiness that +might never be. And in those dreams she whom he loved bent over him and kissed +him on the lips, and said something to him that set the thin blood leaping in +his veins. +</p> + +<p> +Tom Arundel opened his eyes again, and knew that it had been no dream. Her lips +were still on his; her face, rosy now, almost as of old, was touching his. +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie,” he whispered, “you told me—” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you what was not true, but I thought it was—oh, I believed it was, +dear. I believed it was the truth—but I knew afterwards it was not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I got hurt, didn’t I? I can’t remember—I remember but dimly—a horse, +Marjorie. You don’t think—you don’t think I did that on purpose after what you +said?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she said. “I know better. Perhaps I did think it, but oh, Tom, I was +not worth it! I was not worth it!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are worth all the world to me,” he said, “all the world and more.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Linden opened the door. She came in, treading softly; she came to the +bedside and looked at him and then at the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“You were talking. I heard your voice. Was he conscious?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” Lady Linden looked at the girl severely. “I suppose you will be +the next invalid—women of your type always overdo it. How many nights is it +since you had your clothes off?” +</p> + +<p> +“That does not matter now.” +</p> + +<p> +“By rights you should go to bed at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt, I shall not leave him.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Linden sniffed. “Very well; I can do nothing with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Defiant!” she thought to herself. “She is getting character, that girl, after +all, and about time. Well, it doesn’t matter, now that Tom will live.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Linden went downstairs. “Obstinate and defiant, new role—very well, I am +content. She is developing character, and that is a great thing.” +</p> + +<p> +He was going to live. It was more than hope now, it was certainty, after days, +even weeks of anxiety, of watching and waiting; and this bright morning Lady +Linden felt and looked ten years younger as she stepped out into the garden to +bully her hirelings. +</p> + +<p> +Jordan, her ladyship’s coachman, was sunning himself at the stable door. He +took his pipe out hurriedly and hid it behind his back. +</p> + +<p> +“Jordan,” said Lady Linden, “you are an old man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so wonderful old, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have lived all your life with horses.” +</p> + +<p> +“With ’osses mainly, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long would it take you, Jordan, to learn to drive a motor car?” +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” He gasped at her in sheer astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Jordan, we are both old, but we must move with the times. Horses are dangerous +brutes. I have taken a dislike to them. I shall never sit behind another unless +it is in a hearse—and then I shan’t sit. Jordan, you shall learn to drive a +car.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I?” thought Jordan as her ladyship turned away. “We’ll see about that.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Tom opened his eyes, and he saw that face above him, and even as he +looked the head was bent lower and lower till once again the red lips touched +his own. +</p> + +<p> +“Marjorie, is it only pity?” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +But she shook her head. “It is love, all my love—I know now. It is all ended. I +know the truth. Oh, Tom, it—it was you all the time, and after all it was only +you!” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI<br/> +“—SHE HAS GIVEN!”</h2> + +<p> +Never so slowly as to-day had John Everard driven the six and a half miles that +divided Buddesby and Little Langbourne from Starden. Never had his frank and +open and cheerful face been so clouded and overcast. Many worries, many doubts +and fears and uncertainties, were at work in John Everard’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +No doubts and uncertainties of anyone but of himself. It was himself—his own +feelings, his own belief in himself, his own belief in his love that he was +doubting. So he drove very slowly the six and a half miles to Starden, because +he had many questions to ask of himself, questions to which answers did not +come readily. +</p> + +<p> +“Gipsy is right, she always is,” he thought. “She is finer-minded, better, more +generous than I am. Her mind could not harbour one doubt of anyone she loved, +and I—” He frowned. +</p> + +<p> +Helen Everard, from an upper window, saw his arrival, and watching him as he +drove up the approach to the house, marked the frown on his brow, the lack of +his usual cheerfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“There is something wrong; there seems to be nothing, but something wrong all +the time,” she thought with a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“If, after all the trouble I have taken, my plans should come to nothing, I +shall be bitterly disappointed. I blame Connie. Con’s unworldliness is simply +silly. Oh, these people!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a long time since I saw you, Johnny—four or five days, isn’t it?” Joan +said. She held out her hand to him, and he took it. He seemed to hesitate, and +then drew a little closer and kissed her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +Something wrong. She too saw it, but it did not disturb her as it did Helen. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, four days—five—I forget,” he said, scarcely realising what an admission +was this from him, who awhile ago had counted every hour jealously that had +kept them apart. +</p> + +<p> +For a few minutes they talked of indifferent things, each knowing it for a +preliminary of something to follow. +</p> + +<p> +He had come to tell her something, Joan felt. +</p> + +<p> +“She has something to say to me,” Johnny knew. So for a few minutes they +fenced, and then it was he who broke away. +</p> + +<p> +He rose, and began to move about the room, as a man disturbed in his mind +usually does. She sat calm and expectant, watching him, a faint smile on her +lips, a kindness and a gentleness in her face that made it inexpressibly sweet. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Johnny, you have something to say to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something that I hate saying. Joan, last night a man—a man I have never seen +before—came to see me.” +</p> + +<p> +She stiffened. The faint smile was gone; her face had become as a mask, hard +and cold, icy. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“A man who had something to tell me—you will do me the justice to believe that +I did not wish to hear him, that I tried to silence him, but he would not be +silenced. He told me lies! foul lies about you! lies!” Johnny said +passionately, “things which I, knowing you, know to be untrue. Yet he told +them. I drove him out of the place. Then he came back. He had remembered what +his errand was—blackmail. He came to me for money. But—but he did not stay, and +then—” Johnny paused. He had reached the window, and stood staring out into the +garden, yet seeing nothing of its beauty. +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” he went on, “that I do not ask you nor expect you to deny—there is +no need. What he said I know to be untrue. The man was a villain, one of the +lowest, but he has been paid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Paid?” she said. She stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in money,” Johnny said shortly, “in another way.” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you struck him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I would have; but he saw the danger and fled from it—fled from the +punishment that I would have meted out to him to a harder that Fate had in +store for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just outside my gate he was knocked down by a car and very badly injured; it +is hardly probable that he will live. The people who knocked him down came +hammering on my door. We got him to the Cottage Hospital. In spite of +everything I felt sorry for the poor wretch—but that has nothing to do with it +now. I came to tell you what happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet do not ask me to explain?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not!” He swung round and faced her for a moment. “Do you think I +would put that indignity on you, Joan?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very generous, Johnny—why?” +</p> + +<p> +She waited, listening expectantly for his answer. It was some time in coming. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not generous. I simply know that for you to be other than honourable and +innocent, pure and good, would be an impossibility.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I know you.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled. The answer she had almost dreaded to hear had not come. Yet it +should have been so simple, so ample an answer to her question. Had he said, +“Because I love you,” it would have been enough; but he had said, “Because I +know you”; and so she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Johnny, I have something to say to you. Do you remember the day when you asked +me to be your wife? I was frank and open to you then, was I not?” +</p> + +<p> +“You always are.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you that if you wished it I would agree, but that I did not love you as +a woman should love the man to whom she gives her life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not forget that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps in your heart you harboured a hope that one day the love that I denied +you then might come?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were giving so much and asking for so little in return. That was not fair, +and it would not be fair for me to allow you to harbour a hope that can never +come true.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned slowly and looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“A woman cannot love—twice,” she said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +Johnny Everard flushed, then paled. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it is true.” She paused; the red dyed her cheeks. “What you were told +last night were lies—poor lies. You do not ask me to deny them, dear, and so I +won’t. Yet, behind those lies, there was a little truth. There is a man, and I +cared for him—care for him now and always shall care for him. He has been +nothing to me, and never will be; but because he lived, because he and I have +met, the hope that you had in your heart that day, can come to nothing. And +now—now I have something more to tell you. It is this. You, who can love so +finely, must ask for and have love in return. You think you love me, yet +because I do not respond you will tire in time of that love. You will realise +how bad a bargain you have made, and then you will regret it. Is there not +someone”—her voice had grown low and soft—“someone who can and does give you +all the love your heart craves for, someone who will be grateful to you for +your love, and who will repay a thousandfold? Would not that be better than a +long hopeless fight against lovelessness, even—even if you loved her a little +less than you believe you love—me? Remember that it would rest with you and not +with another, you who are generous, who could not refuse to give when so much +is given to you.” Joan’s voice faltered for a moment. “It would be your own +heart on which you would have to make the call, Johnny, not on the heart of +another. You would have more command over your own heart than you ever could +over the heart of another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, what do you mean? What does this mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am trying so hard to be plain,” she said almost pitifully. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this other you are talking about, this other—who loves me?” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you know of her, Joan, this other?” +</p> + +<p> +And still she was silent, for how could she betray Ellice’s secret? +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know? Can’t you guess?” +</p> + +<p> +His face flushed. A week ago he might have answered, “I cannot guess!” To-day +he knew the answer, yet how did Joan know? +</p> + +<p> +“I gave you my promise,” she said, “and I will abide by that promise. It is for +you to decide, and no one else. My life, your own and—and the life of another +is in your hands—three futures, Johnny, decide—” +</p> + +<p> +“You want to—to give me up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that generous?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it isn’t,” he admitted. He took a turn up and down the room. “And you say +this other—this girl—cares for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know she does?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Must I answer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” Joan repeated. “Yes, she did. She came to me, openly and frankly, +straightforward child that she is, and she said to me, ‘Why are you marrying +him, not loving him? If you loved him, and he loved you, I would not come to +you; but you do not love him, and it is not fair. You are taking all and giving +nothing!’ And, she was right!” +</p> + +<p> +“And she—she—” he said in a low voice, “would give—” +</p> + +<p> +“Has given.” +</p> + +<p> +A silence fell between them. Then he turned to her, and it seemed as if the +cloud had lifted from him. He held out his hands and smiled at her. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand. You and she are right. A starved love could not live for ever; +it must die. Better it should be strangled almost at birth, Joan. So—so this is +good-bye?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. “Friends, always, Johnny,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Friends always, then.” +</p> + +<p> +She came close to him. She lifted her hand suddenly, and thrust back the hair +from his forehead, she looked him in the eyes and, smiling, kissed him on the +brow. +</p> + +<p> +“Go and find your happiness—a far, far better than I could ever offer you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head, and her eyes, looking beyond him into the garden, were +dreamy and strangely soft. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me about that man, Johnny,” she said. “Will you take me back to Little +Langbourne with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“To see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he maligned, he lied—” +</p> + +<p> +“He is hurt, and why should I hate him? You did not believe. Will you take me +back with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I will.” +</p> + +<p> +Helen, watching from the upper window, saw them drive away together, never had +they seemed better friends. The cloud had passed completely away, and so too +had all Helen’s plans; yet she did not know it. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII<br/> +“AS WE FORGIVE—”</h2> + +<p> +Slotman opened dazed eyes and looked up into a face that might well have been +the face of an angel, so soft, so pitying, so tender was its expression. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan!” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +She nodded and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” he said—“but—” and hesitated. “Joan, I went to Buddesby to see—” +</p> + +<p> +“I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you come here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. Hush! you must not talk. You are going to get well and strong +again. The Matron says I am allowed to come sometimes and see you, and sit +beside you, but you must not talk yet. Later on we are going to talk about the +future.” +</p> + +<p> +He lay staring at her. He could not understand. How could such a mind as his +understand the workings of such a mind as hers? But she was here, she knew and +she forgave, and there was comfort in her presence. +</p> + +<p> +God knew he had suffered. God knew it. +</p> + +<p> +“When you are better, stronger, you and I are going to talk, not till then; but +I want to tell you this now. I want to help you, all the past is past. I knew +about that night, about your visit. It does not matter; it is all gone by. It +is only the future that matters, and in the future you may find that I will +give and help willingly what I would not have given under compulsion. Now, hush +for the Matron is coming.” She smiled down at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand,” Slotman said; “I’ll try and understand.” He turned his +face away, realising a sense of shame such as he had never felt before. +</p> + +<p> +He had been her enemy, and yet perhaps in his way, a bad and vile way, selfish +and dishonourable, he had loved her; but as she had said, all that was of the +past. Now she sat beside the man, broken in limb and in fortune, a wreck of +what he had been; and for him her only feeling was of pity, and already in her +mind she was forming plans for his future. For she had said truly she could +give of her own free will and in charity and sympathy that which could never be +forced from her. +</p> + +<p> +Connie looked at her brother curiously. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +“I saw you just now. You drove past the gate with Joan. You took her to +Langbourne, didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“To the hospital. She went to see that fellow, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“He told you something about Joan last night, Johnny?” +</p> + +<p> +“He lied about the truest, purest woman who walks this earth.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is incapable of evil,” Con said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Utterly. Con, I have something to tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is ended,” he said quietly—“our engagement. Joan and I ended it to-day—not +in anger, not in doubt, dear, but liking and admiring each other I think more +than ever before, and—and, Con—” He paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I am glad, glad,” she said, “glad! Have you told—her?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you wait here, John? I will send her to you.” +</p> + +<p> +John Everard’s face coloured. “I will wait here for her, for Gipsy,” he said. +“Send her here to me, and I will tell her, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +And a few moments later she came. She stood here in the doorway looking at him, +just as she had looked at him from that same place that night, that night when +a light had dawned upon his darkness. +</p> + +<p> +And now, because his eyes were widely opened at last, he could see the +tell-tale flush in her cheeks, the suspicious brightness in her eyes, and it +seemed to him that her love for him was as a magnet that drew his heart towards +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Con has told you?” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded silently. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly he stretched out his arms to her, a moment more and she was in +them, her face against his breast. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII<br/> +HER PRIDE’S LAST FIGHT</h2> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“... I came to Starden because I believed you might need me. You did, and the +help that you wanted I gave gladly and willingly. Now your enemy is removed; he +can do you no more harm. You will hear, or perhaps have heard why, and so I am +no longer necessary to you, Joan, and because I seem to be wanted in my own +place I am going back. Yet should you need me, you have but to call, and I will +come. You know that. You know that I who love you am ever at your service. From +now onward your own heart shall be your counsellor. You will act as it +dictates, if you are true to yourself. Yet, perhaps in the future as in the +past, your pride may prove the stronger. It is for you and only you to decide. +Good-bye,<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“HUGH.”</span> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +She had found this letter on her return from Little Langbourne. She had gone +hurrying, as a young girl in her eagerness might, down to Mrs. Bonner’s little +cottage, to learn that she was too late. He had gone. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bonner, with almost tears in her eyes, told her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss. He hev gone, and rare sorry I be, a better gentleman I never had in +these rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +Gone! With only this letter, no parting word, without seeking to see her, to +say good-bye. The chill of her cold pride fell on Joan. Send for him! Never! +never! He had gone when he might have stayed—when, had he been here now, she +would have told him that she was free. +</p> + +<p> +Very slowly she walked back to the house, to meet Helen’s questioning eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad, dear, that there seems to be a better understanding between you and +Johnny,” Helen said. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a perfect understanding between us. Johnny is not going to marry me. +He is choosing someone who will love him more and understand him better than I +could.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then—then, after all, it is over? You and he are to part?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have parted—as lovers, but not as friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“And after all I have done,” Helen said miserably. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh had gone home. He had had a letter from Lady Linden telling about the +accident to Tom Arundel, about his serious illness, and Marjorie’s devoted +nursing. And now he was shaping his course for Hurst Dormer. He had debated in +his mind whether he should wait and see her, and then had decided against it. +</p> + +<p> +“She knows that I love her, and she loves me. She is letting her pride stand +between us. Everard is too good and too fine a fellow to keep her bound by a +promise if he thought it would hurt her to keep it. Her future and Everard’s +and mine must lay in her own hands.” And so, doing violence to his feelings and +his desires, he had left Starden, and now was back in Hurst Dormer, wandering +about, looking at the progress the workmen had made during his absence. He had +come home, and though he loved the place, its loneliness weighed heavily on +him. The rooms seemed empty. He wanted someone to talk things over with, to +discuss this and that. He was not built to be self-centred. +</p> + +<p> +For two days and two nights he bore with Hurst Dormer and its shadows and its +solitude, and then he called out the car and motored over to Cornbridge. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s you,” said her ladyship. “I suppose you got my letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I had it sent on to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity you don’t stay at home now and again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I shall in future.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him. He was unlike himself, careworn and weary, and a little ill. +</p> + +<p> +“Tom is mending rapidly, a wonderful constitution; but it was touch and go. +Marjorie was simply wonderful, I’ll do her that credit. Between ourselves, +Hugh, I always regarded Marjorie as rather weak, namby-pamby, early +Victorian—you know what I mean; but she’s a woman, and it has touched her. She +wouldn’t leave him. Honestly, I believe she did more for him than all the +doctors.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure she did.” +</p> + +<p> +Marjorie was changed; her face was thinner, some of its colour gone. Yet the +little she had lost was more than atoned for in the much that she had gained. +She held his hand, she looked him frankly in the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“So it is all right, little girl, all right now?” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. “It is all right. I am happier than I deserve to be. Oh, Hugh, I +have been weak and foolish, wavering and uncertain. I can see it all now, but +now at last I know—I do know my own mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your own heart?” +</p> + +<p> +“And my own heart.” +</p> + +<p> +She wondered as she looked at him if ever he could have guessed what had been +in her mind that day when she had gone to Hurst Dormer to see him. How full of +love for him her heart had been then! And then she remembered what he had said, +those four words that had ended her dream for ever—“Better than my life.” So he +loved Joan, and now she knew that she too loved with her whole heart. +</p> + +<p> +Death had been very close, and perhaps it had been pity for that fine young +life that seemed to be so near its end that had awakened love. Yet, whatever +the cause, she knew now that her love for Tom had come to stay. +</p> + +<p> +“And Joan?” Marjorie asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan?” he said. “Joan, she is in her own home.” +</p> + +<p> +“And her heart is still hard against you, Hugh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Her pride is still between us, Marjorie,” he said, and quickly turned the +conversation, and a few minutes later was up in the bedroom talking cheerily +enough to Tom. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right, Alston, everything is all right. Lady Linden wanted to shoot +the horse; but I wouldn’t have it. I owe him too much—you understand, Alston, +don’t you? Everything is all right between Marjorie and me.” +</p> + +<p> +And then Hugh went back to Hurst Dormer—thank, Heaven there was some happiness +in this world! There was happiness at Cornbridge, and after Cornbridge Hurst +Dormer seemed darker and more solitary than ever. +</p> + +<p> +It was while she had been talking to Hugh that Marjorie had made up her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to tell Joan the whole truth, the whole truth,” she thought. And +Hugh was scarcely out of the house before Marjorie sat down to write her letter +to Joan. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“... I know that you have always blamed him for what was never his fault. He +did it because he is generous and unselfish. He loved me in those days. I know +that it could not have been the great abiding love; it was only liking that +turned to fondness. Yet he wanted to marry me, Joan, and when he knew that +there was someone else, and that he stood in the way of our happiness, the +whole plan was arranged, and we had to find a name, you understand. And he +asked me to suggest one, and I thought of yours, because it is the prettiest +name I know; and he, Hugh, never dreamed that it belonged to a living woman. +And so it was used, dear, and all this trouble and all this misunderstanding +came about. I always wanted to tell you the truth, but he wouldn’t let me, +because he was afraid that if Aunt got to hear of it, she might be angry and +send Tom away. But now I know she would not, and so I am telling you +everything. The fault was mine. And yet, you know, dear, I had no thought of +angering or of offending you. Write to me and tell me you forgive me. And oh, +Joan, don’t let pride come between you and the man you love, for I think he is +one of the finest men I know, the best and straightest.<br/> +<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“MARJORIE.”</span> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Marjorie felt that she had lifted a weight from her mind when she put this +letter in the post. +</p> + +<p> +Long, long ago Joan had acquitted Hugh of any intention to offend or annoy her +by the use of her name. Yet why had he never told her the truth, told her that +it had never been his doing at all? She read Marjorie’s letter, and then thrust +it away from her. Why had he not written this? Did he care less now than he +had? Had she tired him out with her coldness and her pride? Perhaps that was +it. +</p> + +<p> +Yesterday Ellice had come over on the old bicycle—Ellice with shining eyes and +pink cheeks, glowing with happiness and joy, and Ellice had hugged her tightly, +and tried to whisper thanks that would not come. +</p> + +<p> +She was happy now. Marjorie was happy. Only she seemed to be cut off from +happiness. Why had he gone without a word, just those few written lines? He had +not cared so much, after all. +</p> + +<p> +And so the days went by. Joan wrote a loving, sympathetic letter to Marjorie. +She quite understood, and she did not blame Hugh; she blamed no one. +</p> + +<p> +It was a long letter, dealing mainly with her life, with the village, with the +things she was doing and going to do. But of the future—nothing; of the past, +in so far as Hugh Alston was concerned—nothing. +</p> + +<p> +And when Marjorie read the letter she read of an unsatisfied, unhappy spirit, +of a girl whose whole heart yearned and longed for love, and whose pride held +her in check and condemned her to unhappiness. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely a day passed but Joan drove over to Little Langbourne. Philip Slotman +came to look for her, and counted it a long unhappy day if she failed him; but +it was not often. +</p> + +<p> +She had discovered that he was well-nigh penniless, and that it would be months +before he would be fit to work again. And so she had quietly supplied all his +needs. +</p> + +<p> +“When you are well and strong again, you shall go back. You shall have the +capital you want, and you will do well. I know that. I shall lend you the money +to start afresh, and you will pay me back when you can.” +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, I wonder if there are many women like you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Many better than I,” she said—“many happier.” +</p> + +<p> +At Buddesby she was welcomed by a radiant girl with happy eyes, a girl who +could not make enough of her, and there Joan saw a home life and happiness she +had never known—a happiness that set her hungry heart yearning and longing with +a longing that was intolerable and unbearable. +</p> + +<p> +“Send for me, and I will come,” he had written; and she had not sent. She would +not, pride forbade it, and yet—yet to be happy as Ellice was happy, to feel his +arms about her, to rest her head against his breast, to know that during all +the years to come he would be here by her side, that loneliness would never +touch her again. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t!” she said. “I won’t! If he needs me, it is he who must come to me. I +will not send for him.” +</p> + +<p> +It was her pride’s last fight, a fine fight it made. For days she struggled +against the yearning of her heart, against the wealth of love, pent-up and +stored within; valiantly and bravely pride fought. +</p> + +<p> +To-day she had been to the hospital. She had stopped, as she often did, at +Buddesby. There was talk of a marriage there. Many catalogues and price-lists +had come through the post, and Con and Ellice were busy with them. For they +were not very rich, and money must be made to go a long way; and into their +conclave they drew Joan, who for a time forgot everything in this new interest. +</p> + +<p> +They had all been very busy when the door had opened and Johnny Everard had +come in, and, looking up, Joan caught a look that passed between Johnny and +Ellice—just a look, yet it spoke volumes. It laid bare the secret of both +hearts. +</p> + +<p> +Later, when she said good-bye, he walked to the gate where her car was waiting. +They had said but little, for Johnny seemed shy and constrained in her +presence. +</p> + +<p> +“Joan, I have much to be very, very grateful to you for,” he said, as he held +her hand. “You were right. Life without love would be impossible, and you have +made life very possible for me.” +</p> + +<p> +She was thinking of this during the lonely drive back to Starden; always his +words came back to her. Life without love would be impossible, and then it was +that the battle ended, that pride retired vanquished from the field. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“I want you to come back to me because I am so lonely. Please come back and +forgive.<br/> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“JOAN.”</span> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +The message that, in the end, she must write was written and sent. +</p> + +<p> +And now that pride had broken down, was gone for ever, so far as this man was +concerned, it was a very loving anxious-eyed, trembling woman who watched for +the coming of the man that she loved and needed, the man who meant all the +happiness this world could give her. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +She had called to him, and this must be his answer. No slow-going trains, no +tedious broken journeys, no wasted hours of delay—the fastest car, driven at +reckless speed, yet with all due care that none should suffer because of his +eagerness and his happiness. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to him such a very pitiful, humble little appeal, an appeal that went +straight to his heart—so short an appeal that he could remember every word of +it, and found himself repeating it as his car swallowed the miles that lay +between them. +</p> + +<p> +He asked no questions of himself. She would not have sent for him had she not +been free to do so. He knew that. +</p> + +<p> +And now the landscape was growing familiar, a little while, and they were +running through Starden village. Villagers who had come to know him touched +their hats. They passed Mrs. Bonner’s little cottage, and now through the +gateway, the gates standing wide as in welcome and expectation of his coming. +</p> + +<p> +And she, watching for him, saw his coming, and her heart leaped with the joy of +it. Helen Everard saw, too, and guessed what it meant. +</p> + +<p> +“Go into the morning-room, Joan. I will send him to you there.” +</p> + +<p> +And so it was in the morning-room he found her. Flushed and bright-eyed, +trembling with happiness and the joy of seeing him, gone for ever the pride and +the scorn, she was only a girl who loved him dearly, who needed him much. She +had fought the giant pride, and had beaten it for ever for his sake, and now he +was here smiling at her, his arms stretched out to her. +</p> + +<p> +“You wanted me at last, Joan,” he said. “You called me, darling, and I have +come.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you. I always want you. Never, never leave me again, Hugh—never leave +me again. I love you so, and need you so.” +</p> + +<p> +And then his arms were about her and hers about his neck, and she who had been +so cold, so proud, so scornful, was remembering Johnny Everard’s words, “Life +without love would be impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +And now life was very, very possible to her. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE END +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e861c94 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #15103 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15103) diff --git a/old/15103.txt b/old/15103.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c891cde --- /dev/null +++ b/old/15103.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10195 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Imaginary Marriage, by Henry St. John Cooper + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Imaginary Marriage + +Author: Henry St. John Cooper + +Release Date: February 18, 2005 [EBook #15103] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE *** + + + + +Produced by Michael Ciesielski, Beginners Projects, Martin Barber +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE + +by Henry St. John Cooper + + + + +CHAPTER I + +A MASTERFUL WOMAN + + +"Don't talk to me, miss," said her ladyship. "I don't want to hear any +nonsense from you!" + +The pretty, frightened girl who shared the drawing-room at this moment +with Lady Linden of Cornbridge Manor House had not dared to open her +lips. But that was her ladyship's way, and "Don't talk to me!" was a +stock expression of hers. Few people were permitted to talk in her +ladyship's presence. In Cornbridge they spoke of her with bated breath +as a "rare masterful woman," and they had good cause. + +Masterful and domineering was Lady Linden of Cornbridge, yet she was +kind-hearted, though she tried to disguise the fact. + +In Cornbridge she reigned supreme, men and women trembled at her +approach. She penetrated the homes of the cottagers, she tasted of their +foods, she rated them on uncleanliness, drunkenness, and thriftlessness; +she lectured them on cooking. + +On many a Saturday night she raided, single-handed, the Plough Inn and +drove forth the sheepish revellers, personally conducting them to their +homes and wives. + +They respected her in Cornbridge as the reigning sovereign of her small +estate, and none did she rule more autocratically and completely than +her little nineteen-year-old niece Marjorie. + +A pretty, timid, little maid was Marjorie, with soft yellow hair, a +sweet oval face, with large pathetic blue eyes and a timid, uncertain +little rosebud of a mouth. + +"A rare sweet maid her be," they said of her in the village, "but +terribul tim'rous, and I lay her ladyship du give she a rare time of +it...." Which was true. + +"Don't talk to me, miss!" her ladyship said to the silent girl. "I know +what is best for you; and I know, too, what you don't think I know--ha, +ha!" Her ladyship laughed terribly. "I know that you have been meeting +that worthless young scamp, Tom Arundel!" + +"Oh, aunt, he is not worthless--" + +"Financially he isn't worth a sou--and that's what I mean, and don't +interrupt. I am your guardian, you are entirely in my charge, and until +you arrive at the age of twenty-five I can withhold your fortune from +you if you marry in opposition to me and my wishes. But you won't--you +won't do anything of the kind. You will marry the man I select for you, +the man I have already selected--what did you say, miss? + +"And now, not another word. Hugh Alston is the man I have selected for +you. He is in love with you, there isn't a finer lad living. He has +eight thousand a year, and Hurst Dormer is one of the best old +properties in Sussex. So that's quite enough, and I don't want to hear +any more nonsense about Tom Arundel. I say nothing against him +personally. Colonel Arundel is a gentleman, of course, otherwise I would +not permit you to know his son; but the Arundels haven't a pennypiece to +fly with and--and now--Now I see Hugh coming up the drive. Leave me. I +want to talk to him. Go into the garden, and wait by the lily-pond. In +all probability Hugh will have something to say to you before long." + +"Oh, aunt, I--" + +"Shut up!" said her ladyship briefly. + +Marjorie went out, with hanging head and bursting heart. She believed +herself the most unhappy girl in England. She loved; who could help +loving happy-go-lucky, handsome Tom Arundel, who well-nigh worshipped +the ground her little feet trod upon? It was the first love and the only +love of her life, and of nights she lay awake picturing his bright, +young boyish face, hearing again all the things he had said to her till +her heart was well-nigh bursting with love and longing for him. + +But she did not hate Hugh. Who could hate Hugh Alston, with his cheery +smile, his ringing voice, his big generous heart, and his fine +manliness? Not she! But from the depths of her heart she wished Hugh +Alston a great distance away from Cornbridge. + +"Hello, Hugh!" said her ladyship. He had come in, a man of +two-and-thirty, big and broad, with suntanned face and eyes as blue as +the tear-dimmed eyes of the girl who had gone miserably down to the +lily-pond. + +Fair haired was Hugh, ruddy of cheek, with no particular beauty to boast +of, save the wholesomeness and cleanliness of his young manhood. He +seemed to bring into the room a scent of the open country, of the good +brown earth and of the clean wind of heaven. + +"Hello, Hugh!" said Lady Linden. + +"Hello, my lady," said he, and kissed her. It had been his habit from +boyhood, also it had been his lifelong habit to love and respect the old +dame, and to feel not the slightest fear of her. In this he was +singular, and because he was the one person who did not fear her she +preferred him to anyone else. + +"Hugh," she said--she went straight to the point, she always did; as a +hunter goes at a hedge, so her ladyship without prevarication went at +the matter she had in hand--"I have been talking to Marjorie about Tom +Arundel--" + +His cheery face grew a little grave. + +"Yes?" + +"Well, it is absurd--you realise that?" + +"I suppose so, but--" He paused. + +"It is childish folly!" + +"Do you think so? Do you think that she--" Again he paused, with a +nervousness and diffidence usually foreign to him. + +"She's only a gel," said her ladyship. Her ladyship was Sussex born, +and talked Sussex when she became excited. "She's only a gel, and gels +have their fancies. I had my own--but bless you, they don't last. She +don't know her own mind." + +"He's a good fellow," said Hugh generously. + +"A nice lad, but he won't suit me for Marjorie's husband. Hugh, the +gel's in the garden, she is sitting by the lily-pond and believes her +heart is broken, but it isn't! Go and prove it isn't; go now!" + +He met her eyes and flushed red. "I'll go and have a talk to Marjorie," +he said. "You haven't been--too rough with her, have you?" + +"Rough! I know how to deal with gels. I told her that I had the command +of her money, her four hundred a year till she was twenty-five, and not +a bob of it should she touch if she married against my wish. Now go and +talk to her--and talk sense--" She paused. "You know what I +mean--sense!" + +A very pretty picture, the slender white-clad, drooping figure with its +crown of golden hair made, sitting on the bench beside the lily-pond. +Her hands were clasped, her eyes fixed on the stagnant green water over +which the dragon-flies skimmed. + +Coming across the soundless turf, he stood for a moment to look at her. + +Hurst Dormer was a fine old place, yet of late to him it had grown +singularly dull and cheerless. He had loved it all his life, but +latterly he had realised that there was something missing, something +without which the old house could not be home to him, and in his dreams +waking and sleeping he had seen this same little white-clad figure +seated at the foot of the great table in the dining-hall. + +He had seen her in his mind's eye doing those little housewifely duties +that the mistresses of Hurst Dormer had always loved to do, her slender +fingers busy with the rare and delicate old china, or the +lavender-scented linen, or else in the wonderful old garden, the +gracious little mistress of all and of his heart. + +And now she sat drooping like a wilted lily beside the green pond, +because of her love for another man, and his honest heart ached that it +should be so. + +"Marjorie!" he said. + +She lifted a tear-stained face and held out her hand' to him silently. + +He patted her hand gently, as one pats the hand of a child. "Is--is it +so bad, little girl? Do you care for him so much?" + +"Better than my life!" she said. "Oh, if you knew!" + +"I see," he said quietly. He sat staring at the green waters, stirred +now and again by the fin of a lazy carp. He realised that there would be +no sweet girlish, golden-haired little mistress for Hurst Dormer, and +the realisation hurt him badly. + +The girl seemed to have crept a little closer to him, as for comfort and +protection. + +"She has made up her mind, and nothing will change it. She wants you +to--to marry me. She's told me so a hundred times. She won't listen to +anything else; she says you--you care for me, Hugh." + +"Supposing I care so much, little girl, that I want your happiness above +everything in this world. Supposing--I clear out?" he said--"clear right +away, go to Africa, or somewhere or other?" + +"She would make me wait till you came back, and you'd have to come back, +Hugh, because there is always Hurst Dormer. There's no way out for me, +none. If only--only you were married; that is the only thing that would +have saved me!" + +"But I'm not!" + +She sighed. "If only you were, if only you could say to her, 'I can't +ask Marjorie to marry me, because I am already married!' It sounds +rubbish, doesn't it, Hugh; but if it were only true!" + +"Supposing--I did say it?" + +"Oh, Hugh, but--" She looked up at him quickly. "But it would be a +lie!" + +"I know, but lies aren't always the awful things they are supposed to +be--if one told a lie to help a friend, for instance, such a lie might +be forgiven, eh?" + +"But--" She was trembling; she looked eagerly into his eyes, into her +cheeks had come a flush, into her eyes the brightness of a new, though +as yet vague, hope. "It--it sounds so impossible!" + +"Nothing is actually impossible. Listen, little maid. She sent me here +to you to talk sense, as she put it. That meant she sent me here to ask +you to marry me, and I meant to do it. I think perhaps you know why"--he +lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it--"but I shan't now, I never +shall. Little girl, we're going to be what we've always been, the best +and truest of friends, and I've got to find a way to help you and Tom--" + +"Hugh, if you told her that you were married, and not free, she wouldn't +give another thought to opposing Tom and me--it is only because she +wants me to marry you that she opposes Tom! Oh, Hugh, if--if--if you +could, if it were possible!" She was trembling with excitement, and the +sweet colour was coming and going in her cheeks. + +"Supposing I did it?" he said, and spoke his thoughts aloud. "Of course +it would be a shock to her, perhaps she wouldn't believe!" + +"She would believe anything you said..." + +"It is rather a rotten thing to do," he thought, "yet...." He looked at +the bright, eager face, it would make her happy; he knew that what she +said was true--Lady Linden would not oppose Tom Arundel if marriage +between Marjorie and himself was out of the question. It would be making +the way clear for her: it would be giving her happiness, doing her the +greatest service that he could. Of his own sacrifice, his own +disappointment he thought not now; realisation of that would come later. + +At first it seemed to him a mad, a nonsensical scheme, yet it was one +that might so easily be carried out. If one doubt was left as to +whether he would do it, it was gone the next moment. + +"Hugh, would you do--would you do this for me?" + +"There is very little that I wouldn't do for you, little maid," he said, +"and if I can help you to your happiness I am going to do it." + +She crept closer to him; she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and +held his hand in hers. + +"Tell me just what you will say." + +"I haven't thought that out yet." + +"But you must." + +"I know. You see, if I say I am married, naturally she will ask me a few +questions." + +"When she gets--gets her breath!" Marjorie said with a laugh; it was the +first time she had laughed, and he liked to hear it. + +"The first will probably be, How long have I been married?" + +"Do you remember you used to come to Marlbury to see me when I was at +school at Miss Skinner's?" + +"Rather!" + +"That was three years ago. Supposing you married about then?" + +"Fine," Hugh said. "I married three years ago. What month?" + +"June," she said; "it's a lovely month!" + +"I was married in June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, my lady," said +Hugh. "Where at, though?" + +"Why, Marlbury, of course!" + +"Of course! Splendid place to get married in, delightful romantic old +town!" + +"It is a hateful place, but that doesn't matter," said Marjorie. She +seemed to snuggle up a little closer to him, her lips were rippling with +smiles, her bright eyes saw freedom and love, her heart was very warm +with gratitude to this man who was helping her. But she could not guess, +how could she, how in spite of the laughter on his lips there was a +great ache and a feeling of emptiness at his heart. + +"So now we have it all complete," he said. "I was married in June, +nineteen eighteen at Marlbury; my wife and I did not get on, we parted. +She had a temper, so had I, a most unhappy affair, and there you are!" +He laughed. + +"All save one thing," Marjorie said. + +"Goodness, what have I forgotten?" + +"Only the lady's name." + +"You are right. She must have a name of course, something nice and +romantic--Gladys something, eh?" + +Marjorie shook her head. + +"Clementine," suggested Hugh. "No, won't do, eh? Now you put your +thinking cap on and invent a name, something romantic and pretty. Let's +hear from you, Marjorie." + +"Do you like--Joan Meredyth?" she said. + +"Splendid! What a clever little brain!" He shut his eyes. "I married +Miss Joan Meredyth on the first of June, or was it the second, in the +year nineteen hundred and eighteen? We lived a cat-and-dog existence, +and parted with mutual recriminations, since when I have not seen her! +Marjorie, do you think she will swallow it?" + +"If you tell her; but, Hugh, will you--will you?" + +"Little girl, is it going to help you?" + +"You know it is!" she whispered. + +"Then I shall tell her!" + +Marjorie lifted a pair of soft arms and put them about his neck. + +"Hugh!" she said, "Hugh, if--if I had never known Tom, I--" + +"I know," he said. "I know. God bless you." He stooped and kissed her on +the cheek, and rose. + +It was a mad thing this that he was to do, yet he never considered its +madness, its folly. It would help her, and Hurst Dormer would never know +its golden-haired mistress, after all. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +IN WHICH HUGH BREAKS THE NEWS + + +Lady Linden had just come in from one of her usual and numerous +inspections, during which she had found it necessary to reprove one of +the under-gardeners. She had described him to himself, his character, +his appearance and his methods from her own point of view, and had left +the man stupefied and amazed at the extent of her vocabulary and her +facility of expression. He was still scratching his head, dazedly, when +she came into the drawing-room. + +"Hugh, you here? Where is Marjorie?" + +"Down by the pond, I think," he said, with an attempt at airiness. + +"In a moment you will make me angry. You know what I wish to know. Did +you propose to Marjorie, Hugh?" + +"Did I--" He seemed astonished. "Did I what?" + +"Propose to Marjorie! Good heavens, man, isn't that why I sent you +there?" + +"I certainly did not propose to her. How on earth could I?" + +"There is no reason on earth why you should not have proposed to her +that I can see." + +"But there is one that I can see." He paused. "A man can't invite a +young woman to marry him--when he is already married!" + +It was out! He scarcely dared to look at her. Lady Linden said nothing; +she sat down. + +"Hugh!" She had found breath and words at last. "Hugh Alston! Did I hear +you aright?" + +"I believe you did!" + +"You mean to tell me that you--you are a married man?" + +He nodded. He realised that he was not a good liar. + +"I would like some particulars," she said coldly. "Hugh Alston, I should +be very interested to know where she is!" + +"I don't know!" + +"You are mad. When were you married?" + +"June nineteen eighteen," he said glibly. + +"Where?" + +"At Marlbury!" + +"Good gracious! That is where Marjorie used to go to school!" + +"Yes, it was when I went down to see her there, and--" + +"You met this woman you married? And her name?" + +"Joan," he said--"Joan Meredyth!" + +"Joan--Meredyth!" said Lady Linden. She closed her eyes; she leaned back +in her chair. "That girl!" + +A chill feeling of alarm swept over him. She spoke, her ladyship spoke, +as though such a girl existed, as though she knew her personally. And +the name was a pure invention! Marjorie had invented it--at least, he +believed so. + +"You--you don't know her?" + +"Know her--of course I know her. Didn't Marjorie bring her here from +Miss Skinner's two holidays running? A very beautiful and brilliant +girl, the loveliest girl I think I ever saw! Really, Hugh Alston, though +I am surprised and pained at your silence and duplicity, I must absolve +you. I always regarded you as more or less a fool, but Joan Meredyth is +a girl any man might fall in love with!" + +Hugh sat gripping the arms of his chair. What had he done, or rather +what had Marjorie done? What desperate muddle had that little maid led +him into? He had counted on the name being a pure invention, and now-- + +"Where is she?" demanded Lady Linden. + +"I don't know--we--we parted!" + +"Why?" + +"We didn't get on, you see. She'd got a temper, and so--" + +"Of course she had a temper. She is a spirited gel, full of life and +fire and intelligence. I wouldn't give twopence for a woman without a +temper--certainly she had a temper! Bah, don't talk to me, sir--you sit +there and tell me you were content to let her go, let a beautiful +creature like that go merely because she had a temper?" + +"She--she went. I didn't let her go; she just went!" + +"Yes," Lady Linden said thoughtfully, "I suppose she did. It is just +what Joan would do! She saw that she was not appreciated; you wrangled, +or some folly, and she simply went. She would--so would I have gone! And +now, where is she?" + +"I tell you I don't know!" + +"You've never sought her?" + +"Never! I--I--now look here," he went on, "don't take it to heart too +much. She is quite all right--that is, I expect--" + +"You expect!" she said witheringly. "Here you sit; you have a beautiful +young wife, the most brilliant girl I ever met, and--and you let her go! +Don't talk to me!" + +"No, I won't; let's drop it! We will discuss it some other time--it is a +matter I prefer not to talk about! Naturally it is rather--painful to +me!" + +"So I should think!" + +"Yes, I much prefer not to talk about it. Let's discuss Marjorie!" + +"Confound Marjorie!" + +"Marjorie is the sweetest little soul in the world, and--" + +"It's a pity you didn't think of that three years ago!" + +"And Tom Arundel is a fine fellow; no one can say one word against him!" + +"I don't wish to discuss them! If Marjorie is obsessed with this folly +about young Arundel, it will be her misfortune. If she wants to marry +him she will probably regret it. I intended her to marry you; but since +it can't be, I don't feel any particular interest in the matter of +Marjorie's marriage at the moment! Now tell me about Joan at once!" + +"Believe me, I--I much prefer not to: it is a sore subject, a matter I +never speak about!" + +"Oh, go away then--and leave me to myself. Let me think it all out!" + +He went gladly enough; he made his way back to the lily-pond. + +"Marjorie," he said tragically, "what have you done?" + +"Oh, Hugh!" She was trembling at once. + +"No, no, dear, don't worry; it is nothing. She believes every word, and +I feel sure it will be all right for you and Tom, but, oh Marjorie--that +name, I thought you had invented it!" + +Marjorie flushed. "It was the name of a girl at Miss Skinner's: she was +a great, great friend of mine. She was two years older than I, and just +as sweet and beautiful as her name, and when you were casting about for +one I--I just thought of it, Hugh. It hasn't done any harm, has it?" + +"I hope not, only, don't you see, you've made me claim an existing young +lady as my wife, and if she turned up some time or other--" + +"But she won't! When she left school she went out to Australia to join +her uncle there, and she will in all probability never come back to +England." + +Hugh drew a sigh of relief. "That's all right then! It's all right, +little girl; it is all right. I believe things are going to be brighter +for you now." + +"Thanks to you, Hugh!" + +"You know there is nothing in this world--" He looked down at the lovely +face, alive with gratitude and happiness. His dreams were ended, the +"might-have-been" would never be, but he knew that there was peace in +that little breast at last. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +JOAN MEREDYTH, TYPIST + + +Mr. Philip Slotman touched the electric buzzer on his desk and then +watched the door. He was an unpleasant--looking man, strangely corpulent +as to body, considering his face was cast in lean and narrow mould, the +nose large, prominent and hooked, the lips full, fleshy, and of +cherry--like redness, the eyes small, mean, close together and deep set. +The over--corpulent body was attired lavishly. It was dressed in a fancy +waistcoat, a morning coat, elegantly striped trousers of lavender hue +and small pointed--toed, patent--leather boots, with bright tan uppers. +The rich aroma of an expensive cigar hung about the atmosphere of Mr. +Slotman's office. This and his clothes, and the large diamond ring that +twinkled on his finger, proclaimed him a person of opulence. + +The door opened and a girl came in; she carried a notebook and her head +very high. She trod like a young queen, and in spite of the poor black +serge dress she wore, there was much of regal dignity about her. Dark +brown hair that waved back from a broad and low forehead, a pair of +lustrous eyes filled now with contempt and aversion, eyes shielded by +lashes that, when she slept, lay like a silken fringe upon her cheeks. +Her nose was redeemed from the purely classical by the merest suggestion +of tip-tiltedness, that gave humour, expression and tenderness to the +whole face--tenderness and sweetness that with strength was further +betrayed by the finely cut, red-lipped mouth and the strong little chin, +carried so proudly on the white column of her neck. + +Her figure was that of a young goddess, and a goddess she looked as she +swept disdainfully into Mr. Philip Slotman's office, shorthand notebook +in her hand. + +"I want you to take a letter to Jarvis and Purcell, Miss Meredyth," he +said. "Please sit down. Er--hum--'Dear Sirs, With regard to your last +communication received on the fourteenth instant, I beg--'" + +Mr. Slotman moved, apparently negligently, from his leather-covered +armchair. He rose, he sauntered around the desk, then suddenly he flung +off all pretence at lethargy, and with a quick step put himself between +the girl and the door. + +"Now, my dear," he said, "you've got to listen to me!" + +"I am listening to you." She turned contemptuous grey eyes on him. + +"Hang the letter! I don't mean that. You've got to listen about other +things!" + +He stretched out his hand to touch her, and she drew back. She rose, and +her eyes flashed. + +"If you touch me, Mr. Slotman, I shall--" She paused; she looked about +her; she picked up a heavy ebony ruler from his desk. "I shall defend +myself!" + +"Don't be a fool," he said, yet took a step backwards, for there was +danger in her eyes. + +"Look here, you won't get another job in a hurry, and you know it. +Shorthand typists are not wanted these days, the schools are turning out +thousands of 'em, all more or less bad; but I--I ain't talking about +that, dear--" He took a step towards her, and then recoiled, seeing +her knuckles shine whitely as she gripped the ruler. "Come, be +sensible!" + +"Are you going to persist in this annoyance of me?" she demanded. "Can't +I make you understand that I am here to do my work and for no other +purpose?" + +"Supposing," he said, "supposing--I--I asked you to marry me?" + +He had never meant to say this, yet he had said it, for the fascination +of her was on him. + +"Supposing you did? Do you think I would consent to marry such a man as +you?" She held her head very proudly. + +"Do you mean that you would refuse?" + +"Of course!" + +He seemed staggered; he looked about him as one amazed. He had kept this +back as the last, the supreme temptation, the very last card in his +hand; and he had played it, and behold, it proved to be no trump. + +"I would neither marry you nor go out with you, nor do I wish to have +anything to say to you, except so far as business is concerned. As that +seems impossible, it will be better for me to give you a week's notice, +Mr. Slotman." + +"You'll be sorry for it," he said--"infernally sorry for it. It ain't +pleasant to starve, my girl!" + +"I had to do it, I had to, or I could not have respected myself any +longer," the girl thought, as she made her way home that evening to the +boarding-house, where for two pounds a week she was fed and lodged. But +to be workless! It had been the nightmare of her dreams, the haunting +fear of her waking hours. + +In her room at the back of the house, to which the jingle of the +boarding-house piano could yet penetrate, she sat for a time in deep +thought. The past had held a few friends, folk who had been kind to her. +Pride had held her back; she had never asked help of any of them. She +thought of the Australian uncle who had invited her to come out to him +when she should leave school, and then had for some reason changed his +mind and sent her a banknote for a hundred pounds instead. She had felt +glad and relieved at the time, but now she regretted his decision. Yet +there had been a few friends; she wrote down the names as they occurred +to her. + +There was old General Bartholomew, who had known her father. There was +Mrs. Ransome. No, she believed now that she had heard that Mrs. Ransome +was dead; perhaps the General too, yet she would risk it. There was +Lady Linden, Marjorie Linden's aunt. She knew but little of her, but +remembered her as at heart a kindly, though an autocratic dame. She +remembered, too, that one of Lady Linden's hobbies had been to establish +Working Guilds and Rural Industries, Village Crafts, and suchlike in her +village. In connection with some of these there might be work for her. + +She wrote to all that she could think of, a letter of which she made six +facsimile copies. It was not a begging appeal, but a dignified little +reminder of her existence. + +"If you could assist me to obtain any work by which I might live, you +would be putting me under a deep debt of gratitude," she wrote. + +Before she slept that night all six letters were in the post. She wished +them good luck one by one as she dropped them into the letter-box, the +six sprats that had been flung into the sea of fortune. Would one of +them catch for her a mackerel? She wondered. + +"You'd best take back that notice," Slotman said to her the next +morning. "You won't find it so precious easy to find a job, my girl; +and, after all, what have I done?" + +"Annoyed me, insulted me ever since I came here," she said quietly. "And +of course I shall not stay!" + +"Insulted you! Is it an insult to ask you to be my wife?" + +"It seems so to me," she said quietly. "If you had meant that--at +first--it would have been different; now it is only an insult!" + +Three days passed, and there came answers. She had been right, Mrs. +Ransome was dead, and there was no one who could do anything for Miss +Meredyth. + +General Bartholomew was at Harrogate, and her letter had been sent on to +him there, wrote a polite secretary. And then there came a letter that +warmed the girl's heart and brought back all her belief and faith in +human nature. + + "MY DEAREST CHILD, + + "Your letter came as a welcome surprise--to think that you are + looking for employment! Well, we must see to this--I promise you, + you will not have far to look. Come here to me at once, and be + sure that everything will be put right and all misunderstandings + wiped out. I am keeping your letter a secret from everyone, even + from Marjorie, that your coming shall be the more unexpected, and + the greater surprise and pleasure. But come without delay, and + believe me to be, + + "Your very affectionate friend, + "HARRIET LINDEN." + + "P.S.--I suggest that you wire me the day and the train, so that I + can meet you. Don't lose any time, and be sure that all past + unhappiness can be ended, and the future faced with the certainty + of brighter and happier days." + +Over this letter Joan Meredyth pondered a great deal. It was a +warm-hearted and affectionate response to her somewhat stilted little +appeal. Yet what did the old lady mean, to what did the veiled reference +apply? + +"So you mean going, then?" Slotman asked. + +"I told you I would go, and I shall. I leave to-morrow." + +"You'll be glad to come back," he said. He looked at her, and there was +eagerness in his eyes. "Joan, don't be a fool, stay. I could give you a +good time, and--" + +But she had turned her back on him. + +She had written to Lady Linden thanking her for her kindly letter. + + "I shall come to you on Saturday for the week-end, if I may. I + find there is a train at a quarter-past three. I shall come by + that to Cornbridge Station. + + "Believe me, + "Yours gratefully and affectionately, + "JOAN MEREDYTH." + +There was a subdued excitement about Lady Linden during the Thursday and +the Friday, and an irritating air of secretiveness. + +"Foolish, foolish young people! Both so good and so worthy in their +way--the girl beautiful and clever, the man as fine and honest and +upright a young fellow as ever trod this earth--donkeys! Perhaps they +can't be driven--very often donkeys can't; but they can be led!" + +To Hugh Alston, at Hurst Dormer, seven miles away, Lady Linden had +written. + + "MY DEAR HUGH, + + "I want you to come here Saturday; it is a matter of vital + importance." (She had a habit of underlining her words to give + them emphasis, and she underscored "vital" three times.) "I want + you to time your arrival for half-past five, a nice time for tea. + Don't be earlier, and don't be later. And, above all, don't fail + me, or I will never forgive you." + +"I expect," Hugh thought, "that she is going to make a public +announcement of the engagement between Marjorie and Tom Arundel." + +It was precisely at half-past five that Hugh stepped out of his +two-seater car and demanded admittance at the door of the Manor House. + +"Oh, Mr. Alston," the footman said, "my lady is expecting you. She told +me to show you straight into the drawing-room, and she and--" The man +paused. + +"Her ladyship will be with you in a few moments, sir." + +"There is festival in the air here, Perkins, and mystery and secrecy +too, eh?" + +"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," the man said. "This way, Mr. Alston." + +And now in the drawing-room Hugh was cooling his heels. + +Why this mystery? Where was Marjorie? Why didn't his aunt come? + +Then someone came, the door opened. Into the room stepped a tall girl--a +girl with the most beautiful face he thought he had ever seen in his +life. She looked at him calmly and casually, and seemed to hesitate; and +then behind her appeared Lady Linden, flushed, and evidently agitated. + +"There," she said, "there, my dears--I have brought you together again, +and now everything must be made quite all right! Joan, darling, here is +your husband! Go to him, forgive him if there is aught to forgive. Ask +forgiveness, child, in your turn, and then--then kiss and be friends, as +husband and wife should be." + +She beamed on them both, then swiftly retreated, and the door behind +Joan Meredyth quickly closed. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +FACE TO FACE + + +It was, Hugh Alston decided, the most beautiful face he had ever seen in +his life and the coldest, or so it seemed to him. She was looking at him +with cool questioning in her grey eyes, her lips drawn to a hard line. + +He saw her as she stood before him, and as he saw her now, so would he +carry the memory of the picture she made in his mind for many a day to +come--tall, perhaps a little taller than the average woman, tall by +comparison with Marjorie Linden, brown of hair and grey of eye, with a +disdainfully enquiring look about her. + +He was not a man who usually noticed a woman's clothes, yet the picture +impressed on his mind of this girl was a very complete one. She was +wearing a dress that instinct told him was of some cheap material. She +might have bought it ready-made, she might have made it herself, or some +unskilled dressmaker might have turned it out cheaply. Poverty was the +note it struck, her boots were small and neat, well-worn. Yes, poverty +was the keynote to it all. + +It was she, womanlike, who broke the silence. + +"Well? I am waiting for some explanation of all the extraordinary things +that have been said to me since I have been in this house. You, of +course, heard what Lady Linden said as she left us?" + +"I heard," he said. His cheeks turned red. Was ever a man in a worse +position? The questioning grey eyes stared at him so coldly that he lost +his head. He wanted to apologise, to explain, yet he knew that he could +not explain. It was Marjorie who had brought him into this, but he must +respect the girl's secret, on which so much depended for her. + +"Please answer me," Joan Meredyth said. "You heard Lady Linden advise +us, you and myself, to make up a quarrel that has never taken place; +you heard her--" She paused, a great flush suddenly stole over her face, +adding enormously to her attractiveness, but quickly as it came, it +went. + +What could he say? Vainly he racked his brains. He must say something, +or the girl would believe him to be fool as well as knave. Ideas, +excuses, lies entered his mind, he put them aside instantly, as being +unworthy of him and of her, yet he must tell her--something. + +"When--when I used your name, believe me, I had no idea that it was the +property of a living woman--" + +"When you used my name? I don't understand you!" + +"I claimed that I was married to a Miss Joan Meredyth--" + +"I still don't understand you. You say you claimed that you were +married--are you married to anyone?" + +"No!" + +"Then--then--" Again the glorious flush came into her cheeks, but was +gone again, leaving her whiter, colder than before, only her eyes seemed +to burn with the fire of anger and contempt. + +"I am beginning to understand, for some reason of your own, you used my +name, you informed Lady Linden that you--and I were--married?" + +"Yes," he said. + +"And it was, of course, a vile lie, an insolent lie!" Her voice +quivered. "It has subjected me to humiliation and annoyance. I do not +think that a girl has ever been placed in such a false position as I +have been through your--cowardly lie." + +He had probably never known actual fear in his life, nor a sense of +shame such as he knew now. He had nothing to say, he wanted to explain, +yet could not, for Marjorie's sake. If Lady Linden knew how she had been +deceived, she would naturally be furiously angry, and the brunt of her +anger would fall on Marjorie, and this must not be. + +So, silent, unable to speak a word in self-defence, he stood listening, +shame-faced, while the girl spoke. Every word she uttered was cutting +and cruel, yet she shewed no temper. He could have borne with that. + +"You probably knew of me, and knew that I was alone in the world with no +one to champion me. You knew that I was poor, Mr. Alston, and so a fit +butt for your cowardly jest. My poverty has brought me into contact with +strange people, cads; but the worst, the cruellest, the lowest of all is +yourself! I had hoped to have found rest and refuge here for a little +time, but you have driven me out. Oh, I did not believe that anything so +despicable, so unmanly as you could exist. I do not know why you have +done this, perhaps it is your idea of humour." + +"Believe me--" he stammered, yet could say no more; and then a sense of +anger, of outraged honesty, came to him. Of course he had been foolish, +yet he had been misled. To hear this girl speak, one would think that he +had deliberately set to work to annoy and insult her, she of whose +existence he had not even known. + +"My poverty," she said, and flung her head back as she spoke, "has made +me the butt, the object for the insolence and insult of men like +yourself, men who would not dare insult a girl who had friends to +protect her." + +"You are ungenerous!" he said hotly. + +She seemed to start a little. She looked at him, and her beautiful eyes +narrowed. Then, without another word, she turned towards the door. + +The scene was over, yet he felt no relief. + +"Miss Meredyth!" + +She did not hear, or affected not to. She turned the handle of the door, +but hesitated for a moment. She looked back at him, contempt in her +gaze. + +"You are ungenerous," he said again. He had not meant to say it; he had +to say something, and it seemed to him that her anger against him was +almost unreasonable. + +She made no answer; the door closed on her, and he was left to try and +collect his thoughts. + +And he had not even apologised, he reflected now. She had not given him +an opportunity to. + +Pacing the room, Hugh decided what he would do. He would give her time +to cool down, for her wrath to evaporate, then he would seek her out, +and tell her as much as he could--tell her that the secret was not +entirely his own. He would appeal to the generosity that he had told her +she did not possess. + +"Hugh!" + +"Eh?" He started. + +"What does this mean? You don't mean to tell me, Hugh, that all my +efforts have gone for nothing?" + +Lady Linden had sailed into the room; she was angry, she quivered with +rage. + +"I take an immense amount of trouble to bring two foolish young people +together again, and--and this is the result!" + +"What's the result?" + +"She has gone!" + +"Oh!" + +"Did you know she had gone?" + +"No, I knew nothing at all about her." + +"Well, she has. She left the house twenty minutes ago. I've sent +Chepstow after her in the car; he is to ask her to return." + +"I don't suppose she will," Hugh said, remembering the very firm look +about Miss Joan Meredyth's mouth. + +"And I planned the reconciliation, I made sure that once you came face +to face it would be all right. Hugh, there is more behind all this than +meets the eye!" + +"That's it," he said, "a great deal more! No third person can interfere +with any hope of success." + +"And you," she said, "can let a girl like that, your own wife, go out of +your life and make no effort to detain her!" + +He nodded. + +"For two pins," said Lady Linden, "I would box your ears, Hugh Alston." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +"PERHAPS I SHALL GO BACK" + + +Perhaps she was over-sensitive and a little unreasonable, but she would +not admit it. She had been insulted by a man who had used her name +lightly, who had proclaimed that he was her husband, a man who was a +complete stranger to her. She had heard of him before from Marjorie +Linden, when they were at school together. + +Marjorie had spoken of this man in effusive admiration. Joan's lips +curled with scorn. She did not question her own anger. She did not ask +herself, was it reasonable? Had not the man some right to defend +himself, to explain? If he had wanted to explain, he had had ample +opportunity, and he had not taken advantage of it. No, it was a joke--a +cruel, cowardly joke at her expense. + +Poor and alone in the world, with none to defend her, she had been +subjected to the odious attentions of Slotman. She was ready to regard +all men as creatures of the same type. She had allowed poverty to narrow +her views and warp her mind, and now-- + +"I beg your pardon, ma'am--" + +She was walking along the road to the station. She turned, a man had +pulled up in a small car; he touched his hat. + +"My lady sent me after you, Mrs. Alston." + +Joan gripped her hands tightly. She looked with blazing eyes at the +man--"Mrs. Alston..." Even the servant! + +"My lady begs that you will return with me. She would be very much +hurt, ma'am, if you left the house like this, her ladyship begs me to +say." + +"Who was your message for?" + +"For you, ma'am, of course," said the man. + +"Ma'am--Mrs. Alston!" So this joke had been passed on even to the +servants, and now she was asked to return. + +"Go back and tell Lady Linden that I do not understand her message in +the least. Kindly say that the person you overtook on the road was Miss +Joan Meredyth, who is taking the next train to London." She bent her +head, turned her back on him, and made her way on to the station. + +Half an hour later she was leaning back wearily on the dusty seat of a +third-class railway carriage, on her way back to the London she hated. +Now she was going back again, because she had nowhere else to go. As she +sat there with closed eyes, and the tears on her cheeks, she counted up +her resources. They were so small, so slender, yet she had been so +careful. And now this useless journey had eaten deeply into the little +store. + +She had no more than enough to keep her for another week, one more week, +and then.... She shivered at the thought of the destitution that was +before her. + +Dinner at the boarding-house was over when she returned, but its +unsavoury and peculiar smell still pervaded the place. + +"Why, Miss Meredyth, I thought you were away for the week-end, at +least," Mrs. Wenham said. "I suppose you won't want any dinner?" + +"No," Joan said. "I shall not want anything. I--I--" She paused. "I was +obliged to come back, after all. Perhaps you could let me have a cup of +tea in my room, Mrs. Wenham?" + +"Well, it's rather inconvenient with all the washing-up to do, and as +you know I make it a rule that boarders have to be in to their meals, or +go without--still--" + +"Please don't trouble!" Joan said stiffly. + +The woman looked up the stairs after the tall, slight figure. + +"Very well, then, I won't!" she muttered. "The airs some people give +themselves! Anyone would think she was a lady, instead of a clerk or +something." + +There was a letter addressed to Joan waiting for her in her room. She +opened it, and read it. + + "DEAR JOAN, + + "I suppose you are in a temper with me, and I don't think you have + acted quite fairly. A man can't do more than ask a girl to be his + wife. It is not usually considered an insult; however, I say + nothing, except just this: You won't find it easy to get other + work to do, and if you like to come back here on Monday morning, + the same as usual, I think you will be doing the sensible thing. + + "Yours, + "PHILIP SLOTMAN." + +She had never meant to go back. This morning she had thanked Heaven that +she had looked her last on Mr. Philip Slotman, and yet a few hours can +effect such changes. + +The door was open to her; she could go back, and pick up her life again +where she had dropped it before her journey to Cornbridge. After all, +Slotman was not the only cad in the world. She would find others, it +seemed to her, wherever she went. + +At any rate, Slotman had opened the door by which she might re-enter. As +he said, work would be very, very hard to get, and it was a bitter thing +to have to starve. + +"Perhaps," she said to herself wearily as she lay down on her bed, +"perhaps I shall go back. It does not seem to matter so very much after +all what I do--and I thought it did." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +"THE ONLY POSSIBLE THING" + + +For the first time since when, as a small, curly-headed boy, Hugh Alston +had looked up at her ladyship with unclouded fearless eyes, that had +appealed instantly to her, he and she were bad friends. Hugh had driven +back to Hurst Dormer after a brief battle with her ladyship. He had seen +Marjorie for a few moments, had soothed her, and told her not to worry, +that it was not her fault. He had kissed her in brotherly fashion, and +had wondered a little at himself for the slight feeling of impatience +against her that came to him. He had never been impatient of her before, +but her tears this afternoon unreasonably annoyed him. + +"She's a dear, sweet little soul, and over tender-hearted. Of course, +she got me into this mess, and of course, bless her heart, she is +worrying over it; but it can't be helped. As for that other girl!" His +lips tightened. It seemed to him that Miss Joan Meredyth had not shone +any more than he had. She had taken the whole thing in bad part. + +"No woman," said Hugh to himself, "has any sense of humour!" In which he +was wrong, besides which, it had nothing to do with the case. + +"I am disappointed in Hugh," Lady Linden said to her niece. "I don't +often admit myself wrong; in this matter I do. I regarded Hugh Alston as +a man utterly and completely open and above board. I find him nothing of +the kind. I am deeply disappointed. I am glad to feel that my plans with +regard to Hugh Alston and yourself will come to nothing." + +"But, aunt--" + +"Hold your tongue! and don't interrupt me when I am speaking. I have +been considering the matter of you and Tom Arundel. Of course, your +income is a small one, even if I released it, but--" + +"Aunt--we--we wouldn't mind, I could manage on so little. I should love +to manage for him." The girl clasped her hands, she looked with pleading +eyes at the old lady. + +"Well, well, we shall see!" her ladyship said indulgently. "I don't say +No, and I don't say Yes. You are both young yet. By the way, write a +letter to Tom and ask him to dine with us to-morrow." + +"Thank you, aunt!" Marjorie flushed to her eyes. "Oh, thank you so +much!" + +"My good girl, there's nothing to get excited about. I don't suppose +that he will eat more than about half a crown's worth." + +Meanwhile, Hugh Alston had retired to his house at Hurst Dormer in a +none too happy frame of mind. He had rowed with Lady Linden, had +practically told her to mind her own business, which was a thing +everyone had been wishing she would do for the past ten years, and no +one had ever dared tell her to. + +Altogether, he felt miserably unhappy, furious with himself and angry +with Miss Joan Meredyth. The one and only person he did not blame was +the one, only and entirely, to blame--Marjorie! + +This Sunday morning Hugh in his study heard the chug-chug of a small and +badly driven light car, and looked out of the window to see Marjorie +stepping out of the vehicle. + +"Hugh," she said a few moments later, "I am so--so worried about you. I +hate to think that all this trouble is through me. Aunt thinks I have +gone to church, but I haven't. I got out the car, and drove here myself. +Hugh, what can I do?" + +"There's one thing you can't do, child, and that is drive a car! There +are heaps of things you can do. One of them is to go back and be happy, +and not worry your little head over anything." + +"But I must, it is all because of me; and, Hugh, aunt has asked Tom to +dinner to-day." + +"I hope he has a good dinner," said Hugh. + +"Hugh!" She looked at him. "It is no good trying to make light of it. I +know you've been worried. I know you and--and Joan must have had a scene +yesterday, or she wouldn't have left the house without even seeing me." + +"We had--a few words; I noticed that she did seem a little angry," he +said. + +"Poor Joan! She was always so terribly proud; it was her poverty that +made her proud and sensitive, I think." + +He nodded. "I think so, too. Poverty inclines her to take an exaggerated +view of everything, Marjorie. She took it badly." + +The girl slipped her hand through his arm. "Is--is there anything I can +do? It is all my fault, Hugh. Shall I confess to aunt, and then go and +see Joan, and--" + +"Not on your life, you'll spoil everything. I am out of favour with the +old lady; she will take Tom into favour in my place. All will go well +with you and Tom, and after all that is what I worked for. With regard +to Miss Joan Meredyth--" He paused. + +"Yes, Hugh, what about Joan? Oh, Hugh, now you have seen her, don't you +think she is wonderful?" + +"I thought she had a very unpleasing temper," he said. + +"There isn't a sweeter girl in the world," Marjorie said. + +"I didn't notice any particular sweetness about her yesterday. She had +reason, of course, to feel annoyed, but I think she made the most of it, +however--" He paused. + +"Yes, Hugh, what shall you do? I know you have something in your mind." + + +"You are right; I have. I am going to do the only thing that seems to me +possible just now." + +"And that is?" + +"Seek out Miss Joan Meredyth, and ask her to become my wife in +reality." + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +MR. SLOTMAN ARRIVES AT A MISUNDERSTANDING + + +At half-past nine on the Monday morning Miss Joan Meredyth walked into +Mr. Slotman's office, and Mr. Slotman, seeing her, turned his head aside +to hide the smirk of satisfaction. + +"Women," he said to himself, "are all alike. They give themselves +confounded airs and graces, but when it comes to the point, they aren't +born fools. She knows jolly well she wouldn't get another job in a +hurry, and here she is." + +But Mr. Slotman made up his mind to go cautiously and carefully. He +would not let Miss Meredyth witness his sense of satisfaction. + +"I am glad you have returned, Miss Meredyth. I felt sure that you would; +there's no reason whatever we shouldn't get on perfectly well." + +The girl gave him a stiff little inclination of her head. She had done +much personal violence to her sense of pride, yet she had come back +because the alternative--worklessness, possible starvation and +homelessness--had not appealed to her. And, after all, knowing Mr. +Slotman to be what he was, she was forewarned and forearmed. + +So Joan came back and took up her old work, and Mr. Slotman practised +temporarily a courtesy and a forbearance that were foreign to him. But +Mr. Slotman had by no means given up his hopes and desires. Joan +appealed to him as no woman ever had. He admired her statuesque beauty. +He admired her air of breeding; he admired the very pride that she had +attempted to crush him with. + +A woman like that could go anywhere, Slotman thought, and pictured it to +himself, he following in her trail, and finding an entry into a society +that would have otherwise resolutely shut him out. For like most men of +his type, self made, egregious, and generally offensive, he had an +inborn desire to get into Society and mingle with his betters. + +On the Monday morning there had been delivered to Hugh Alston by hand a +little note from Marjorie; it was on pink paper, and was scented +delicately. If he had not been so very much in love with Marjorie, the +pink notepaper might have annoyed him, but it did not. The faint +fragrance reminded him of her. + +She wrote a neat and exquisite hand; everything that she did was neat +and exquisite, and remembering his hopes of not so long ago, he groaned +a little dismally to himself as he reverently cut the envelope. + + "MY DEAR HUGH, + + "I have managed to get the address from aunt. It is 'Miss Joan + Meredyth, care Mrs. Wenham, No. 7, Bemrose Square, London, W.C.' I + have been thinking so much about what you said, and hoping that + your plan may succeed. I am sure that you would be very, very + happy together...." + +(Hugh laughed unmusically.) + + "Tom has been here all the afternoon and evening, and aunt has + been perfectly charming to him. Hugh, I know that everything is + going to be right now, and I owe it all to you. You don't know how + grateful I am, dear. I shall never, never forget your goodness and + sweetness to me, dear old Hugh. + + "Your loving + "MARJORIE." + +With something approaching reverent care, Hugh put the little +pink-scented note into his pocket-book. + +To-night he would go to Town, to-morrow he would interview Miss Joan +Meredyth. He would offer her no explanations, because the secret was +not his own, and nothing must happen now that might upset or tell +against Marjorie's happiness. + +He would express regret for what had happened, ask her to try and +realise that no indignity and no insult had ever been intended against +her, and then he would offer her his hand, but certainly not his heart. +If she felt the sting of her poverty so, then perhaps the thought of his +eight thousand a year would act as balm to her wounded feelings. + +At this time Hugh Alston had a very poor opinion of Miss Meredyth. He +did not deny her loveliness. He could not; no man in his senses and +gifted with eyesight could. But the placid prettiness of Marjorie +appealed to him far more than the cold, disdainful beauty of the young +woman he had called ungenerous, and who had in her turn called him a +cad. + +It was Mrs. Wenham herself who opened the hall door of the house in +Bemrose Square to Mr. Hugh Alston at noon on the day following. + +Though certainly not dressed in the height of fashion, and by no means +an exquisite, Mr. Hugh Alston had that about him that suggested birth +and large possessions. Mrs. Wenham beamed on him, cheating herself for a +moment into the belief that he had come to add one more to the select +circle of persons she alluded to as her "paying guests." + +Her face fell a little when he asked for Miss Meredyth. + +"Oh, Miss Meredyth has gone to work," she said. + +"To work?" + +"Yes, she's a clerk or something in the City. The office is that of +Philip Slotman and Company, Number sixteen, Gracebury." + +"You think that I could see her there?" asked Hugh, who had little +knowledge of City offices and their routine and rules, so far as +hirelings are concerned. + +"I suppose you could; you are a friend of hers?" + +He nodded. + +"Well, I don't know that it is usual for visitors to call on lady +clerks. If I might make a suggestion I'd say send in your card to Mr. +Slotman, and ask his permission to see Miss Meredyth." + +"Thanks!" Hugh said. "If that's the right thing to do, I'll do it." + +Half an hour later Mr. Slotman was examining Hugh's card. + +"Who is he?" + +"A tall, well-dressed gentleman, sir; young. Looks as if he's up from +the country, but he's a gentleman all right," the clerk said. + +"Very good, I'll see him." + +Slotman rose as Hugh came in. He recognised the man of position and +possessions, a man of the class that Slotman always cultivated. + +"I wish to ask your permission to interview Miss Meredyth. I understand +that, in business hours, the permission of the employer should be asked +first." + +"Delighted!" Slotman said. "You are a friend of Miss Meredyth's?" He +looked keenly at Hugh, and the first spark of jealousy was ignited in +his system. + +"Hardly that, an acquaintance only," said Hugh. + +Slotman felt relieved. + +"Miss Meredyth is in the outer general office. You could hardly talk to +her there. If you will sit down, I will go out and send her to you, +Mr.--Alston." He glanced at the card. + +"Thanks, perhaps you would be so kind as not to mention my name to her," +said Hugh. + +"Something up!" Slotman thought. He was an eminently suspicious man; he +suspected everyone, and more particularly all those who were in his pay. +He suspected his clerks of wasting their time--his time, the time he +paid for. He suspected them of filching the petty cash, stealing the +postage stamps, cheating him and getting the better of him in some way, +and in order to keep a watch on them he had riddled his suite of offices +with peepholes, listening holes, and spyholes in every unlikely corner. + +A small waiting office divided his private apartment from the General +Office, and peepholes cunningly contrived permitted anyone to hear and +see all that passed in the General Office, and in his own office too. + +He found a young clerk in the waiting office, and sent him to Miss +Meredyth. + +"Ask Miss Meredyth to go to my office at once, not through this way, and +then you remain in the General Office till I send for you," said +Slotman. + +This gave him the advantage he wanted. He locked both doors leading into +the waiting office, and took up his position at the spyhole that gave +him command of his own office. + +He could see his visitor plainly. Hugh Alston was pacing the room +slowly, his hands behind his back, his face wearing a look of worry. +Slotman saw him pause and turn expectantly to the door at the far end of +the room. + +Slotman could not see this door, but he heard it open, and he knew by +the look on the man's face that Joan had come in. + +"Why are you here? How dare you follow me here?" + +"I have dared to follow you here, to express my deep regret for what is +past," Hugh said. He looked at the girl, her white face, the hard line +made by a mouth that should be sweet and gentle. + +It seemed, he thought, that the very sight of him roused all that was +cold and bitter in her nature. + +"Am I to be tormented and insulted by you all my life?" she asked. + +"You are unreasonable! You cannot think that this visit is one that +gives me any pleasure," Hugh said. + +"Then why do you come?" + +"I asked permission of your employer to see you, and he kindly placed +his office at our disposal. I shall not keep you long." + +"I do not intend that you shall, and in future--" + +"Will you hear what I have to say? Surely I am not asking too much?" + +"Is it necessary?" + +"To me, very! I wish to make a few things plain to you. In the past--I +had no intention of hurting or of disgracing you--" + +Slotman started, and clenched his hands. What did that man mean? He +wondered, what could such words as those mean? + +"But as I have shamed and angered you, I have come to offer the only +reparation in my power--a poor one, I will admit." + +He looked at her, paused for a moment to give her an opportunity of +speaking, but she did not speak. She looked at him steadily. + +"May I briefly explain my position? I am practically alone in the world. +My home is at Hurst Dormer, one of the finest old buildings in Sussex. I +have an income of eight thousand a year." + +"What has this to do with me?" + +"Only that I am offering it to you, myself and all I possess. I am +asking you to do me the honour of marrying me. It seems to me that it is +the one and the only atonement that I can make for what has passed." + +"You are--very generous! And--and you think that I would accept?" + +"I hoped that you might consider the offer." + +Slotman gripped at the edge of the table against which he leaned. + +He could scarcely believe his own ears--Joan, who had held her head so +high, whom he had believed to be above the breath of suspicion! + +If it were possible for such a man as Mr. Philip Slotman to be shocked, +then Slotman was deeply shocked at this moment. He had come to regard +Joan as something infinitely superior to himself. Self-indulgent, a +libertine, he had pursued her with his attentions, pestered her with his +admiration and his offensive compliments. Then it had slowly dawned on +the brain of Mr. Philip Slotman that this girl was something better, +higher, purer than most women he had known. He had come to realise it +little by little. His feelings towards her had undergone a change. The +idea of marriage had come to him, a thing he had never considered +seriously before. Little by little it grew on him that he would prefer +to have Joan Meredyth for a wife rather than in any other capacity. He +could have been so proud of her beauty, her birth and her breeding. + +And now everything had undergone a change. The bottom had fallen out of +his little world of romance. He stood there, gasping and clutching at +the edge of the table, while he listened to the man in the adjoining +room offering marriage to Joan Meredyth "as the only possible atonement" +he could make her! + +Naturally, Mr. Philip Slotman could not understand in the least why or +wherefore; it was beyond his comprehension. + +And now he stood listening eagerly, holding his breath waiting for her +answer. + +Would she take him, this evidently rich man? If so, then good-bye to all +his hopes, all his chances. + +Within the room the two faced one another in momentary silence. A flush +had come into the girl's cheeks, making her adorable. For an instant the +coldness and hardness and bitterness were all gone, and Hugh Alston had +a momentary glimpse of the real woman, the woman who was neither hard, +nor cold, but was womanly and sweet and tender. + +And then she was her old self again, the bitterness and the anger had +come back. + +"I thank you for making everything so clear to me, your wealth and +position and your desire to make--to make amends for the insult and the +shame you have put on me. I need hardly say of course that I refuse!" + +"Why?" + +"Did you ever expect me to accept? I think you did not!" + +She gave him a slight inclination of the head and, turning, went out of +the room, and Hugh Alston stood staring at the door that had closed on +her. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE DREAM GIRL + + +"She is utterly without generosity; she is cold and hard and bitter, and +she has made a mountain out of a molehill, built up a great grievance on +what was, after all, only a foolish and ill-considered statement. She is +pleased to feel herself deeply insulted, and she hates me for what I did +in perfect innocence. I have done all that I can do. I have offered to +make amends in the only way I can think of, and she refuses to accept +either that or my apologies. Very well, then... But what a lovely face +it is, and for just that moment, when the hardness and bitterness were +gone..." He paused; his own face softened. One could not be angry for +long with a vision like that, which was passing before his mind, +conjured up by memory. + +Just for that instant, when the flush had come into her cheeks, she had +looked all those things that she was not--sweet, womanly, tender, and +gentle, a woman with an immense capacity for love. + +"Bah!" said Hugh. "I'm an idiot. I shall go to a theatre to-night, +forget all about her, and go home to-morrow--home." He sighed a little +drearily. For months past he had pictured pretty Marjorie Linden as +queen of that home, and now he knew that it would never be. His house +would remain lonely and empty, as must his life be. + +He sighed sentimentally, and took out Marjorie's little pink note from +his pocket-book. He noticed for the first time that it was somewhat +over-scented. He realised that he did not like the smell of scent, +especially on notepaper, and pink was not his favourite colour. In fact, +he disliked pink. Marjorie was happy, Lady Linden was beaming on Tom +Arundel, the cloud had lifted from Marjorie's life. Hugh tore up the +pink, smelly little missive, and dropped the fragments into the grate of +the hotel bedroom. + +"That's that!" he said. "And it's ended and done with!" + +He was amazed to find himself not broken-hearted and utterly cast down. +He lighted his pipe and puffed hard, to destroy the lingering smell of +the pink notepaper. Then he laughed gently. + +"By every right I should now be on my way to the bar to drown dull care +in drink. She's a dear little soul, the sweetest and dearest and best in +the world. I hope Tom Arundel will appreciate her and make the little +thing happy. I would have done my best, but somehow I feel that Tom is +the better man, so far as Marjorie is concerned." + +Grey eyes, not disdainful and cold and scornful, but soft, and filled +with kindliness and gentleness, banished all memory of Marjorie's pretty +pathetic blue eyes. Why, Hugh thought, had that girl looked at him like +that for just one moment? Why had she appeared for that instant so +different? It was as if a cold and bitter mask had fallen from her face, +and he had had a peep at the true--the real woman, the woman all love +and tenderness and gentleness, behind it. + +"Anyhow, it doesn't matter," said Hugh. "I've done what I believed to be +the right thing. She turned me down; the affair is now closed, and we'll +think of something else." + +But it was not easy. At his dinner, which he took in solitary state, he +had a companion, a girl with grey eyes and flushed cheeks who sat +opposite to him at the table. She said nothing, but she looked at him, +and the beauty of her intoxicated him, and the smile of her found an +answer on his own lips. She ate nothing, nor did the waiter see her; so +far as the waiter was concerned, there was an empty chair, but Hugh +Alston saw her. + +"Why," he asked, "why can you look like that, and yet be so different? +That look in your eyes makes you the most beautiful and wonderful thing +in this world, and yet..." + +He laughed softly to himself. He was uttering his thoughts aloud, and +the unromantic waiter stared at him. + +"Beg your pardon, sir?" he asked. + +"That's all right!" Hugh said. "What won the three-thirty?" + +"I don't think there was any racing to-day, sir," the man said. + +He went away, not completely satisfied as to this visitor's sanity, and +Hugh drifted back into dreams and memories. + +"You are very wonderful," he said to himself, "yet you made me very +angry; you hurt me and made me furious. I called you ungenerous, and I +meant it, and so you were. Yet when you look at me with your eyes like +that and the colour in your cheeks, I can't find one word to say against +you." + +He went to the theatre that night. It was a successful play. All London +was talking of it, but Hugh Alston never remembered what it was about. +He was thinking of a girl with cold disdainful looks that changed +suddenly to softness and tenderness. She sat beside him as she had sat +opposite to him at dinner. On the stage the actors talked meaningless +stuff; nothing was real, save this girl beside him. + +"What's the matter with you, my good fellow, is," Hugh said to himself, +as he walked back to the hotel that night, "you're a fickle man; you +don't know your own mind. A week ago you were dreaming of Marjorie; you +considered blue eyes the most beautiful thing in the world. You would +not have listened to the claims of eyes of any other colour, and +now--Bless her dear little heart, she'll be happy as the day is long +with Tom Arundel, with his nice fair hair parted down the middle, and +her pretty scented notepaper. Of course she'll be happy. She would have +been miserable at Hurst Dormer, and so should I have been; seeing her +miserable, I should have been miserable myself. But I shall go back to +Hurst Dormer to-morrow and start on that renovation work. It will give +me something to occupy my time and attention." + +That night, much to his surprise, Hugh found he could not sleep. + +"It's the strange bed," he said. "It's the noise of the London streets." +Sleeplessness had never troubled him before, but to-night he rolled and +tossed from side to side, and then at last he sat bolt upright in the +bed. + +"Good Lord!" he said. "Good Lord, it can't be!" He stared into the thick +darkness and saw an oval face, crowned by waving brown hair, that +glinted gold in the highlights. He saw a sweet, womanly, tender, smiling +mouth and a pair of grey eyes that seemed to burn into his own. + +"It can't be!" he said again. And yet it was! + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE PEACEMAKER + + +"Bless my soul!" said General Bartholomew. He had turned to the last +page and looked at the signature. "Alicia Linden! I haven't heard a word +of her for five and twenty years. A confoundedly handsome girl she was +too. Hudson, where's my glasses?" + +"Here, General," said the young secretary. + +The General put them on. + +"My dear George," he read. + +It was a long letter, four pages closely written in Lady Linden's +strong, almost masculine hand. + +"...I remember that when she visited me years ago, she told that me you +were an old friend of her father's. This being so, I think you should +combine with me in trying to bring these two wrong-headed young people +together. I have quarrelled with Hugh Alston, so I can do nothing at the +moment; but you, being on the spot so to speak, in London, and Hugh I +understand also being in London..." + +"What the dickens is the woman drivelling about?" the General demanded. +"Hudson!" + +"Yes, sir!" + +"Read this letter carefully, digest it, and then briefly explain to me +what the dickens it is all about." + +The secretary took the letter and read it carefully. + +"This letter is from Lady Linden, of Cornbridge Manor House, Cornbridge. +She is deeply interested in a young lady, Miss Joan Meredyth. At +least--" Hudson paused. + +"Joan, pretty little Joan Meredyth--old Tom Meredyth's girl. Yes, go +on!" + +"Three years ago," Hudson went on, "Miss Meredyth was married in secret +to a Mr. Hugh Alston--" + +"Hugh Alston, of course--bless me, I know of Hugh Alston! Isn't he the +son of old George Alston, of Hurst Dormer?" + +"Yes, that would be the man, sir. Her ladyship speaks of Mr. Alston's +house, Hurst Dormer." + +"That's the man then, that's the man!" said the General, delighted by +his own shrewdness. "So little Joan married him. Well, what about it?" + +"They parted, sir, almost at once, having quarrelled bitterly. Lady +Linden does not say what about, and they have never been together since. +A little while ago she received a letter from Miss Meredyth, as she +still continues to call herself, asking her assistance in finding work +for her to do. And that reminds me, General, that a similar letter was +addressed to you by Miss Meredyth, which I sent on to you at Harrogate." + +"Must have got there after I left. I never had it--go on!" + +"Lady Linden urges you to do something for the young lady, and do all in +your power to bring her and Mr. Alston together. She says if you could +effect a surprise meeting between them, good may come of it. She is +under the impression that they will not meet intentionally. Miss +Meredyth's address is, 7 Bemrose Square, and Mr. Alston is staying at +The Northborough Hotel, St. James. Of course, there is a good deal +besides in the letter, General--" + +"Of course!" the General said. "There always is. Well, Hudson, we must +do something. I knew the girl's father, and the boy's too. Tom Meredyth +was a fine fellow, reckless and a spendthrift, by George! but as +straight a man and as true a gentleman as ever walked. And old George +Alston was one of my best friends, Hudson. We must do something for +these two young idiots." + +"Very good, sir!" said Hudson. "How shall we proceed?" + +The General did not answer; he sat deep in thought. + +"Hudson, I am getting to be a forgetful old fool," he said. "I'm getting +old, that's what it is. Before I went to Harrogate I was with Rankin, my +solicitor. He was talking to me about the Meredyths. I forget exactly +what it was, but there's some money coming to the girl from Bob +Meredyth, who went out to Australia. No, I forget, but some money I +know, and now the girl apparently wants it, if she is asking for +influence to get work. Go and ring Rankin up on the telephone. Don't +tell him we know where Joan Meredyth is, but give him my compliments, +and ask him to repeat what he told me the other day." + +Hudson went out. He was gone ten minutes, while the General dozed in a +chair. He was thinking of the past, of those good old days when he and +Tom Meredyth, the girl's father, and George Alston, the lad's father, +were all young fellows together. Ah, good old days, fine old days! When +the young blood coursed strong and hot in the veins, when there was no +need of Harrogate waters, when the limbs were supple and strong, and the +eyes bright and clear. "And they are gone," the old man muttered--"both +of them, and a lot of other good fellows besides; and I am an old, old +man, begad, an old fellow sitting here waiting for my call to come +and--" He paused, and looked up. + +"Well, Hudson?" + +"I have been speaking to Mr. Rankin, sir. He wished me to tell you--" +Hudson paused; his face was a little flushed, as with some inward +excitement. + +"Go on!" + +"Before his death, which occurred six months ago, Mr. Robert Meredyth, +who had made a great deal of money in Australia, re-purchased the old +Meredyth family estate at Starden in Kent, Starden Hall, meaning to +return to England, and take up his residence there. Unfortunately, he +died on board ship. His wife was dead, his only son was killed in the +war, and he had left the whole of his fortune, about three hundred +thousand pounds, and the Starden Hall Estate, to his niece, Miss Joan +Meredyth." + +"By George! so the girl's an heiress!" + +"And a very considerable one!" + +"We won't say a word about it--not a word, Hudson. We'll get the girl +here, and patch up this quarrel between her and her young husband. When +that's done we'll spring the news on 'em, eh?" + +"I think it would be a good idea, General," Hudson said. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +"IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING" + + +Slotman leaned across his table. His eyes were glaring his face was +flushed a dusky red. + +Against the wall, her face white as death, but her eyes unafraid, the +girl stood staring at him, in silent amazement. + +"And you--you've given yourself airs, set yourself up to be all that you +are not! You've held me at arm's length, and all the time--all the time +you're nothing--nothing!" the man shouted. "I know all about you! I know +that a man offered you marriage to atone for the past--to atone--you +hear me? I tell you I know about you, and yet you dare--dare to give +yourself airs--dare to pretend to be a monument of innocence--you!" + +"You are mad!" the girl said quietly. + +"Yes, that's it--mad--mad for you! Mad with love for you!" Slotman +laughed sharply. "I'm a fool--a blind, mad fool; but you've got me as no +other woman ever did. I tell you I know about you and the past, but it +shall make no difference. I repeat my offer now--I'll marry you, in +spite of everything!" + +It seemed to Joan that a kind of madness came to her, born of her fear +and her horror of this man. + +She forced her way past him, and gained the door, how she scarcely +remembered. She could only recall a great and burning sense of rage and +shame. She remembered seeing, as in some distant vision, a man with +scared eyes and sagging jaw--a man who, an utter coward by nature, had +given way at her approach, whose passion had melted into fear--fear +followed later by senseless rage against himself and against her. + +So she had made her retreat from the office of Mr. Philip Slotman, and +had shaken the dust of the place off her feet. + +It was all very well to bear up and show a brave and determined face to +the enemy, to give no sign of weakness when the danger threatened. But +now, alone in her own room in the lodging-house, she broke down, as any +sensitive, highly strung woman might. + +Joan looked at her face in the glass. She looked at it critically. Was +it the face, she asked herself, of a girl who invited insult? For insult +on insult had been heaped on her. She had been made the butt of one +man's senseless joke or lie, whatever it might be; the butt of another +man's infamous passion. + +"Oh!" she said, "Oh!" She clasped her cheeks between her hands, and +stared at her reflection with wide grey eyes. "I hate myself! I hate +this face of mine that invites such--such--" She shuddered, and moaned +softly to herself. + +Beauty, why should women want it, unless they are rich and well placed, +carefully protected? Beauty to a poor girl is added danger. She would be +a thousand, a million times better and happier without it. + +She grew calmer presently. She must think. To-morrow the money for her +board here would be due, and she had not enough to pay. She would not +ask Slotman for the wages for this week, never would she ask anything of +that man, never see him again. + +Then what lay before her? She sat down and put her elbows on the +dressing table with its dingy cheap lace cover, and in doing so her eyes +fell on a letter, a letter that had been placed here for her. + +It was from General Bartholomew, an answer to the appeal she had written +him at the same time that she had written to Lady Linden. It came now, +kindly, friendly and even affectionate, at the very eleventh hour. + + "I was away, my dear child, when your letter came. It was + forwarded to Harrogate to me. Now I am back in London again. Your + father was my very dear friend; his daughter has a strong claim on + me, so pack your things, my dear, and come to me at once. I am an + old fellow, old enough to have been your father's father, and the + little note that I enclose must be accepted, as it is offered, in + the same spirit of affection. It will perhaps settle your + immediate necessities. To-morrow morning I shall send for you, so + have all your things ready, and believe me. + + "Yours affectionately, + "GEORGE BARTHOLOMEW." + +She cried over the letter, the proud head drooped over it; bright tears +streamed from the grey eyes. + +Could Hugh Alston have seen her now, her face softened by the gladness +and the gratitude that had come to her, he would have seen in her the +woman of his dreams. + +The banknote would clear everything. She did not scruple to accept it in +the spirit of affection in which it was offered. It would have been +churlish and false pride to refuse. + +He had said that he would send for her when the morning came; he had +taken it for granted that she would go, and there was no need to answer +the letter. And when the morning came she was ready and waiting, her +things packed, her last bill to Mrs. Wenham paid. + +The maid came tapping on the door. + +"Someone waiting for you, miss, in the drawing-room." + +Joan went down. It would be the old fellow, the warm-hearted old man +himself come to fetch her! She entered the big ugly room, with its dingy +wall-paper and threadbare carpet, its oleographs in tarnished frames, +its ancient centre ottoman, its elderly piano and unsafe, uncertain +chairs. How she hated this room, where of evenings the 'paying guests' +distorted themselves. + +But she came into it now eagerly, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, +and hand held out, only to draw back with sudden chill. + +It was Mr. Philip Slotman who rose from the ottoman. + +"Joan, I've come to tell you I am sorry, sorry and ashamed," he said. "I +was mad. I want you to forgive me." + +"There need be no talk of forgiveness," she said. "You are the type of +man one can perhaps forget--never forgive!" + +He winced a little, and his face changed to a dusky red. + +"I said more than I meant to say. But what I said, after all, was right +enough. I know more about you than I think you guess. I know about that +fellow, that--what's his name?--Alston--who came. I know why he came." + +"You are a friend of his, perhaps? I am not surprised." + +"I never saw him before in my life, but I know all about him--and +you--all the same. He was willing to act fairly to you after all, and--" + +"What is this to do with you?" she asked. + +"A lot!" he said thickly. "A lot! Look here!" He took another step +towards her. "Last night I behaved like a mad fool. I--I said more than +I meant to say. I--I saw you, and I thought of that fellow--and--and +you, and it drove me mad!" + +"Why?" She was looking at him with calm eyes of contempt, the same look +that she had given to Hugh Alston at their last meeting. + +"Why--why?" he said. "Why?" He clenched his hands. "You know why, you +know I love you! I want you! I'll marry you! I'll dig a hole and bury +the past in it--curse the past! I'll say nothing more, Joan. I swear +before Heaven I'll never try and dig up the past again. I forgive +everything!" + +"You--you forgive everything?" Her eyes blazed. "What have you to +forgive? What right have you to tell me that you forgive--me?" + +"I can't let you go, I can't! Joan, I tell you I'll never throw the past +in your face. I'll forget Alston and--" + +The door behind the girl opened, the maid appeared. + +"Miss," she said, "there's a car waiting down below. The man says he is +from General Bartholomew, and he has come for you." + +"Thank you. I am coming now. My luggage is ready, Annie. Can you get +someone to carry it down?" + +Joan moved to the door. She looked back at Slotman. "I hope," she said +quietly, "that we shall never meet again, Mr. Slotman, and I wish you +good morning!" And then she was gone. + +Slotman walked to the window. He looked down and saw a car, by no means +a cheap car, and he knew the value of things, none better. He waited, +unauthorised visitor as he now was, and saw the girl come out, saw the +liveried chauffeur touch his cap to her and hold the door for her, saw +her enter. Presently he saw luggage brought down and placed on the roof +of the limousine, and then the car drove away. + +Slotman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I'll be hanged! And who the +dickens is General Bartholomew? And why should she go to him, luggage +and all? Is it anything to do with that fellow Alston? Has she accepted +his offer after all?" He shook his head. "No, I don't think so." + +The General put his two hands on Joan's shoulders. He looked at her, and +then he kissed her. + +"You are very welcome, my dear," he said. "I blame myself, I do indeed. +I ought to have found out where you were long ago. Your father was one +of my dearest friends, God rest his soul. I knew him well, and his dear +little wife too--your mother, my child, one of the loveliest women I +ever saw. And you are like her, as like her as a daughter can be like +her mother. Bless my heart, it takes me back when I see you, takes me +back to the day when Tom married her, the loveliest girl--but I am +forgetting, I am forgetting. You've brought your things?" he asked. +"Hudson, where's Hudson? Ring for Mrs. Weston, that's my housekeeper, +child. She'll look after you. And now you are here, you will stay here +with us for a long time, a very long time. It can't be too long, my +dear. I am a lonely old man, but we'll do our best to make you happy." + +"I think," Joan said softly, "that you have done that already! Your +welcome and your kindness, have made me happier than I have been for a +very, very long time." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE GENERAL CALLS ON HUGH + + +Hugh Alston lingered in London, why, he would not admit, even to +himself. In reality he had lingered on in the hope of seeing Joan +Meredyth again. How he should see her, where and when, he had not the +faintest idea; but he wanted to see her even more than he wanted to see +Hurst Dormer. + +He had thought of going to the city and calling on Mr. Philip Slotman +again. But he had not liked Mr. Slotman. + +"If I see her, she will only suggest that I am annoying and insulting +her," Hugh thought. "I suppose I thought that I was doing a very fine +and very clever thing in asking her to be my wife!" His face burned at +the thought. He had meant it well; but, looking back, it struck him that +he had acted like a conceited fool. He had thought to make all right, by +bestowing all his possessions and his person on her, and she had put him +in his place, had declined even without thanks. + +"And serve me jolly well right!" Hugh said. "Who?" he added aloud. + +"Gentleman, sir--General Bartholomew," said the hotel page. + +"And who on earth is he?" + +"Short, stout gentleman, sir, white whiskers." + +"That's quite satisfactory then; I'll see him," said Hugh. + +He found the General in the lounge. + +"You're Hugh Alston," said the General. "I'd know you anywhere. You are +your father over again. I hope that you are as good a man." + +"I wish I could think so," Hugh said, "but I can't!" He shook hands with +the General. He had a dim recollection of the old fellow, as one of his +father's friends, who in the old days, when he was a child, had come +down to Hurst Dormer; but the recollection was dim. + +"How did you find me out here, sir?" + +"Ah, ha! That's it--just a piece of luck! The name struck me--Alston--I +thought of George Alston. I said to myself, 'Can this be his boy?' And +you are, eh? George Alston, of Hurst Dormer." + +The General rambled on, but he forgot to explain to Hugh how it was that +he had found him out at the Northborough Hotel, and presently Hugh +forgot to enquire, which was what the General wanted. + +"You'll dine with me to-night, eh? I won't take no--understand. I want +to talk over old times!" + +"I thought of returning to Sussex to-night," said Hugh. + +"Not to be thought of! I can't let you go! I shall expect you at seven." + +The old fellow seemed to be so genuinely anxious, so kindly, so +friendly, that Hugh had not the heart to refuse him. + +"Very well, sir; it is good of you. I'll come, I'll put off going till +to-morrow. I remember you well now, you used to come for the shooting +when I was a nipper." + +Not till after the old fellow had gone did Hugh wonder how he had +unearthed him here in the Northborough Hotel. He had meant to ask +him--he had asked him actually, and the General had not explained. But +it did not matter, after all. Some coincidence, some easily +understandable explanation, of course, would account for it. + +"And to-morrow I shall go back," Hugh thought, as he drove to the +General's house in a taxicab. "I shall go back to Hurst Dormer, I shall +get busy doing something and forget everything that I don't want to +remember." + +But his thoughts were with the girl he had seen last in Mr. Slotman's +office. And he saw her in memory as he had seen her for one brief +instant of time--softened and sweetened by some thought, some influence +that had come to her for a moment. What influence, what thought, he +could not tell; yet, as she had been then, so he saw her always and +remembered her. + +A respectful manservant took Hugh's coat and hat; he led the way, and +flung a door wide. + +"General Bartholomew will be with you in a few moments, sir," he said; +and Hugh found himself in a large, old-fashioned London drawing-room. + +"To-morrow," Hugh was thinking, "Hurst Dormer--work, something to occupy +my thoughts till I can forget. It is going to take a lot of forgetting, +I suppose I shall feel more or less a cad all my life, though Heaven +knows--" + +He swung round suddenly. The door had opened; he heard the swish of +skirts, and knew it could not be General Bartholomew. + +But who it would be he could not have guessed to save his life. They met +again for the third time in their lives. At sight of him the girl had +started and flushed, had instinctively drawn back. Now she stood still, +regarding him with a steadfast stare, the colour slowly fading from her +cheeks. + +And Hugh stood silent, dumbfounded, astonishment clearly shown on his +face. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +"I TAKE NOT ONE WORD BACK" + + +"I will do you the justice, Mr. Alston, to believe that you did not +anticipate this meeting?" + +"You will only be doing me justice if you do not believe it," Hugh said. + +The girl bent her proud head. "I did not know that you were a friend of +General Bartholomew's?" + +"Nor I till to-day, Miss Meredyth." + +"I don't understand." + +Hugh explained that he had not seen the General since he was a child, +till the General had unearthed him at the Northborough Hotel that +afternoon. + +Joan frowned. Why had the General done that? Why had he, not three +minutes ago, patted her on the shoulder, smiled on her, and told her to +run down and wait for him in the drawing-room? Suddenly her face burned +with a glowing colour. It seemed as if all the world were in league +together against her. But this time this man was surely innocent. She +had seen the look of astonishment on his face, and knew it for no +acting. + +"I came here yesterday," she said quietly, "in response to a warm +invitation from the General, who was my father's friend." + +"My father's too!" + +"I--I wanted a home, a friend, and I accepted his invitation eagerly, +but since you have come--" + +"My presence makes this house impossible for you, of course," Hugh said, +and his voice was bitter. "Listen to me, I may never have an opportunity +of speaking to you again, Joan." He used her Christian name, scarcely +realising that he did so. + +"You feel bitterly towards me, and with reason. You have made up your +mind that I have deliberately annoyed and insulted you. If you ask me to +explain what I did and why I did it, I cannot do so. I have a reason. +One day, if I am permitted, I shall be glad to tell you everything. I +came here to London like a fool, a senseless, egotistical fool, thinking +I should be doing a fine thing, and could put everything right by asking +you to become my wife in reality. I can see now what sort of a figure I +made of myself, and how I must have appeared to you when I was bragging +of my possessions. I suppose I lack a sense of humour, Joan, or there's +something wrong with me somewhere. Believe me, senseless and crude as it +all was, my intentions were good. I only succeeded in sinking a little +lower, if possible, in your estimation, and now I wish to ask your +pardon for it." + +"I am glad," she said quietly, "that you understand now--" + +"I do, and I have felt shame for it. I shall feel better now that I have +asked you to forgive. Joan," he went on passionately, "listen! A fool is +always hard to separate from his folly. But listen! That day when I saw +you in the City, when I made my egregious proposal to you--just for a +moment you were touched, something appealed to you. I do not know what +it was--my folly, my immense conceit--for which perhaps you pitied me. +But it was something, for that one moment I saw you change. The hard +look went from your face, a colour came into your cheeks, your eyes grew +soft and tender--just for one moment--" + +"What does all this--" + +"Listen, listen! Let me speak! It may be my last chance. I tell you I +saw you as I know you must be--the real woman, not the hard, the +condemning judge that you have been to me. And as I saw you for that one +moment, I have remembered you and pictured you in my thoughts; and +seeing you in memory I have grown to love that woman I saw, to love her +with all my heart and soul." + +Love! It dawned on her, this man, who had made a sport of her name, was +offering her love now! Love! she sickened at the very thought of it--the +word had been profaned by Philip Slotman's lips. + +"I believe," she thought, "I believe that there is no such thing as +love--as holy love, as true, good, sweet love! It is all selfish passion +and ugliness!" + +"Just now, Mr. Alston"--her voice was cold and scornful, and it chilled +him, as one is chilled by a drenching with cold water--"just now you +said perhaps you lacked humour. I do not think it is that, I think you +have a sense of humour somewhat perverted. Of course, you are only +carrying this--this joke one step further--" + +"Joan!" + +"And as you drove me from Cornbridge Manor, I suppose you will now drive +me from this house. Am I to find peace and refuge nowhere, nowhere?" + +"If--if you could be generous!" he cried. + +She flushed with anger. "You have called me ungenerous before! Am I +always to be called ungenerous by you?" + +"Forgive me!" His eyes were filled with pleading. He did not know +himself, did not recognise the old, happy-go-lucky Hugh Alston, who had +accepted many a hard knock from Fate with a smile and a jest. + +"And so I am to be driven from this home, this refuge--by you?" she said +bitterly. "Oh, have you no sense of manhood in you?" + +"I think I have. You shall not be driven away. I, of course, am the one +to go. Through me you left Cornbridge, you shall not have to leave this +house. I promise you, swear to you, that I shall not darken these doors +again. Is that enough? Does that content you?" + +"Then I shall have at least something at last to thank you for," she +said coldly. And yet, though she spoke coldly, she looked at him and saw +something in his face that made her lip tremble. Yet in no other way did +she betray her feelings, and he, like the man he was, was of course +blind. + +It was strange how long they had been left alone, uninterrupted. The +strangeness of it did not occur to him, yet it did to her. She turned to +the door. + +"Joan, wait," he pleaded--"wait! One last word! One day I shall hope to +explain to you, then perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive. +For the blunder that I made in Slotman's office, for the further insult, +if you look on it as such, I ask you to forgive me now. It was the act +of a senseless fool, a mad fool, who had done wrong and tried to do +right, and through his folly made matters worse. To-night perhaps I have +sinned more than ever before in telling you that I love you. But if that +is a sin and past all forgiveness, I glory in it. I take not one word of +it back. I shall trouble you no more, and so"--he paused--"so I say +good-bye." + +"Good-bye!" He held out his hand to her, but she looked him full in the +face. + +"Good-bye!" she said, and then turned quickly, and in a moment the door +was closed between them. + +He did not see her hurry away, her hands pressed against her breast. He +did not see the face, all womanly and sweet, and soft and tender now. He +had only the memory of her brief farewell, the memory of her cold, +steady eyes--nothing else beside. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE GENERAL CONFESSES + + +"My dear, my dear, life is short. I am an old man, and yet looking back +it seems but yesterday since I was a boy beginning life. Climbing the +hill, my dear, climbing the hill; and when the top was gained, when I +stood there in my young manhood, I thought that the world belonged to +me. And then the descent, so easy and so swift. The years seem long when +one is climbing, but they are as weeks when the top is passed and the +descent into the valley begins." He paused. He passed his hand across +his forehead. "I meant to speak of something else, of you, child, of +your life, of love and happiness, and of those things that should be +dear to all us humans." + +"I know nothing of love, and of happiness but very, very little," she +said. + +He took her hand and held it. "You shall know of both!" he promised. +"There is strife, there is ill-feeling between you and that lad, your +husband." + +She wrenched her hand free, her face flushed gloriously. + +"You!" she cried. "You too !" + +"Yes, I too! I sought him out yesterday, and asked him to this house on +purpose that you and he should meet, praying that the meeting might +bring peace to you both. I knew the lad's father as I knew yours. Alicia +Linden wrote to me and told me all about this unhappy marriage of yours. +She told me that she loved you both, that you were both good, that life +might be made very happy for you two, but for this misunderstanding--" + +"Don't!--don't. Oh, General Bartholomew, how can I make you understand? +It is untrue--I am not his wife! I have never been his wife. It was a +lie! some foolish joke of his that he will not or cannot explain!" + +He looked at her, blinking like one who suddenly finds himself in strong +light after the twilight or darkness. + +"Not--not married?" + +"I never saw that man in my life before I met him at Lady Linden's +house, not two weeks ago. All that he has said about our marriage, his +and mine, are foolish lies, something beyond my understanding!" + +The General waved his hands helplessly. + +"It is all extraordinary! Where can that foolish old woman have got hold +of this story? What's come to her? She used to be a very clear-minded--" + +"It is not she, it is the man--the liar!" Joan cried bitterly. "I tell +you I don't understand the reason for it. I cannot understand, I don't +believe there is any reason. I believe that it is his idea of humour--I +can't even think that he wanted to annoy and shame and anger me as he +has, because we were utter strangers." + +She stood at the window, looking out into the dull, respectable square. +She saw a man ascend the steps and ring on the hall door-bell, but he +did not interest her. + +"I shall find work to do," she said, "soon. I am grateful to you +for--for taking me in, for giving me asylum here for a time--very, very +grateful. I know that you meant well when you brought that man and me +face to face last night--that man--" She paused. + +She could see him now, that man with eager and earnest pleading in his +eyes, with hands outstretched to her, as he told her of his love. And +seeing him in memory, there came into her cheeks that flush that he had +seen and remembered, and into her eyes the dewy, softness that banished +all haughtiness, and made her for the moment the tender woman that she +was. + +"So," she said, "so I shall find work to do, and I will go out again and +earn my living and--" + +"There will be no need!" the General said. + +"I cannot stop here and live on your charity!" + +"There will be no need," he repeated. + +"Mr. Rankin," announced a servant. The door had opened, and the man she +had been watching came in. + +He shook hands with the General. + +"Joan, this is Mr. Rankin. Rankin, this is Miss Joan Meredyth." + +She turned to him and bowed slightly. + +"You will allow me to congratulate you, Miss Meredyth. Believe me, it is +a great happiness to me that at last, after much diligent seeking, I +have, thanks to the General here, found you. General--you have told +her?" He broke off, for there was a puzzled look in the girl's face. + +"Told her nothing--nothing," said the General; "that's your business." + +Strangely, their words aroused little or no curiosity in her mind. What +was it she had been told or not told, she did not know. Somehow she did +not care. She saw a pair of pleading eyes, she saw the colour rise in a +man's cheeks. She saw an outstretched hand, held pleadingly to her, and +she had repulsed that hand in disdain. + +But Mr. Rankin was talking. + +"Your uncle, on his way back to this country, died on board ship. His +only son was killed, poor fellow, in the War. There was no one else, the +will leaves everything to you unconditionally. Through myself he had +purchased the old place, Starden Hall, only a few months before his +death, and it was his intention to live there. So the house and the +money become yours, Miss Meredyth. There is Starden, and the income of +roughly fifteen thousand a year, all unconditionally yours." + +And listening, dazed for the moment, there came into her mind an +unworthy thought--a thought that brought a sense of shame to her, yet +the thought had come. + +Did that man--last night--know of this, of this fortune when he had told +her that he loved her? + +A few days had passed, days that had found Joan fully occupied with the +many matters connected with her inheritance. + +To-day she and the old General were talking in the drawing-room of the +General's house. + +"Of course, if you prefer it and wish it, my dear." + +"I do!" said Joan. "I see no reason why Lady Linden should be in any way +interested in me and my affairs. I prefer that you should tell her +nothing at all. I was very fond of Marjorie, she is a dear little thing, +and Lady Linden was very kind to me once, that is why I wrote to her. +But now I would sooner forget it all. I shall go down to Starden and +live." + +"Alone?" + +"I have no one, so I must be alone! Mr. Rankin says that all the +business formalities will be completed this week, and there will be +nothing to keep me. Mrs. Norton, the housekeeper at Starden, says the +house is all ready, so I thought of going down at the beginning of next +week!" + +"Alone?" the old man repeated. + +"Since I am alone, I must go alone." + +"My dear, I am an old fellow, and likely to be in the way, but if--my +society--would--" + +Joan smiled, and the smile transfigured her. It brought tenderness and +sweetness to the young face that adversity had somewhat hardened. + +"No, I won't be selfish, dear," she said gently. "You would hate it; you +are at home here, and you have all you want. There you would be unhappy +and uncomfortable; but I do thank you very, very gratefully." + +"But you can't go alone, child. Why bless me, there's my niece Helen +Everard. She's a widow, her husband's people live close to Starden at +Buddesby. If only for a time, let me arrange with her to go with you." + +"If you like," she said. + +"I'll write to her at once," the General said, and Joan nodded, little +dreaming what the sending of that letter might mean to her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL + + +For a while the unrighteous may bask in the sunshine of prosperity, but +there comes a time of reckoning, more especially in the City of London, +and things were at this moment shaping ill for Mr. Philip Slotman. + +He stood at the door of the general office and surveyed his clerks. +There were five of them; at the end of the week there would be but two, +he decided. Next week probably there would be only one. + +"Hello, Slotman!" It was a business acquaintance, who had dropped in to +discuss the financial position. + +"Things all right? + +"Nothing to complain about," said Slotman, who did not believe in crying +stinking fish. Credit meant everything to him, and it was for that +reason he wore very nice clothes and more jewellery than good taste +warranted. + +In Mr. Slotman's inner office he and his friend, Mr. James Bloomberg, +lighted expensive cigars. + +"So the pretty typist has gone, of course?" said Bloomberg. + +Slotman started. "You mean--?" + +"Miss Meredyth; I've heard about her." + +"About her. What?" + +Bloomberg drew at his cigar. "Of course you know she's come into money, +a pot of money and a fine place down in the country. Uncle died, left a +will--that sort of thing. Rankin acts for me, a sound man. I was talking +to him the other day, and your name cropped up." + +"Go on!" said Slotman. The cigar shook between, his finger and thumb. +"My name cropped up?" + +"And Rankin was interested, as a young lady he was acting for had just +come into a pot of money and a fine place down in Kent, and he had heard +that she used to be employed by you. Ah, ha!" Bloomberg laughed. "You +oughtn't to have let her slip away, old man. She was as pretty as a +peach, and now with some hundreds of thousands she will be worth while, +eh?" + +"I suppose so," Slotman said, apparently indifferently. "And did you +hear the name of the place she had come into?" + +"I did. Something--Den--all places in Kent are something or other--Den. +Oh, Starden! That's it! Well, I must go. But tell me, what's your +opinion about those Calbary Reef Preferentials?" + +Ten minutes later Slotman was alone, frowning at thought. If it were +true, then indeed the luck had been against him. Even without money he +had been willing, more than willing to marry Joan, in spite of the past, +of which he knew nothing, but suspected much. Yes, he would have married +her. + +"She got hold of me," he muttered, "and I can't leave off thinking of +her, and now she is an heiress, and Heaven knows I want money. If I had +a chance, if--" He paused. + +For a long while Mr. Philip Slotman sat in deep thought. About Joan +Meredyth there was a mystery, and it was a mystery that might be well +worth solving. + +"I'll hunt it out," he muttered. "I'll have to work back. Let me see, +there was that old General--General--?" + +He frowned, Ah! he had it now, for his memory was a good one. + +"General Bartholomew! That was the name," Slotman muttered. "And that is +where I commence my hunt!" + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +"TO THE MANNER BORN" + + +Starden Hall was one of those half-timbered houses in the possession of +which Kent and Sussex are rich. It was no great mansion, but a +comfortable, rambling old house, that had been built many a generation +ago, and had been added to as occasion required by thoughtful owners, +who had always borne in mind the architecture and the atmosphere of the +original, and so to-day it covered a vast quantity of ground, being but +one storey high, and about it spread flower gardens and noble park-land +that were delights to the eye. + +And this place was hers. It belonged to her, the girl who a few short +weeks ago had been earning three pounds a week in a City office, and +whose nightmare had been worklessness and starvation. + +Helen Everard watched the girl closely. "To the manner born," she +thought. And yet there was that about Joan that she would have altered, +a coldness, an aloofness. Too often the beautiful mouth was set and +hard, never cruel, yet scornful. Too often those lustrous eyes looked +coldly out on to a world that was surely smiling on her now. + +"There's something--" the elder woman thought, for she was a clever and +capable woman--a woman who could see under the surface of things, a +woman who had loved and suffered, and had risen triumphant over +misfortunes, which had been so many and so dire that they might have +crushed a less valiant spirit. + +General Bartholomew had explained briefly: + +"The child is alone in the world. There is something I don't quite +understand, Helen. It is about a marriage--" The old gentleman paused. +"Look here, I'll tell you. I had a letter from Lady Linden, an old +friend, and she begged me to find Joan and bring her and her young +husband together again." + +"Then she is married?" + +"No, that is, I--I don't know. 'Pon my soul, I don't know--can't make +head or tail of it! She says she isn't, and, by George! she isn't a girl +who would lie; but if she isn't--well, I'm beaten, Helen. I can't make +it out. At any rate, I did bring her and the lad, and a fine lad he is +too, George Alston's son, together. And he left the house without seeing +me, and afterwards the girl told me that he was practically a stranger +to her, and that there had never been any marriage at all. At the same +time she asked me not to write to Lady Linden, and she said that it was +no business of hers, which was true, come to that. And so--so now she's +come into this money, and she is utterly alone in the world, and wants +to go to Starden to live--why, my dear--" + +"I see," Helen said. "I shall be glad to go there for a time you know; +it's Alfred's country." + +"I remembered that." + +"John Everard is living at Buddesby with his sister Constance. They are +two of the dearest people--the children, you know, of Alfred's brother +Matthew." + +"Yes--yes, to be sure," said the old gentleman, who was not in the +slightest degree interested. + +"And they will be nice for your Joan Meredyth to know," said Mrs. +Everard. + +"That's it, that's it! Take her about; let her see people, young people. +Make her enjoy herself, and forget the past. I don't know what the past +held. Joan is not one to make confidants; but I fancy that her past, +poor child, has held more suffering than she cares to talk about. So try +and make her forget it. Get the Everards over from Buddesby, or take her +there; let her see people. But you know, you know, my dear. You're a +capable woman!" + +Yes, she was a capable woman, far more capable than even General +Bartholomew realised. Clever and capable, kindly and generous of nature, +and the girl interested her. It was only interest at first. Joan was not +one to invite a warm affection in another woman at the outset. Her +manner was too cold, too uninviting, and yet there was nothing repellent +about it. It was as if, wounded by contact with the world, she had +withdrawn behind her own defences. She, who had suffered insult and +indignity, looked on all the world with suspicious, shy eyes. + +"I will break down her reserve. I think she is lovable and sweet when +once one can force her to throw aside this mask," Helen Everard thought. + +So they had come to Starden together. + +Joan had said little when she had first looked over the place; but +Helen, watching her, saw a tinge of colour come into her cheeks, and her +breast rise and fall quickly, which proved that Joan was by no means so +unmoved as she would appear. + +It was her home, the home of her people. It was to-day almost as it had +been a hundred years ago, and a hundred years before that, and even a +hundred years earlier still. + +The low-pitched, old-fashioned rooms, with the mullioned windows, the +deep embrasures, the great open, stone-slabbed hearths, with their +andirons and dog-grates, the walls panelled with carved linen-fold oak, +darkened by age alone and polished to a dull, glossy glow by hands that +would work no more. + +Through these rooms, each redolent of the past, each breathing of a +kindly, comfortable home-life, the girl went, looking about her with +eyes that saw everything and yet seemed to see nothing. + +"You like it, dear?" Helen asked. + +"It is all wonderful, beautiful!" Joan said, and yet she spoke with a +touch of sadness in her voice.... "How--how lonely one might be here!" +she added. + +"You--you must not think of loneliness; you will never be lonely, my +dear. If you are, it will be of your own choice!" + +"Who knows?" Joan smiled sadly. She was thinking of a man who had told +her that he loved her. There had been more than one, but the one man +stood out clear and distinct from all others; she could even remember +the words he had used. + +"If, in telling you that I love you, I have sinned past all forgiveness, +I glory in it, and I take not one word of it back." + +Yet how could he love her? How could he, when he had insulted her, when +he had used her name, as he had, when he had humiliated and shamed her, +how could he profess to love her? And they had met but three times in +their lives. + +"Joan, dear," Helen Everard said, "Joan!" + +"Yes? I am sorry, I--I was thinking." Joan looked up. + +Helen had come into the room, an open letter in her hand. + +"I wrote to John and Constance Everard, my nephew and niece," Helen +said. "I told them I was here with you, and asked them to come over. +They are coming to-morrow, dear. I think you will like them." + +"I am sure I shall," Joan said; but there was no enthusiasm in her +voice, only cold politeness that seemed to chill a little. + +"I glory in it," she was thinking, "and take not one word of it back." +She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and turned away. + +"What time will they be coming, Helen?" she asked, for she had made up +her mind. She would think no more of this man, and remember no more of +his speeches. She would wipe him out of her memory. Life for her would +begin again here in Starden, and the past should hold nothing, nothing, +nothing! + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +ELLICE + + +Buddesby, in the Parish of Little Langbourne, was a small place compared +with Starden Hall. Buddesby claimed to be nothing more than a farmhouse +of a rather exalted type. For generations the Everards had been +gentlemen farmers, farming their own land and doing exceedingly badly by +it. + +Matthew, late owner of Buddesby, had taken up French gardening on a +large scale, and had squandered a great part of his capital on glass +cloches, fragments of which were likely to litter Buddesby for many a +year to come. + +John, his son, had turned his back on intensive culture and had gone +back to the old family failing of hops. The Everard family had probably +flung away more money on hops than any other family in Kent. + +The Everards were not rich. The shabby, delightful old rooms, the +tumble-down appearance of the ancient house, the lack of luxuries proved +it, but they were exceedingly content. + +Constance was a slim, pale, fair-haired girl with a singularly sweet +expression and the temper, as her brother said often enough, of an +angel. John Everard was big and broad, brown-haired, ruddy complexioned. +He regarded every goose as a swan, and had unlimited belief in his land, +his sister, and the future. There was one other occupant of Buddesby, a +slight slender, dark-haired girl, with a thin, olive face, a pair of +blazing black eyes, and a vividly red-lipped mouth. + +Eight years ago Matthew Everard had brought her home after a brief +visit to London. He had handed her over to eighteen-year-old Constance. + +"Look after the little one, Connie," he had said. "There's not a soul in +the world who wants her, poor little lass. Her father's been dead years; +her mother died--last week." He paused. "I knew them both." That was all +the information he had ever given, so Ellice Brand had come to Buddesby, +one more mouth to feed, one more pair of feet to find shoes for. + +She had many faults; she was passionate and wilful, defiant and +impatient of even Connie's gentle authority. But there was one who could +quell her most violent outburst with a word--one who had but to look at +her to bring her to her sane senses, one whom she would, dog-like, have +followed to the end of the world, from whom she would have accepted +blows and kicks and curses without a murmur, only that Johnny Everard +was not in the habit of bestowing blows and curses on young ladies. + +Constance was twenty-six, John, the master of Buddesby, was a year +younger, and Ellice was eighteen, her slender body as yet childish and +unformed, her gipsy-like face a little too thin. But there was beauty +there, wonderful and startling beauty that would one day blossom forth. +It was in the bud as yet, but the bud was near to opening. + +They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at +Buddesby. It was eight o'clock, and John had been afield for a couple of +hours and had come back with his appetite sharp set. + +They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely +duties since soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing +of the breakfast-bell. + +"A letter from Helen," Constance said. + +"Helen? Oh, she's got to Starden then?" said John. + +"And wants us to come over, dear." + +"Of course! We'll go over next week some time. I'm busy now with--" + +"It wouldn't be kind not to go at once." + +"Who is Helen?" demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and +then at John. "Who is she?" A tinge of colour came into her cheeks. + +Connie saw it, and sighed a little. She knew this girl's secret, knew it +only too well. Many an hour of anxiety and worry it had caused her. + +"Helen is our aunt by marriage," she said. + +"Oh!" Ellice said, "I thought--" + +John laughed. He had a jolly laugh, a great hearty laugh that did one +good to hear. + +"What did you think she was, gipsy girl?" he asked, for "gipsy" was his +pet name for the little dark beauty. + +"Did you think she was some young and lovely damsel who was eager to +meet me again?" + +"I should hate her if she was!" the girl said, whereat John laughed +again. + +"Write to Helen, Con," he said as he rose from the table, "and say we'll +come over to-morrow." He paused, frowning, at thought. "I'll manage it +somehow. I'll drive you over in the trap. It would be useful to have a +car; I don't know why I put off getting one." + +Constance did, and she smiled. "Wait till next year, dear." + +He nodded. "Yes, next year we'll get one. Meanwhile write to Helen, and +tell her we'll be over to-morrow afternoon." + +"And I?" Ellice asked. + +John looked at her. "Why--no, child, you'll stop at home and look after +the house, eh?" He nodded to them and went out. + +"Is she there--alone?" Ellice asked. + +"Who, dear?" + +"This Helen, your aunt. Is it usual to call your aunt just plain Helen?" + +"No, I suppose it isn't, and she is not there alone, as you ask. She is +living with a girl who has just come into a great deal of money--Miss +Joan Meredyth." + +"What is she like?" the girl asked quickly. + +Constance smiled. + +"I don't know, dear. You see, I have never seen her." + +"Then I hope," Ellice said between her clenched teeth, "I hope she is +ugly, ugly as sin!" + +"I think," said Constance gently, "that you are very silly and foolish!" + +Yet when the morrow came it was Ellice and not Constance who sat beside +John in the trap, and was driven by him the six odd miles to Starden. +For Constance had one of "her headaches." It was no imaginary ailment, +but a headache that prostrated her and filled her with pain, that made +every sound an agony. She lay in her room, the blinds drawn, and all the +household hushed. + +"I'll write that we'll go to-morrow, dear," John said. + +"No, go to-day. I should be glad, Johnny. Go to-day and take Ellice, I +am so much better alone; and by the time you come home perhaps I shall +have been able to sleep it off." + +So Johnny Everard drove Ellice over to Starden that afternoon. + +Helen Everard received them in the drawing-room. She was fond of Johnny +Everard and his sister. This dark-faced girl she did not know, though +she had heard of her. And now she looked at her with interest. It was an +interesting face, such a face as one does not ordinarily see. + +"One day, if she lives, she will be a beautiful woman," Helen thought. +"To-day she is a gawky, passionate, ill-disciplined child; and I am +afraid, terribly afraid, she is very much in love with that great, +cheery, good-looking nephew of mine." + +"Come," she said, "Joan is in the garden. I promised that when you came +I would take you to her. You have heard about her of course?" Helen +added to John. + +"Only a little, that she is an heiress, and has come into Starden." + +"She was very poor, poor child, and I think she had a hard and bitter +time of it. Then the wheel of fortune took a turn. Her uncle died, and +left her Starden and a great deal of money. So here she is." + +Helen felt a hand grip her arm, and turned to look down into a thin +face, in which burned a pair of passionate eyes. + +"Is she--pretty?" the girl asked. + +"I think," Helen said slowly, "that she is the most beautiful woman I +have ever seen." + +Unlike his usual self, John Everard was very silent and thoughtful as he +drove home later that evening. Helen had said that Joan Meredyth was the +most beautiful woman she had ever seen. He agreed with her +whole-heartedly. She had received him and Ellice kindly, yet without +much warmth, and now as he drove home in the light of the setting sun +Johnny Everard was thinking about this girl, going over all that had +happened, remembering every word almost that she had uttered. + +"She is very beautiful, wonderfully beautiful," he thought. And perhaps +he uttered his thoughts aloud, for the girl, as silent as himself, who +sat beside him, started and looked up into his face, and into the +passionate, rebellious heart of her there came a sudden wave of jealous +hatred. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +UNREST + + +Lady Linden patted the girl's small white hand. + +"Yes, child," she said comfortably, "Colonel Arundel and I had a nice +long talk last night, and you may guess what it was about. He and I were +boy and girl together, there's no better blood in the kingdom than the +Arundel's--what was I saying? Oh yes, we decided that it would be a good +plan to have a two years' engagement, or better still, none for eighteen +months, and then a six months' engagement. During that time Tom can +study modern scientific farming and that sort of thing, you know, and +then when you and he are married, he could take over these estates. I am +heartily sick of Bilson, and I always fancy he is robbing me--what did +you say, child?" + +"Nothing, auntie." + +"Well, you ought to be a very happy little girl. Run away." + +But Marjorie lingered. "Aunt, you haven't heard anything of--of Hugh?" +she asked. + +"Hugh--Hugh Alston? Good gracious, no! You don't think I am going to run +after the man? I am disgusted with Hugh. His duplicity and, worse still, +his obstinate, foolish, unreasoning behaviour, have annoyed me more than +anything I ever remember. But there, my dear child, it is nothing to do +with you. I have quite altered my opinion of Hugh Alston. You were right +and I was wrong. Tom Arundel will make you a better husband, and you +will be as happy as the day is long with him." + +"I shan't!" Marjorie thought as she turned away. It was wrong, and it +was unreasonable, and she knew it; but for the last four or five days +there had been steadily growing in Marjorie's brain, an Idea. + +Stolen fruits are sweetest, stolen meetings, moonlit assignations, shy +kisses pressed on ardent young lips, when the world is shrouded in +darkness and seems to hold but two. All these things make for romance. +The silvery moonlight gives false values; the knowledge that one has +slipped unseen from the house to meet the beloved one, and that the +doing of it is a brave and bold adventure, gives a thrill that sets the +heart throbbing and the young blood leaping--the knowledge that it is +forbidden, and, being forbidden, very sweet, appeals to the young and +romantic heart. + +But when that same beloved object, looking less romantic in correct +evening dress, is accepted smilingly by the powers that be, and is sate +down to a large and varied, many coursed dinner, then Romance shrugs her +disgusted shoulders and turns petulantly away. + +It was so with Marjorie. When the idea first came to her, she felt +shocked and amazed. It could not be! she said to herself. "I love Tom +with all my heart and soul, and now I am the happiest girl living." + +But she was not, and she knew it. It was useless to tell herself that +she was the happiest girl living when night after night she lay awake, +staring into the darkness and seeing in memory a face that certainly did +not belong to Tom Arundel. + +Hugh Alston had commenced work on the restoration of certain parts of +Hurst Dormer. He had busied himself with the work, had entered +whole-heartedly into all the plans, had counted up the cost, and then, +realising that all his enthusiasm was only forced, that he was merely +trying to cheat himself, he lost interest and gave it up. + +"I'll go to London," he said. "I'll go and see things, and try and get +thoughts of her out of my mind." So he went, and found London even more +uninteresting than Hurst Dormer. + +He had promised that he would never molest her, never annoy her with +his visits or his presence, and he meant religiously to keep his word, +and yet--if he could just see her! She need not know! If he could from a +distance feast his eyes on her for one moment, on a sight of her, what +harm would he do her or anyone? + +Hugh Alston did not recognise himself in this restless dissatisfied, +unhappy man, who took to loitering and wandering about the streets, +haunting certain places and keeping a sharp lookout for someone who +might or might not come. + +So the days passed. He had gladdened his eyes three times with a view of +old General Bartholomew. He had seen that ancient man leaning on his +stick, taking a constitutional around the square. + +And that was all! He passed the house and watched, yet saw no sign of +her. He came at night-time, when tell-tale shadows might be thrown on +the blinds, but saw nothing, only the shadow of the General or of his +secretary, never one that might have been hers. + +And then he slowly came to the conclusion that Joan Meredyth could no +longer be there. It had taken him nearly a week to come to that +decision. + +That Joan had left General Bartholomew's house he was certain, but where +was she? He had no right to enquire, no right to hunt her down. If he +knew where she was, how could it profit him, for had he not promised to +trouble her no more? + +Yet still for all that he wanted to know, and casting about in his mind +how he might find her, he thought of Mr. Philip Slotman. + +It was possible that if she had left the General's she had gone back to +take up her work with Slotman again. + +"I'll risk it," he thought, and went to Gracebury and made his way to +Slotman's office. + +It was a sadly depleted staff that he found in the general office. An +ancient man and a young boy represented Mr. Philip Slotman's one-time +large clerical staff. + +"Mr. Slotman's away, sir, down in the country--gone down to Sussex, +sir," said the lad. + +"To Sussex? Will he be away long?" + +"Can't say, sir; he may be back to-morrow," the boy said. "At any rate, +he's not here to-day." + +"I may come back to-morrow. You might tell him that Mr. Alston called." +And Hugh turned away. + +Another disappointment. He realised now that he had built up quite a lot +of hope on his interview with Slotman. + +"Shall I wait till to-morrow, or shall I go back to-day?" Hugh wondered. +"This is getting awful. I don't seem to have a mind of my own, I can't +settle down to a thing. I've got to get a grip on myself. How does the +old poem go: 'If she be fair, but not fair to me, what care I how fair +she be?' That's all right; but I do care, and I can't help it!" + +He had made his aimless way back to the West End of London. It was +luncheon time, and he was hesitating between a restaurant and an hotel. + +"I'll go back to the hotel, get some lunch, pack up and leave by the +five o'clock train for Hurst Dormer," he decided, and turned to hail a +taxicab. + +And, turning, he came suddenly face to face with the girl who was ever +in his thoughts. + +She had been helping a middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman out of a cab, +and then, as she turned, their eyes met, and into Joan Meredyth's cheeks +there flashed the tell-tale colour that proved to him and to all the +world that this chance meeting with him meant something to her after +all. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +"UNGENEROUS" + + +Hugh Alston had raised his hat, and she had given him the coolest of +bows. He was turning away, true to his promise to trouble her no more, +and her heart seemed to cry out against it suddenly. + +If she could have believed that he had been here of deliberate intent, +to find her, to see her, she would have felt cold anger against him; but +it was an accident, and Joan knew suddenly that for some reason she was +unwilling to let him go. + +What she said she hardly knew, something about the unexpectedness of +meetings that were common enough in London. At any rate she spoke, and +was rewarded by the look that came into his face. A starving dog could +not have looked more gratitude to one who had flung him a bone than Hugh +Alston, starving for her, thanked her with his eyes for the few +conventional words. + +Before he could realise what had happened, she had introduced him to her +companion. + +"Helen, this is Mr. Alston--whom I--I know," she said. + +"Alston." Helen Everard congratulated herself afterwards that she had +given no sign of surprise, no start, nothing to betray the fact that the +name was familiar. + +Here was the man then whom Lady Linden believed to be Joan's husband, +the man whom Joan had denied she had married, and who she had stated to +General Bartholomew was scarcely more than a stranger to her. + +And, looking at him, Helen knew that if Hugh Alston and she met again, +he would certainly not know her, for he had no eyes for anything save +the lovely cold face of the girl before him. + +"Oh, Joan," she said, "there is one of those bags I have been wanting to +get for a long time past. Excuse me, Joan dear, will you?" And Helen +made hurriedly to a shop hard by, leaving them together. + +Joan felt angry with herself now it was too late. She ought to have +given him the coldest of cold bows and then ignored him; but she had +been weak, and she had spoken, and now Helen had deserted her. + +"I will say good-bye, Mr. Alston, and go after my friend." + +"No, wait--wait. I want to speak to you, to thank you." + +"To thank me?" She lifted her eyebrows. "For what?" + +"For speaking to me." + +"That sounds very humble, doesn't it?" She laughed sharply. + +"I am very humble to you, Joan!" + +"Mr. Alston, do you realise that I am very angry with myself?" she said +coldly. "I acted on a foolish impulse. I ought not to have spoken to +you." + +"You acted on a generous impulse, that is natural to you. Now you are +pretending one that is unworthy of you, Joan." + +"I do not think you have any right to speak to me so, nor call me by +that name." + +"I must call you by the name I constantly think of you by. Joan, do you +remember what I said to you when we last met?" + +"No, I--" She flushed suddenly. To deny, was unworthy of her. "Yes, I +remember." + +"It is true, remember what I said. I take not one word of it back. It is +true, and will remain true all my life." + +"My friend--will be wondering--" + +"Joan, be a little merciful." + +And now for the first time he noticed that she was not dressed as he had +seen her last. There was a suggestion of wealth, of ample means about +her appearance. Clothes were the last thing that Hugh thought of, or +noticed. Yet gradually Joan's clothes began to thrust themselves on his +notice. She was well dressed, and the stylish and becoming clothes +heightened her beauty, if possible. + +"Joan, I have a confession to make." + +She bent her head. + +"I couldn't act unfairly or deal in an underhand way with you." + +"I thought differently!" she said bitterly. + +"I remembered my promise made to you at General Bartholomew's, yet I +came to London in the hope of seeing you, that was all that brought me +here. I would not have spoken to you if you had not spoken to me first. +I only wanted just to see you. I wonder," he went on, "that I have not +been arrested as a suspicious character, as I have been loitering about +General Bartholomew's house for days, but I never saw you, Joan!" + +"I was not there!" + +"No, I gathered that at last. You will believe that I had no intention +of annoying you or forcing myself on your notice. I wanted to see you, +that was all, and so when I had made up my mind that you were not there, +I went to the City Office where I saw you last." + +Her face flushed with anger. + +"You have taken then to tracking me?" she said angrily. + +"I am afraid it looks like it, but not to annoy you, only to satisfy my +longing to see you. Just now you said I sounded humble. I wonder if you +could guess how humble I feel." + +"I wonder," she said sharply, "if you could guess how little I believe +anything you say, Mr. Alston? I am sorry I spoke to you. It was a +weakness I regret. Now I will say good-bye. You went to Slotman's +office, and I suppose discussed me with him?" + +"I did not; he was not there. I was glad afterwards he was not. I don't +like the man." + +"It does not matter. In any event Mr. Slotman could not have helped +you; he does not know where I am living." + +"Won't you tell me?" + +"Why should I, to be further annoyed by you?" + +"I think you know that I will not annoy you. Won't you tell me, Joan?" + +"I--I don't see why I should. Remember, I have no wish to continue +our--our acquaintance; there is no reason you should know." + +"Yet if I knew I would be happier. I would not trouble you." + +"Surely it does not matter. I am living in the country, then--in Kent, +at Starden. I--I have come into a little money." She looked at him +keenly. She wondered did he know, had he known that night when he had +told her that he loved her? + +"I am glad of it," he said. "I could have wished you had come into a +great deal." + +"I have!" she said quietly. + +"I am truly glad," he said. "It was one of the things that troubled me +most, the thought of you--you forced to go out into the world to earn +your living, you who are so fine and exquisite and sensitive, being +brought into contact with the ugly things of life. I am glad that you +are saved that--it lightens my heart too, Joan." + +"Why?" + +"Haven't I told you? I hated the thought of you having to work for such +a man as Slotman. I am thankful you are freed from any such need." + +She had wronged him by that thought, she was glad to realise it. He had +not known, then. + +"My uncle died. He left me his fortune and the old home of our family, +which he had recently bought back, Starden Hall, in Kent. I am living +there now with Mrs. Everard, my friend and companion, and now--" + +While she had been waiting to be served with a bag that she did not +particularly require, Helen Everard watched them through the +shop-window. She watched him particularly. + +"I like him; he looks honest," she thought. "It is all strange and +curious. If it were not true what Lady Linden said, why did she say it? +If it is true, then--then why--what is the cause of the quarrel between +them? Will they make it up? He does not look like a man who could treat +a woman badly. Oh dear!" Helen sighed, for she had her own plans. Like +every good woman, she was a born matchmaker at heart. She had a deep and +sincere affection for John Everard. She had decided long ago that she +must find Johnny a good wife, and here had been the very thing, only +there was this Mr. Hugh Alston. + +She had been served with the bag, it had been wrapped in paper for her, +and now Helen came out. She had lingered as long as she could to give +this man every chance. + +"I am afraid I have been a long time, Joan," she began. + +Hugh turned to her eagerly. + +"Mrs.--Everard," he said, "I have been trying to induce Miss Meredyth to +come and have lunch with me." + +"Oh!" Joan cried. The word lunch had never passed his lips till now, and +she looked at him angrily. + +"I suggest Prince's," he said. "Let's get a taxi and go there now." + +"Thank you, I do not require any lunch," Joan said. + +"But I do, my dear. I am simply famished," said Helen. + +It was like a base betrayal, but she felt that she must help this +good-looking young man who looked at her so pleadingly. + +"And it is always so much nicer to have a gentleman escort, isn't it?" + +"You can't refuse now, Joan," Hugh said. + +Joan! The name suggested to Helen that Joan had not spoken quite the +truth when she had told General Bartholomew that she and this man were +practically strangers. A strange man does not usually call a young girl +by her Christian name. + +"As you like," Joan said indifferently. She looked at Hugh resentfully. + +"I do not consider it is either very clever or very considerate," she +said in a low voice, intended for him alone. + +"I am sorry, but--but I couldn't let you go yet. You--you don't +understand, Joan!" he stammered. + +She shrugged her shoulders; she went with them because she must. She +could not create a scene, but she would take her revenge. She promised +herself that, and she did. She scarcely spoke a word during the +luncheon. She ate nothing; she looked about her with an air of +indifference. Twice she deliberately yawned behind her hand, hoping that +he would notice; and he did, and it hurt him cruelly, as she hoped it +might. + +But she kept the worst sting for the last. + +"Please," she said to the waiter, "make out the bills separately--mine +and this lady's together, and the gentleman's by itself." + +"Joan!" he said, as the waiter went his way, and his voice was shocked +and hurt. + +"Oh really, you could hardly expect that I would wish you to spend any +of your--eight thousand a year on me!" + +Hugh flushed. He bent his head. His eight thousand a year that once he +had held out as a bait to her, and yet, Heaven knew, he had not meant it +so. He had only meant to be frank with her. + +He was hurt and stung, as she meant he should be, and seeing it, her +heart misgave her, and she was sorry. But it was too late, and she must +not confess weakness now. + +There was a cold look in his face, a bitterness about his mouth she had +never seen before. When he rose he held out his hand to Mrs. Everard; he +thanked her for coming here with him, and then he gave Joan the coldest +of cold bows. He held no hand out to her, he had no speech for her. Only +one word, one word that once before he had flung at her, and now flung +into her face again. + +"Ungenerous!" he said, so that she alone could hear, and then he was +gone, and Helen looked after him. And then, turning, she glanced at +Joan, and saw that there were tears in the girl's grey eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +THE INVESTIGATIONS OF MR. SLOTMAN + + +"And who the dickens," said Lady Linden, "is Mister--Philip +what's-his-name? I can't see it--what's his name, Marjorie?" Lady Linden +held out the card to the girl. + +"It--it is--Slotman, auntie," Marjorie said. + +"Don't sniff, child. You've got a cold; go up to my room, and in the +medical--" + +"I haven't a cold, auntie." + +"Don't talk to me. Go and get a dose of ammoniated tincture of quinine. +As for this Mr. Slotman--unpleasant name--what the dickens does he want +of me?" + +Marjorie did not answer. + +Slotman was being shewn into the drawing-room a few moments later. He +was wearing his best clothes and best manner. This Lady Linden was an +aristocratic dame, and Mr. Slotman had come for the express purpose of +making himself very agreeable. + +"Oily-looking wretch!" her ladyship thought. "Well?" she asked aloud. + +"I am grateful to your ladyship for permitting me to see you." + +"Well, you can see me if that's all you have come for." + +"No!" he said. "If--if I--" He paused. + +"Oh, sit down!" said Lady Linden. "Well, now what is it you want? Have +you something to sell? Books, sewing machines?" + +"No, no!" He waved a deprecating hand. "I am come on a matter that +interests me greatly. I am a financier, I have offices in London. Until +lately I was employing a young lady on my staff." + +"Well?" + +"Her name was Meredyth, Miss Joan Meredyth." + +"I don't want to hear anything at all about her," said Lady Linden. "Why +you come to me, goodness only knows. If you've come for information I +haven't got any. If you want information, the right person to go to is +her husband!" + +"Her--her husband!" Mr. Slotman seemed to be choking. + +"You seem surprised," said Lady Linden. "Well, so was I, but it is the +truth. If you are interested in Miss Meredyth, the proper person to make +enquiries of is Mr. Hugh Alston, of Hurst Dormer, Sussex. Now you know. +Is there anything else I can do for you?" + +Slotman passed his hand across his forehead. This was unexpected, a blow +that staggered him. + +"You--you mean, your ladyship means that Miss Meredyth is recently +married." + +"Her ladyship means nothing of the kind," said Lady Linden tartly. "I +mean that Miss Meredyth has for some very considerable time been Mrs. +Hugh Alston. They were married, if you want to know--and I don't see why +it should any longer be kept a secret--three years ago, in June, +nineteen eighteen at Marlbury, Dorset, where my niece was at school with +Miss Meredyth. Now you know all I know, and if you want any further +information, apply to the husband." + +"But--but," Slotman said, "I--" He was thinking. He was trying to +reconcile what he had heard in his own office when he had spied on Hugh +Alston and Joan, when on that occasion he had heard Hugh offer marriage +to the girl as an act of atonement. How could he offer marriage if they +were already married? There was something wrong, some mistake! + +"But what?" snapped her ladyship, who had taken an exceeding dislike to +the perspiring Mr. Slotman. + +"Is your ladyship certain that they were married? I mean--" he fumbled +and stammered. + +Lady Linden pointed to the door. "Good afternoon!" she said. "I don't +know what business it is of yours, and I don't care. All I know is that +if Hugh Alston is a fool, he is not a knave, so you have my permission +to retire." + +Mr. Slotman retired, but it was not till some hours had passed that he +finally left the neighbourhood of Cornbridge. He had been making +discreet enquiries, and he found on every side that her ladyship's story +was corroborated. + +For Lady Linden talked, and it was asking too much of any lady who was +fond of a chat to expect her to keep silent on a matter of such +interest. Lady Linden had discussed Hugh Alston's marriage with Mrs. +Pontifex, the Rector's wife, who in turn had discussed it with others. +So, little by little, the story had leaked out, and all Cornbridge knew +it, and Mr. Slotman found ample corroboration of Lady Linden's story. + +Not till he was in the train did Mr. Slotman begin to gather together +all the threads of evidence. "I should not describe Lady Linden as a +pleasant person," he decided, "still, her information will prove of the +utmost value to me. On the whole I am glad I went." He felt satisfied; +he had discovered all that was discoverable, so far as Cornbridge was +concerned. + +"Married in eighteen, June of eighteen," he muttered, "at Marlbury, +Dorset. I'll bet she wasn't! She may have said she was, but she wasn't!" +He chuckled grimly. He was beginning to see through it. "I suppose she +told that tale, and then it got about, and then the fellow came and +offered her marriage as the only possible way out. I'd like to choke the +brute!" + +Slotman slept that night in London, and early the following morning he +was on his way to Marlbury. He found it a little quiet country town, +where information was to be had readily enough. It took him but a few +minutes to discover that there was a school for young ladies, a school +of repute, kept by a Miss Skinner. It was the only ladies' school in or +near the town, and so Mr. Slotman made his way in that direction, and in +a little time was ushered into the presence of the headmistress. + +"I must apologise," he said, "for this intrusion." + +Miss Skinner bowed. She was tall and thin, angular and severe, a typical +headmistress, stern and unyielding. + +"I am," Slotman lied, "a solicitor from London, and I am interested in a +young lady who a matter of three years ago was, I believe, a pupil in +this school." + +"Indeed?" + +"Miss Joan Meredyth," said Slotman. + +"Miss Meredyth was a pupil here at the time you mention, three years +ago. It was three years ago that she left." + +"In June?" Slotman asked. + +"I think so. Is it important that you know?" + +"Very!" + +"I will go and look up my books." In a few minutes Miss Skinner was +back. + +"Miss Meredyth left us in the June of nineteen hundred and eighteen," +she said. + +"Suddenly?" + +"Somewhat--yes, suddenly. Her father was dead; she was leaving us to go +to Australia." + +"So that was the story," Slotman thought, "to go to Australia." + +"During the time she was here, may I ask, did she have any visitors? +Did, for instance, a Mr. Hugh Alston call on her?" + +"Mr. Alston, I remember the name. Certainly he called here, but not to +see Miss Meredyth. He came to see Miss Marjorie Linden, who was, I +fancy, distantly related to him. I am not sure, Mr. Alston certainly +called several times." + +"And saw Miss Meredyth?" + +"I think not. I have no reason to believe that he did. Miss Linden and +Miss Meredyth were close friends, and of course Miss Linden may have +introduced him. It is quite possible." + +"Thank you!" said Slotman. He had found out all that he wanted to know, +yet not quite. + +For the next few hours Philip Slotman was a busy man. He went to the +church and looked up the register. No marriage such as he looked for had +taken place between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in June, nineteen +eighteen, nor any other month immediately before or after. No marriage +had taken place at the local Registrar's office. But he was not done +yet. Six miles from Marlbury was Morchester, a far larger and more +important town. Thither went Philip Slotman and pursued his enquiries +with a like result. + +Neither at Marlbury, nor at Morchester had any marriage been registered +in the name of Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in the year nineteen +eighteen; and having discovered that fact beyond doubt, Philip Slotman +took train for London. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +"WHEN I AM NOT WITH YOU" + + +A fortnight had passed since Johnny Everard's first visit to Starden, +and during that time he had been again and yet again. He had never taken +Ellice with him since that first time. + +Two days after the first visit he had driven Constance over, and +Constance and Joan Meredyth had become instant friends. + +"You'll come again and often; it is lonely here," Joan had said. "I +mean, not lonely for me, that would be ungrateful to Helen, but I know +she is very fond of you, and she will like you to come as often as +possible, you and your brother." + +"Con," Johnny said as he drove her home that evening, "don't you think +we might run to a little car, just a cheap two-seater? It would be so +useful. Look, we could run over to Starden in less than half an hour. We +can be there and back in an hour if we wanted to, and Helen would be so +jolly glad, don't you think?" + +Constance smiled to herself. + +"We haven't much money now, Johnny," she said. "Last year's hops +were--awful!" + +"They are going to be ripping this year. I've got that blight down all +right," he said cheerily. + +"Yes, dear; well, if you think--" She hesitated. + +"Oh, we can manage it somehow," he said hopefully. + +Constance looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. + +"It will be useful for you to run over to Starden to see Helen--won't +it?" + +"Yes, to see Helen. She's a good sort, one of the best, dear old Helen! +Isn't it ripping to have her near us again?" + +"She could always have come to Buddesby if she had wanted to." + +"Oh, there isn't much room there!" + +"But always room enough for Helen, Johnny. You haven't told me what you +think of Joan Meredyth." + +She watched him out of the corners of her eyes. He stared straight ahead +between the ears of the old horse. + +"Joan Meredyth," he repeated, and she saw a deep flush come stealing +under the tan of his cheeks. "Oh, she's handsome, Con. She almost took +my breath away. I think she is the loveliest girl I ever saw." + +"Yes, and do you--" + +"And do I admire her? Yes, I do, but I could wish she was just a little +less cold, a little less stately, Con." + +"Perhaps it is shyness. Remember, we are strangers to her; she was not +cold and stately to me, Johnny." + +"Ah!" Johnny said, and went on staring straight ahead down the road. + +"Did Helen say much to you, Con?" + +"Oh, a good deal!" + +"About"--Johnny hesitated--"her?" + +"Yes, a little; she thinks a great deal of her. She says that at first +Joan seemed to hold her at arm's length. Now they understand one another +better, and she says Joan has the best heart in the world." + +"Yet she seems cold to me," said Johnny with a sigh. + +Still, in spite of Joan's coldness, he found his way over to Starden +very often during the days that followed. He had picked up a small +secondhand car, which he strenuously learned to drive, and thereafter +the little car might have been seen plugging almost daily along the six +odd miles of road that separated Buddesby from Starden. + +And each time he got the car out a pair of black eyes watched him with +smouldering anger and passion and jealousy. A pair of small hands were +clenched tightly, a girl's heart was aching and throbbing with love and +hate and undisciplined passions, as though it must break. + +But he did not see, though Constance did, and she felt troubled and +anxious. She had understood for long how it was with Ellice. She had +seen the girl's eyes turned with dog-like devotion towards the man who +was all unconscious of the passion he had aroused. But she saw it all in +her quiet way, and was anxious and worried, as a kindly, gentle, +tender-hearted woman must be when she notices one of her own sex give +all the love of a passionate heart to one who neither realises nor +desires it. + +So, day after day, Johnny drove over to Starden, and when he came Helen +would smile quietly and take herself off about some household duty, +leaving the young people together. And Joan would greet him with a smile +from which all coldness now had gone, for she accepted him as a friend. +She saw his sterling worth, his honour and his honesty. He was like some +great boy, so open and transparent was he. To her he had become +"Johnny," to him she was "Joan." + +To-day they were wandering up and down the garden paths, side by side. + +The garden lay about them, glowing in the sunshine of the early +afternoon. Beyond the high bank of hollyhocks and the further hedge of +dark yew, clipped into fantastic form, one could catch a glimpse of the +old house, with its steep sloping roof, its many gables, its whitened +walls, lined and crossed by the old timbers. The hum of the bees was in +the air, heavy with the fragrance of many flowers. + +And Joan was thinking of a City office, of a man she hated and feared, a +man with bold eyes and thick, sensual lips. And then her thoughts +drifted away to another man, and she seemed to hear again the last word +he had spoken to her--"Ungenerous." And suddenly she shivered a little +in the warm sunlight. + +"Joan, you are not cold. You can't be cold," Johnny said. + +She laughed. "No, I was only thinking of the past. There is much in the +past to make one shiver, I think, and oh, Johnny, I was thinking of you +too!" + +"Of me?" + +She nodded. "Helen was telling me how keen and eager you were about your +farm, how difficult it was to get you to leave it for an hour." She +paused. "That--that was before you came here, the first time--and since +then you have been here almost every day. Johnny, aren't you wasting +your time?" She looked at him with sweet seriousness. + +"I am wasting my time, Joan, when--when I am not with you!" he said, and +his voice shook with sudden feeling, and into his face there came a wave +of colour. "To be near you, to see you--" He paused. + +Down the garden pathway came a trim maidservant, who could never guess +how John Everard hated her for at least one moment of her life. + +"A gentleman in the drawing-room, miss, to see you," the girl said. + +"A gentleman to see me? Who?" + +"He would not give a name, miss. He said you might not recognise it. He +wishes to see you on business." Joan frowned. Who could it be? Yet it +was someone waiting, someone here. + +"I shall not be long," she said to Johnny, and perhaps was glad of the +excuse to leave him. + +"I will wait till you come back, Joan." + +She smiled and nodded, and hastened to the house and the drawing-room, +and, opening the door, went in to find herself face to face with Philip +Slotman. + + * * * * * + +Philip Slotman, of all living people! She stared at him in amaze, almost +doubting the evidence of her sight. What did he here? How dared he come +here and thrust himself on her notice? How dared he send that lying +message by the maid, that she might not recognise his name? + +"You've got a nice place here, Joan," he said with easy familiarity. +"Things have looked up a bit for you, eh? I notice you haven't said you +are glad to see me. Aren't you going to shake hands?" + +"Explain," she said quietly, "what you mean by coming here." + +If she had given way to senseless rage, and had demanded how he +dared--and so forth, he would have smiled with amusement; but the cool +deliberation of her, the quiet scorn in her eyes, the lack of passion, +made him nervous and a little uncomfortable. + +"I came here to see you--what else, Joan?" + +"Uninvited," she said. "You have taken a liberty--" + +"Oh, you!" he shouted suddenly. "You're a fine one to ride the high +horse with me! Who the dickens are you to give yourself airs? You can +stow that, do you hear?" His eyes flashed unpleasantly. "You can stow +that kind of talk with me!" + +"You came here believing, I suppose, that I was practically friendless. +You knew that I had no relatives, especially men relatives, so you +thought you would come to continue your annoyance of me. Would you mind +coming here?" + +He went to the window wonderingly. The window commanded a wide view of +the garden. Looking out into the garden he could see a man, a very tall +and very broad young man, who stood with muscular arms folded across a +great chest. The young man was leaning against an old rose-red brick +wall, smoking a pipe and obviously waiting. The most noticeable thing +about the young man was that he was exceptionally big and of powerful +build and determined appearance. Another thing that Slotman noticed +about him was that he was not Mr. Hugh Alston, whom he remembered +perfectly. + +"Well?" + +"That gentleman is a friend of mine, related to the lady who lives with +me. If I call on him and ask him to persuade you to go and not return, +he will do so." + +"Oh, he will, and what then?" + +"I don't understand you--what then? Why did you come here uninvited? Why +did you send an untruthful message by my servant--that I would not +recognise your name?" + +"Trying to bluff me, aren't you?" Slotman said. He looked her in the +eyes. "But it won't come off, Joan; no, my dear, I've been too busy of +late to be taken in by your airs and defiance!" He laughed. "I've been +making quite a round, here, there, and everywhere, and all because of +you, Joan--all because of you! Among other places I've been to," he went +on, seeing that she stood silent and unmoved, "is Marlbury You remember +it, eh? A nice little town, quiet though. I had a long talk with Miss +Skinner--remember her, don't you, Joany?" + +Her eyes glittered. "Mr. Slotman, I am trying to understand what this +means. Is it that you are mad or intoxicated? Why do you come here to me +with all these statements? Why do you come here at all?" + +"Marlbury," he continued unmoved, "a nice, quiet little place. I spent +some time in the church there, and at the Council offices, looking for +something, for something I didn't find, Joany--and didn't expect to find +either, come to that, ha, ha!" He laughed. "No, never expected to find, +but, to make dead sure, I went to Morchester, and hunted there, Joany, +and still I didn't find what I was looking for and knew I shouldn't +find!" + +"Mr. Slotman!" + +"You aren't curious, are you? You won't ask what I was looking for, +perhaps you can guess!" He took a step nearer to her. "You can guess, +can't you, Joany?" he said. + +"I am not attempting to guess. I can only imagine that you are not in +your sane senses. You will now go, and if you return--" + +"Wait a moment. What I was looking for at Marlbury and Morchester and +did not find--was evidence of a marriage having taken place in June, +nineteen eighteen, between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth. But there's no +such evidence, none! Ah, that touches you a bit, don't it? Now you begin +to understand why I ain't taken in by your fine dignity!" + +"You--you have been looking for--for evidence of a marriage--my marriage +with--what do you mean?" + +Her face was flushed, her eyes brilliant with anger. + +"I mean that I am not a fool, though I was for a time. You took me in--I +am not blaming you"--he paused--"not blaming you. You were only a girl, +straight out of school. You didn't understand things, and the man--" + +"What--do--you--mean?" she whispered. + +"You left Miss Skinner's, said you were going to Australia, didn't you? +But you didn't go. Oh no, you didn't go! You know best where you went, +but there's no proof of any marriage at Marlbury or Morchester. Now--now +do you begin to understand?" + +She did understand, a sense of horror came to her, horror and shame that +this man should dare--dare to think evil of her! She felt that she +wanted to strike him. She saw him as through a mist--his hateful face, +the face she wanted to strike with all her might, and yet she was +conscious of an even greater anger, a very passion of hate and +resentment against another man than this, against the man who had +subjected her to these insults, this infamy. She gripped her hands hard. + +"You--you will leave this house. If you ever dare to return I will have +you flung out--you hear me? Go, and if you ever dare--" + +"No, no you don't!" he said. "Wait a moment. You can't take me in now!" +He laughed in her face. "If I go I'll go all right, but you'll never +hear the end of it. You're someone down here, aren't you? I have heard +about you. You're a Meredyth, and the Meredyths used to hold their +heads pretty high about here. But if you aren't careful I'll get +talking, and if I talk I'll make this place too hot to hold you. You +know what I mean. I hate threatening you, Joan, only you force me to do +it." His voice altered. "I hate threatening, and you know why. It is +because I love you, and I am willing to marry you--in spite of +everything, you understand? In spite of everything!" + +Joan threw out her hand and grasped at the edge of the table. + +"My friend out there--am I to call for him? Are you driving me to do +that? Shall I call him now?" + +"If you like," Slotman said. "If you do, I'll have something to tell him +of a marriage that never took place in June, nineteen eighteen, and of a +man who came to my office to see you, and offered to marry you--as +atonement. Oh yes, I heard--trust me! I don't let interviews take place +in my offices that I don't know anything about!" + +He was silent suddenly. There was that in her face that worried him, +frightened him in spite of himself--a wild, staring look in her eyes; +the whiteness of her cheeks, the whiteness even of her lips. There was a +tragic look about her. He had seen something like it on the stage at +some time. He realised that he might be goading her too far. + +"I'll go now," he said. "I'll go and leave you to think it all out. You +can rely on me not to say anything. I shan't humble you, or talk about +you--not me! A man don't run down the girl he means to make his wife, +and that's what I mean--Joan! In spite of everything, you understand, my +girl?" He paused. "In spite of everything, Joan, I'll still marry you! +But I'll come back. Oh, I'll come back, I--" He paused. He suddenly +remembered the denuded state of his finances, yet it did not seem an +auspicious moment just now to ask her for financial help. + +"I'll write," he thought. He looked at her. + +"Good-bye, Joan. I'll come back; you'll hear from me soon. Meanwhile, +remember--not a word, not a word to a living soul. You're all right, +trust me!" + +Meanwhile Johnny Everard wandered about the sweet, old-world garden, and +did not appreciate its beauties in the least. He was waiting, and there +is nothing so dreary as waiting for one one longs to see and who comes +not. + +But presently there came a maid, that same maid who had earned Johnny's +temporary hatred. + +"Miss Meredyth wished me to say, sir, that she would be very glad if you +would excuse her. She's been taken with a bad headache, and has had to +go to her own room to lie down." + +"Oh!" said Johnny. The sun seemed to shine less brightly for him for a +few moments. "I'm sorry. All right, tell her I am very sorry, and--and +shall hope to see her soon!" + +Ten minutes later Johnny Everard was driving back along the hot +high-road, utterly unconscious that the car was running very badly and +misfiring consistently. + +In her own room Joan sat, her elbows on the dressing-table, her eyes +staring unseeingly out into a garden, all glowing with flowers and +sunlight. + +She was not thinking of Johnny Everard; his very existence had for the +time being passed from her memory. She was thinking of that man, and of +what he had said, the horror and the shame of it. And that other +man--Hugh Alston--had brought this upon her--with his insulting lie, his +insolent, lying statement, he had brought it on her! Because of him she +was to be subjected to the shame and humiliation of such an attack as +Slotman had made on her just now. + +"Oh, what--what can I do?" she whispered. "And he--he dared to call +me--me ungenerous! Ungenerous for resenting, for hating him for the +position he has put me into. Why did he do it? Why, why, why?" she asked +of herself frantically, and receiving no answer, rose and for a time +paced the room, then came back to the table and sat down once again. + +Slotman had said he would return, that she would hear. She could imagine +how that the man, believing her good name in his power, and at his +mercy, would not cease to torment and persecute her. + +What could she do? To whom could she turn? She thought of Johnny Everard +for a fleeting moment. There was something so big and strong and honest +about him that he reminded her of some great, noble, clean dog, yet she +could not appeal to him. Had he been her brother--that would have been +different--but how explain to him? No, she could not. Yet she must have +protection from this man, this Slotman. Lady Linden, General +Bartholomew, Helen Everard, name after name came into her mind, and she +dismissed each as it came. To whom could she turn? And then came the +idea on which she acted at once. Of course it must be he! + +She rose and sought for pen and paper, and commenced a letter that was +difficult to write. She crushed several sheets of paper and flung them +aside, but the letter was written at last. + + "Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have + subjected me to insult and annoyance past all bearing, I ask you + to meet me in London at the earliest opportunity. I feel that I + have a right to appeal to you for some protection against the + insults to which your conduct has exposed me. I write in the hope + that you may possibly possess some of the generosity which you + have several times denied that I can lay claim to. I will keep + whatever appointment you may make at any time and any place, + + "JOAN MEREDYTH." + +And this letter she addressed to Hugh Alston at Hurst Dormer, and +presently went out, bareheaded, into the roadway, and with her own hands +dropped it into the post-box. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +"I SHALL FORGET HER" + + +Restless and unhappy, Hugh Alston had returned to Hurst Dormer, to find +there that everything was flat, stale, and unprofitable. He had an +intense love for the home of his birth and his boyhood, but just now it +seemed to mean less to him than it ever had before. He watched moodily +the workmen at their work on those alterations and restorations that he +had been planning with interested enthusiasm for many months past. Now +he did not seem to care whether they were done or no. + +"Why," he demanded of the vision of her that came to him of nights, "why +the dickens don't you leave me alone? I don't want you. I don't want to +remember you. I am content to forget that I ever saw you, and I wish to +Heaven you would leave me alone!" + +But she was always there. + +He tried to reason with himself; he attempted to analyse Love. + +"One cannot love a thing," he told himself, "unless one has every reason +to believe that it is perfection. A man, when he is deeply in love with +a woman, must regard her as his ideal of womanhood. In his eyes she must +be perfection; she must be flawless, even her faults he will not +recognise as faults, but as perfections that are perhaps a little beyond +his understanding--that's all right. Now in the case of Joan, I see in +her nothing to admire beyond the loveliness of her face, the grace of +her, the sweet voice of her and--oh, her whole personality! But I know +her to be mean-spirited and uncharitable, unforgiving, ungenerous. I +know her to be all these, and yet--" + +"Lady Linden, sir, and Miss Marjorie Linden!" + +They had not met for weeks. Her ladyship had driven over in the large, +comfortable carriage. "Give me a horse or, better still, two +horses--things with brains, created by the Almighty, and not a thing +that goes piff, piff, piff, and leaves an ungodly smell along the roads, +to say nothing of the dust!" + +So she had come here behind two fine horses, sleek and overfed. + +"Hello!" she said. + +"Hello!" said Hugh, and kissed her, and so the feud between them was +ended. + +"You are looking," her ladyship said, "rotten!" + +"I am looking exactly as I feel. How are you, Marjorie?" He held the +small hand in his, and looked kindly, as he must ever look, into her +pretty round face. Because she was blushing with the joy of seeing him, +and because her eyes were bright as twin stars, he concluded that she +was happy, and ascribed her happiness, not unnaturally considering +everything, to Tom Arundel. + +"As the cat," said Lady Linden, "wouldn't go to Mahomed--" + +"The mountain, you mean!" Hugh said. + +"Oh, I don't know. I knew it was a cat, a mountain or a coffin that one +usually associates with Mahomed. However, as you didn't come, I came--to +see what on earth you were doing, shutting yourself up here in Hurst +Dormer." + +"Renovations." + +"They don't agree with you. I expect it's the drains. You're doing +something to the drains, aren't you?" + +"Yes, I believe--" + +"Then go and get a suitcase packed, and come back with us to +Cornbridge." + +He would not hear of it at first; but Lady Linden had made up her mind, +and she was a masterful woman. + +"You'll come?" + +"Really, I think I had better--not. You see--" + +"I don't see! Marjorie, go out into the garden and smell the flowers. +Keep away from the drains.... You'll come?" she repeated, when the girl +had gone out. + +"Look here, I know what is in your mind; if I come, it will be on one +condition!" Hugh said. + +"I know what that condition is. Very well, I agree; we won't mention it. +Come for a week; it will do you good. You're too young to pretend you +are a hermit!" + +"You'll keep that condition; a certain name is not to be mentioned!" + +"I am no longer interested in the--young woman. I shall certainly not +mention her name. I think the whole affair--However, it is no business +of mine, I never interfere in other people's affairs!" said Lady Linden, +who never did anything else. + +"All right then, on that condition I'll come, and it is good of you to +ask me!" + +"Rot!" + +Hugh sent for his housekeeper. + +"I am going to Cornbridge for a few days. I'll leave you as usual to +look after everything. If any letters--come--there will be nothing of +importance, I may run over in a couple of days to see how things are +going on. Put my letters aside, they can wait." + +"Very good, sir!" said Mrs. Morrisey. And the first letter that she +carefully put aside was the one that Joan Meredyth had written, after +much hesitation and searching of mind, in her bedroom that afternoon at +Starden. + +And during the days that followed Joan watched the post every morning, +eagerly scanned the few letters that came, and then her face hardened a +little, the curves of her perfect lips straightened out. + +She had made a mistake; she had ascribed generosity and decency to one +who possessed neither. He had not even the courtesy to answer her +letter, in which she had pleaded for a meeting. She felt hot with shame +of herself that she had ever stooped to ask for it. She might have +guessed. + +A week had passed since Slotman's visit, and since she had with her own +hands posted the letter to Hugh Alston. A week of waiting, and nothing +had come of it! This morning she glanced through the letters. Her eyes +had lost their old eagerness; she no longer expected anything. + +As usual, there was nothing from "Him," but there was one for her in a +handwriting that she knew only too well. She touched it as if it were +some foul thing. She was in two minds whether to open and read it, or +merely return it unopened and addressed to Philip Slotman, Esq., +Gracebury, London, E.C. But she was a woman. And it takes a considerable +amount of strength of will to return unopened and unread a letter to its +sender, especially if one is a woman. + +What might not that letter contain? Apology--retraction, sorrow for the +past, or further insolent demands, veiled threats, and a repetition of +proposals refused with scorn and contempt--which was it? Who can tell by +the mere appearance of a sealed envelope and the impress of a postmark? + +Joan put the letter into her pocket. She would debate in her mind +whether she would read it or no. + +"A letter from Connie, dear," said Helen. "She is coming over this +afternoon and bringing Ellice Brand with her. Joan, it is a week or more +since Johnny was here." + +"Yes, about a week I think," said Joan indifferently. She was thinking +meanwhile of the letter in her pocket. + +Helen looked at her. She wanted to put questions; but, being a sensible +woman, she did not. She had a great affection for Johnny. What woman +could avoid having an affection and a regard for him? He was one of +those fine, clean things that men and women, too, must like if they are +themselves possessed of decency and appreciation of the good. + +Yes, she was fond of Johnny, and she had grown very fond of late of this +girl. She looked under the somewhat cold surface, and she recognised a +warm, a tender and a loving nature, that had been suppressed for lack of +something on which to lavish that wealth of tenderness that she held +stored up in her heart. + +Quite what part Hugh Alston had played in the life of Joan, Helen did +not know. But she hoped for Johnny. She wanted to see these two come +together. She was not above worldly considerations, for few good women +are. It would be a fine thing for Johnny, with his straitened income and +his habit of backing losers--from an agricultural point of view; but the +main thing, as she honestly believed, was that these two could be very +happy together. So she wondered a little, and puzzled a little, and +worried a little why Johnny Everard should suddenly have left off paying +almost daily visits to Starden. + +"I like Connie, and I shall be glad to see her," said Joan. + +"I wish Johnny were coming instead of--" + +"So do I!" said Joan heartily. "I like him, I think, even more than I +like Connie. There is something so--so honest and straight and good +about him. Something that makes one feel, 'Here is a man to rely on, a +man one can ask for help when in distress.' Sometimes--" She paused, +then suddenly she rose, and with a smile to Helen, went out. + +So there had been no quarrel, why should there have been? Certainly +there had not been. Joan had spoken handsomely of Johnny, and she had +said only what was true. + +"I shall tell Connie exactly what Joan said, and probably Connie will +repeat it to Johnny," Helen thought, which was exactly what she wished +Connie would do. + +In her own room Joan hesitated a moment, then tore open the envelope, +and drew out Mr. Philip Slotman's letter. + + "MY DEAR JOAN (her eyes flashed at the insolent familiarity of + it). Since my visit of a week ago, when you received me so + charmingly, I have constantly thought of you and your beautiful + home, and you cannot guess how pleased I am to feel that the wheel + of fortune had taken a turn to lift you high above all want and + poverty." + +She went on reading steadily, her lips compressed, her face hard and +bitter. + + "Unfortunately of late, things have not gone well with me. It is + almost as if, when you went, you took my luck away with you. At + any rate, I find myself in the immediate need of money, and to + whom should I appeal for a timely loan, if not to one between whom + and myself there has always been warm affection and friendship, to + say the least of it? That I am in your confidence, that I know so + much of the past, and that you trust in me so completely to + respect all your secrets, is a source of pleasure and pride to me. + So knowing that we do not stand to one another in the light of + mere ordinary friends, I do not hesitate to explain my present + embarrassment to you, and ask you frankly for the loan of three + thousand pounds, which will relieve the most pressing of my + immediate liabilities. Secure in the knowledge that you will + immediately come to my aid, as you know full well I would have + come to yours, had the positions been reversed, I am, my dear + Joan, + + "Yours very affectionately, + "PHILIP SLOTMAN." + +The letter dropped from her hands to the carpet. Blackmail! Cunningly +and cleverly wrapped up, but blackmail all the same, the reference to +his knowledge of what he believed to be her past! He knew that she was +one who would read and understand, that she would read, as is said, +between the lines. + +Three thousand pounds, to her a few short weeks ago a fortune; to her +now, a mere row of figures. She could spare the money. It meant no +hardship, no difficulty, and yet--how could she bring herself to pay +money to the man? + +She would not do it. She would return the letter, she would write across +it some indignant refusal, and then--No, she would think it over, take +time, consider. She was strong, and she was brave--she had faced an +unkindly world without losing heart or courage. Yet this was an +experience new to her. She was, after all, only a woman, and this man +was assailing that thing which a woman prizes beyond all else--her good +name, her reputation, and she knew full well how he might circulate a +lying story that she would have the utmost difficulty in disproving now. +He could fling mud, and some of it must stick! + +Charge a person with wrongdoing, and even though it be definitely proved +that he is innocent, yet people only remember the charge, the connection +of the man's name with some infamy, and forget that he was as guiltless +as they themselves. + +Joan knew this. She dreaded it; she shuddered at the thought that a +breath should sully her good name. She was someone now--a Meredyth--the +Meredyth of Starden. Three thousand pounds! If she paid him for his +silence--silence--of what, about what? Yet his lies might--She paced the +room, her brain in a whirl. What could she do? Oh, that she had someone +to turn to. She remembered the unanswered letter she had sent to Hugh +Alston, and then her eyes flashed, and her breast heaved. + +"I think," she said, "I think of the two I despise him the more. I +loathe and despise him the more!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +JEALOUSY + + +Joan and Constance Everard had taken a natural and instinctive liking +for one another. But to-day it seemed to Connie that Joan was silent, +less friendly, more thoughtful than usual. Her mind seemed to be +wondering, wrestling perhaps with some problem, of which Constance knew +nothing, and so it was. + +"What shall I do? Shall I send this man the money he demands, or shall I +refuse? And if I refuse, what then?" + +She knew that mud sticks, and she dreaded it, feared it. A threat of +bodily pain she could have borne with a smile of equanimity, but this +was different. She was so sensitive, so fine, so delicate, that the +thought of scandal, of lies that might besmirch her, filled her with +fear and shame and dread. It was weak perhaps, it was perhaps not in +accord with her high courage, and yet frankly she was afraid. + +"I shall send the money." She came to the decision suddenly. Connie was +speaking to her, about her brother, Joan believed, yet was not certain. +Her thoughts were far away with Slotman and his letter and his demand. + +"I shall send the money." And having made up her mind, she felt instant +relief. Yes, cowardly it might be, yet would it not be wiser to silence +the man, to pay him this money that she might have peace, that scandal +and shame might not touch her? + +"I wanted him to come with us this afternoon, but he could not. It is +the hops!" Connie sighed. "You don't know what a constant dread and +worry hops can be, Joan. There is always the spraying. Johnny is +spraying hard now. Of course we are not rich, and a really bad hop +season is a serious thing." + +"Of course!" Joan said. Yes, she would send the money. She would send +the man a cheque this very day, as soon as the visitors were gone. + +"I think she is worried about something," Connie thought. "It cannot be +that she and Johnny have had a disagreement, yet for the last week he +has been worried, different--so silent, so quiet, so unlike himself. I +wonder--?" + +She had brought the dark-eyed slip of a girl with her to-day, and from a +distance Ellice sat watching the girl whom she told herself she +hated--this girl who had in some strange way affected and bewitched +Johnny, Johnny who belonged to her, Johnny whom she loved with a +passionate devotion only she herself could know the depth of. How she +hated her, she thought, as she sat watching the calm, beautiful, +thoughtful face, with its strange, dreamy, far-away look in the big grey +eyes. + +She realised her beauty; she could not blind herself to it. She felt she +must admire it because it was so apparent, so glowing, so obtrusive; and +because she did admire it, she felt that she hated the owner of it the +more. + +"Why can't she leave Johnny alone? I've known him all these years, and +it seems as if he had belonged to me. He never looked at any other girl, +and now--now--she is here with all her money and her looks--and he is +bewitched, he is different." + +Helen rose; she wanted a few quiet words with Connie. + +"I want to show you something in the garden, Connie," she said. "I know +Joan won't mind." And so the two went out and left Joan alone with the +girl, who watched her silently. + +Out in the garden Helen and Constance had what women love and hold so +dear--a heart-to-heart talk, an exchange of secrets and ideas. + +"Do you think she cares for him?" + +"I don't know, dear; but do you think he cares for her?" + +"I am certain of it!" + +"She spoke of him very nicely to-day. She said--" Helen repeated Joan's +exact words. + +So they talked, these two in the garden, of their hopes and of what +might be, unselfish talk of happiness that might possibly come to those +they loved, and in the drawing-room Ellice Brand eyed this girl, her +rival, whom she hated. + +"Will you excuse me?" Joan said suddenly. "There is a letter I must +write. I have just remembered that the post goes at five, so--" + +"Of course!" + +She laughed sharply when Joan had gone out. "If he were here, it would +be different. She would be all smiles and graciousness, but I am not +worth while bothering about." + +Joan wrote the cheque. It was for a large sum, the largest cheque not +only that she had ever drawn, but that she had ever seen in her life. +But it would be money well spent; it would silence the slanderous +tongue. + + "I am sending you the money you demand. I understand your letter + thoroughly. I am neither going to defend myself, nor excuse myself + to you. I of course realise that I am paying blackmail, and do so + rather than be annoyed and tormented by you. Here is your money. I + trust I shall neither hear of you nor see you again. + + "JOAN MEREDYTH." + +And this letter Joan posted with her own hand in the same post-box into +which she had dropped that letter more than a week ago, the letter to a +man who was without chivalry and generosity. She thought of him at the +moment she let this other letter fall. + +Yes, of the two she despised him and hated him the more. + +And then when the letter was posted and gone beyond recall, again came +the self-questionings. Had she done right? Had she not acted foolishly +and weakly, to pay this man money that he had demanded with covert +threats? And too late she regretted, and would have had the letter back +if she could. + +"I have no one, not a soul in the world I can turn to. Even Helen is +almost a stranger," the girl thought. "I cannot confide in her. I seem +to be so--so alone, so utterly alone." She twisted her hands together +and stood thoughtful for some moments in the roadway where she turned +back through the garden gate to the house. + +"I feel so--so tired," she whispered, "so tired, so weary of it all. I +have no one to turn to." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +"UNCERTAIN--COY" + + +Mr. Tom Arundel, cheerful and happy-go-lucky, filled with an immense +belief in a future which he was sure would somehow shape itself +satisfactorily, felt a little hurt, a little surprised, just a little +disenchanted. + +"I can't think what's come over her. She used to be such a ripping +little thing, so sweet and good-tempered, and now--why she snaps a +chap's head off the moment he opens his mouth. Goo-law!" said Tom. +"Supposing she grows up to be like her aunt--maybe it is in the blood!" + +The prospect seemed to overwhelm him for a moment. Certainly of late +Marjorie had been uncertain, coy, and very hard to please. Marjorie had +suffered, and was suffering. She was contrasting Tom with Hugh, and Hugh +with Tom, and it made her heart ache and made her angry with herself for +her own previous blindness. And, womanlike, being in a very bad temper +with herself, she snapped at the luckless Tom like an ill-conditioned +terrier, and he never approached her but that she, metaphorically, bared +her pretty white teeth, ready to do battle with him. + +"Rum things, girls--never know how to take 'em! She don't seem like the +same," thought Tom. "I wonder--" + +There had been a breeze, a distinct breeze. Perhaps Tom, anxious to +propitiate Lady Linden, had been a little more servile than usual. He +did not mean to be servile. Alluding to his attitude afterwards to +Marjorie, he called it "Pulling the old girl's leg." And when Marjorie +had turned on him, her eyes had flashed scorn on him, her little body +had quivered and shaken with indignation. + +"If you think it clever currying favour with aunt by--by crawling to +her," she cried, "then I don't! If you want to--to keep my respect, +you'll have to act like a man, a man with self-respect! I--I hate to see +you cringing to aunt, it makes me detest you. What does it matter if she +has money? Do you want her money? Do you want her money more than you +want me?" + +"Goo-law, old girl, I--" + +"Don't talk to me!" cried Marjorie. "Be a man, or I shall hate you!" And +she had left him rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and wondering at the +ways of women and of Marjorie Linden in particular. + +"Blinking little spitfire, that's what she is!" he thought. "If she +means to grow like the old girl, then--then--Hello, here's old Alston!" + +Hugh could give Tom Arundel a matter of eight years, and therefore Tom +regarded him as elderly. "A decent old bird!" was his favourite +estimate. + +"Hello!" said Hugh. "What's the matter? Not been rowing, have you? Tom, +not rowing with the little girl, eh?" + +Hugh's face was serious, for he had caught a glimpse of Marjorie a while +ago hurrying through the garden, and the look on her face had sent him +to find Tom. + +"Not worrying--her or rowing her?" + +"No, goodness knows I haven't said a word, but she flew at me and bit +me!" + +"Did what?" + +"Metaphorically, of course," said Tom. "I say, Alston, do you think +Marjorie is going to grow like her aunt?" + +"Look here," said Hugh, and he gripped Tom by the shoulder with such +strength that Tom was surprised and a little pained. "Look here, I don't +know what Marjorie is going to grow like, but I know this--that she is +the sweetest, most tender-hearted, dearest little soul, loyal and true +and straight, and because you've won her love, my good lad, you ought to +go down on your knees and thank Heaven for it. She's worth ten, fifty, +a hundred of you and of me. A good woman--and Marjorie is that--a good +woman, I tell you, is better, infinitely better, than the finest man +that walks; and you are not that, not by a long way, Tom Arundel. So if +you've offended the child, go after her. Ask her to forgive you and ask +her humbly. You hear me? Ask her deucedly humbly, my lad! And listen to +this--if you bring one tear to her eyes, one tear, one little stab to +that tender heart of hers, if you--you bring one breath of sorrow and +sadness into her life, I'll break your confounded neck for you! Have you +got that, Tom Arundel?" + +A final shake that made Tom's teeth rattle, and Hugh turned and strode +away to find Marjorie. Tom Arundel stared after him. + +"Well, I--hang me! Hang me if I don't believe old Alston's in love with +her himself!" + +Hugh Alston had meant to run over to Hurst Dormer and see how things +were getting on there, and incidentally to collect any letters that +might have come for him. But the days passed, and Hugh did not go. Lady +Linden required her fat horses for her own purposes. Marjorie's own +little ancient car had developed a serious internal complaint that had +put it definitely out of commission, so there was no means of getting to +Hurst Dormer unless he walked, or wired to his man to bring over his own +car, but Hugh did not trouble to do that. They did not want him there, +everything would be all right, so Joan's letter, with others, was +propped up on the mantelpiece in his study and dusted carefully every +morning; and Joan watched the post in vain, and with a growing sense of +anger and humiliation in her breast. + +But of this Hugh knew nothing. He was watching Marjorie and Tom. Somehow +his sacrifice did not seem to have brought about the happy results that +he had hoped for. + +So Hugh, though he had little understanding of women, felt yet that +things were not as they should be and as Marjorie of course could not +possibly be to blame, it must be Tom Arundel, and to Tom he addressed +himself forcibly. + +Tom listened resentfully. "Look here, Alston, I don't know what the lay +is," he said. "I don't know what's the matter. I am not conscious of +having offended her. If I have, I am sorry--why goo-law, I worship the +ground the little thing treads on!" + +And Hugh, looking Tom straight in the eyes, knew that he was speaking +the truth. + +"Good!" he said. "I'm glad to hear it, and she's worth it!" + +"And--and it hurts me, by George it does, Alston," Tom said, "the way +she cuts up rough with me. And now you go for me bald-headed, as if I'd +behaved like a pig to her. Why goo-law, man, I'd lie down and let her +jump on me. I'd go and drown myself if it would cause her any--any +amusement." + +There was a distinct suggestion of tears in the boy's eyes, and Hugh +turned hastily away. + +"Marjorie dear," he was saying a while later, "what's wrong? Tell me all +about it. Tell your old friend Hugh, and see if he can put things +right." + +"There is nothing--nothing wrong, Hugh!" Marjorie gasped. "Nothing! +Nothing in the world!" And she belied her statement by suddenly sobbing +and hiding her face against his shoulder. + +"There, there--there!" he said, feeling as awkward as a man must feel +when a woman cries to him. He patted her shoulder with the uncomfortable +feeling that he was behaving like an idiot. + +"It--it is nothing!" she gasped. "Hugh, it is really nothing!" + +"Tom's a good lad, one of the best--clean through and through!" + +"Yes, I know he is, and--and oh, I do know it, Hugh, and it isn't Tom's +fault!" + +"Your aunt's been worrying you?" + +"No, it is not that--oh, it is nothing, nothing in the world. It is only +that I am a--a--little fool, an ungrateful, silly, little fool!" + +And Hugh was frankly puzzled. + +"You're going to be as happy as the day is long, little girl," he said. +"Tom loves you, worships the ground you walk on; I think you're going to +be the happiest girl alive. Dry your tears, dear, and smile as you used +to in the old days!" He stooped over her and pressed a kiss on her +shining hair; and there came to her a mad, passionate longing to lift +her arms and clasp them about his neck and confess all, confess her +stupidity and her blindness and her folly. + +"It is you--you are the man I love. It is you I want--you all the time!" +She longed to say it, but did not, and Hugh Alston never knew. + +Hurst Dormer looked empty, and seemed silent and dull after Cornbridge. +No place was dull and certainly no place was silent where Lady Linden +was, and coming back to Hurst Dormer, Hugh felt as if he was then +entering into a desert of solitude and silence. + +"Everything has been quite all right," said Mrs. Morrisey. "The men have +got on nicely with their work. Lane has taken advantage of your being +away to give the car a thorough overhaul, and--and I think that is all, +sir. There are a few letters waiting for you. I'll get them." + +From whom this letter? Whose hand this? He wondered. He had never seen +"Her" writing before, yet instinct told him that this was hers. + +Two minutes later Hugh Alston was behaving like a lunatic. + +"Mrs. Morrisey! Mrs. Morrisey! When did this letter come?" + +"Oh, that one, sir? It came ten days ago--the very day you left, the +same evening." + +"Then why--why in the name of Heaven--" he began, and then stopped +himself, for he remembered that he had ordered no letters should be sent +on. + +"I hope it is not important, sir?" + +"Important!" he said. "Oh no, not at all, nothing important!" Again he +read-- + + "Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have + subjected me to insult and annoyance, past all bearing, I ask you + to meet me in London at the earliest opportunity..." + +At the earliest opportunity! And those words had been written eleven +days ago; and she had underscored the word "earliest" three times. +Eleven days ago! "I feel I have a right to appeal to you for +protection...." + +She had written that, an appeal to him, and he had not until now read +the written words. + +What was she thinking of him? What could she think of his long silence? + +He could not blame Mrs. Morrisey. There was only himself to blame, no +one else! And there had he been, cooling his heels at Cornbridge and +interfering with other folks' love affairs, and all the time Joan--Joan +was perhaps wondering, watching, waiting for the answer that never came. + +He wanted to send a frantic telegram; but he did nothing of the kind. He +wrote instead. + + "I have been away. Only a few minutes ago did your letter reach + me. I am at your service in all things. Heaven knows I bitterly + regret the annoyance that you have been caused through me. You ask + me to meet you in London. Do you not know that I will come most + willingly, eagerly. I am writing this on the evening of Tuesday. + You should receive my letter on Wednesday, probably in the + evening; but in case it may be delayed, I suggest that you meet me + in London on Thursday afternoon"--he paused, racking his brain for + some suitable meeting place--"at four o'clock, in the Winter + Garden of the Empire Hotel. Do not trouble to reply. I shall be + there without fail, and shall then be, as I am now, and will ever + be, + + "Yours to command, + "HUGH ALSTON." + +This letter he wrote hurriedly, and raced off with it to catch the post. + +Seven, eight, ten days ago since Joan had written that letter, and there +had come no reply. The man had ignored her, had treated her with silent +contempt. The thought made her face burn, brought a sense of miserable +self-abasement to her. She had pleaded to him for help, and he had +treated her with silence and contempt. + +Well, what did it matter? She hated him. She had always hated him. She +laughed aloud and bitterly at her own thoughts. "Yes," she repeated to +herself, "I hate him. I feel nothing but scorn and contempt for him. I +am glad he did not answer my letter. I hope that I shall never see him +again. If we do meet, by some mischance, then I shall pass him by." + +Several times this morning Helen had looked curiously at Joan. For Helen +was in a secret that as yet Joan did not share. It was a little +conspiracy, with Helen as the prime mover in it. + +"I am sure that there never was anything between Joan and that Hugh +Alston. It was some foolish tittle-tattle, some nonsense, probably +hatched by that stupid old talkative Lady Linden." + +Two days ago had come a letter for Helen Everard, with an Australian +stamp on it. It was from Jessie, her only sister, urging her to come out +to her there, reminding her of an old promise to make a home in that +distant land with her and her children. And Helen knew she must go. She +wanted to go, had always meant to go, for Jessie's boys were very dear +to her. Yet to leave Joan alone in this great house, so utterly alone! + +Last night Helen had driven over quietly to Buddesby, and she and +Constance had had a long talk. + +"I can't leave Joan alone. I have written to Jessie, telling her that I +shall start in three months. I have said nothing to Joan yet; but, +Connie, I can't leave her alone!" + +"Helen, do you think she could care for Johnny enough to become his +wife?" + +"I believe she is fond of him. I will not say that I think she is +desperately in love, but she likes him and trusts him, as she must; and +so, Connie, I hope it may come about. Joan will make an ideal wife. He +is all a woman could wish and hope for, the truest, dearest, straightest +man living, and so--Connie--I hope--" + +"I will talk to him to-night, and I will suggest that he comes over +to-morrow and puts his fate to the test. I know he loves her." + +And to-day Johnny Everard should be here, if he had listened to his +sister's advice, and that was a thing that Johnny ever did, save in the +matter of hops. + +There was a look of subdued eagerness, of visible nervousness and +uncertainty, about Mr. John Everard that day. And Helen saw it. + +"Joan's in the garden, John," she said. + +"Yes, I--" He fumbled nervously with his hands. + +"Helen, I have been talking to Con, at least Con's been talking to me!" + +"Yes, dear?" + +"And she--she says--Con tells me that there is a chance for me--just a +chance, Helen. And, Helen, I don't want to spoil my chance, if I have +one, by rushing in. You understand?" + +"I think," Helen said, "that Joan would like you the better and admire +you the more for being brave enough to speak out." + +"That's it! I've got to speak out. You know I love her!" + +"I do, dear." + +"But she doesn't love me. It is not likely; how could she? Look at me, a +great ugly chap--how could such a girl care for me?" + +"I think any girl might very easily care for you, Johnny!" + +"An ugly brute like me? A farmer. I am nothing more, Helen, and--and--" + +"Johnny, she is in the garden. Go to her; take your courage in both your +hands. Remember-- + + 'He either fears his fate too much. + Or his deserts are small, + That dares not put it to the touch, + To gain or lose it all.'" + +"I'll go!" Johnny Everard said. "I can but lose, eh? That's the worst +that can happen to me--lose. But, by Heaven! if I do lose, it is going +to--to hurt, and hurt badly. Helen dear, wish me luck!" + +She put both her hands on his broad shoulders and kissed him on the +forehead. She felt to him as a mother might. + +"From my heart, Johnny, I wish you luck and fortune and happiness," she +said. + +Joan was at the far end of the wide, far-spreading garden. She was +seated on a bench beside a pool where grew water-lilies, and where in +the summer sunshine the dragon-flies skimmed on the placid surface of +the green water--water that now and again was broken into a ripple by +the quick twist of the tail of one of the fat old carp that lived their +humdrum, adventureless years in the quiet depths. + +She sat here, chin in hand, grey eyes watching the pool, yet seeing +nothing of its beauties, and her thoughts away, away with a man who had +insulted her, had brought trouble and shame and anger to her--a man to +whom she had appealed, and had appealed in vain; a man dead to all +manhood, a man she hated--yes, hated--for often she told herself so, and +it must be true. + +And then suddenly she heard the fall of a footstep on the soft turf +behind her, and, turning, looked into the face of a man whose eyes were +filled with love for her. + +So for one long moment they looked at one another, and the colour rose +in the girl's cheeks, and into her eyes there came a wistful regret. For +she knew why this man was here. She knew what he had to say to her, to +ask of her, here by the green pool. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +"--TO GAIN, OR LOSE IT ALL" + + +"Take your courage in both hands" Helen had said to him, and he was +doing so; but Johnny Everard knew himself for a coward at this moment. + +He felt tongue-tied, more than usually awkward, terribly and shamefully +nervous. Yet the grey eyes were on his face, and he knew that he must +speak, must put all to the hazard. And he knew also that if to-day he +lost her, it would be the biggest and the blackest sorrow of his life, +something that he would never live down, never forget. + +Oh, it was worth fighting for, worth taking his courage in both hands +for, this girl with the sweet, serious face and the tender mouth, the +great, enquiring, yet trusting grey eyes. He had seen her cold, stately, +a little unapproachable, but he had never seen scorn in those eyes. He +had never seen the red lips curled with contempt. He knew nothing of her +in this guise, as another man did. + +And now the girl seemed to be all woman, tender, sympathetic, and the +courage came to him; he sate himself beside her and took her hand in +his, and it gave him hope that she did not draw it away. + +What he said, how he said it, how he stumbled over his story of love and +devotion he never knew. But it was an honest story, a story that did him +honour, and did honour too to the woman he told it to. + +"I love you, dear. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. I +know you are high above me. I know what I am, an unlovely sort of +fellow, rough and--and not fit to touch your hand--" for, being deeply +in love, his opinion of himself had naturally sunk to zero. The +perfection of the beloved object always makes an honest man painfully +conscious of his own inferiority and unworthiness. And so it was with +Johnny Everard, this day beside the green pool. And the slim, cool hand +was not withdrawn. + +"Johnny, what are you asking me? Why have you come here to me? What do +you want--of me?" she asked, yet did not look him in the face, but sat +with eyes resting on the placid water. + +"Just to tell you that--to tell you how I love you, Joan." + +Another man had told her that; the echo of his words came back to her +from the past. How often those words of his had come back; she could +never forget them. Yet she told herself that she hated him who had +uttered them, hated him, for was he not a proved craven? + +_("If, in telling you that I love you, is a sin fast all forgiveness, I +glory in it. I take not one word of it back.")_ + +And now another, a worthier, better man, was telling her the same story, +holding her hand, and, she knew, looking into her face; yet her eyes did +not meet his. + +And, listening to him, her heart grew more bitter than ever before to +the man who had uttered those words she would never forget, bitter +against him, yet more against herself. For she was conscious of shame +and anger--at her woman's weakness, at the folly of which her woman's +heart was capable. + +"I know I am not fit for you, not good enough for you, Joan. There isn't +a man living who would be--but--I love you--dear, and with God's help I +would try to make you a happy woman." + +Manly words, honest and sincere, she knew, as must be all that this man +said and did--a man to rely on, a very tower of strength; a man to +protect her, a man to whom she could take her troubles and her secrets, +knowing full well that he would not fail her. + +And while these thoughts passed in her mind she sat there silently, her +hand in his, and never thought to draw it away. + +"Joan, will you be my wife, dear? I am asking for more than I could ever +deserve. There is nothing about me that makes me worthy of that great +happiness and honour, save one thing--my love for you." + +"And yet," she said, and broke her silence for the first time, "there is +one question that you do not ask me, Johnny." + +"One question?" + +"You do not ask me if I love you!" + +"How can I ask for the impossible, the unlikely? There is nothing in me +for such a girl as you to love." + +"There is much in you for any woman to love. There is honesty and truth +and bravery, and a clean sweet mind. I know all that, I know that you +are a good man, Johnny. I know that; but oh, I do not love you!" + +"I know," he said sadly. "I know that." And his hand seemed to slip away +from hers. + +"And you would not--not take me--Johnny, without love?" she asked, and +her voice trembled. + +"Joan, I--I don't understand. I am a foolish, dense fellow, dear, and I +don't understand!" + +She turned to him, and now her eyes met his frankly, and never had he +seen them so soft, so tender, so filled with a strange and wonderful +light, the light that is born of tenderness and sympathy and kindliness. + +"Would you make me your wife, Johnny, knowing that I--I do not love you +as a woman should love the man she takes for her husband." + +"I--I would try to teach you, dear. I would try to win a little of your +heart." + +"And that would content you, Johnny?" + +"It must. I dare not ask too much, and I--I--love you so!" + +_("I glory in it. I take not one word of it lack!")_ + +Hateful words, words she could never forget, that came back to torture +and fill her with a sense of shame. Strange that they were dinning in +her memory, even now. + +_("I glory in it. I take not one word back!")_ + +And then suddenly she made a gesture, as to fling off remembrance. She +turned more fully to him, and her eyes met his frankly. + +"I do not love you, dear, as a woman should love the man she mates with; +but I like you. I honour you and trust you, and if--if you will take me +as I am, not asking for too much, not asking, dear, for more than I can +give--" + +"Joan," he said, "my Joan!" + +She bent her head. + +"If you will take me--as I am, not asking for more than I can give, +then--then I will come to you, if you will have it so. But oh, my dear, +you are worth more than this, far more than this!" + +He lifted her hand and held it to his lips, the only embrace that in his +humility he dare offer her. And even while she felt his lips upon her +hand, there came back to her memory eyes that glowed with love and +passion, a deep voice that shook with feeling-- + +_("I glory in it, and take not one word of it back!")_ + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +IN THE MIRE + + +Women, chattering over their tea in the lounge of the Empire Hotel, +followed the tall restless young man with their eyes. He was worth +looking at, so big and fine, and bronzed, and so worried, so +anxious-looking, poor fellow. + +Four o'clock, a quarter past, half past. She would not come. Of course +she would not come; he had offended past all forgiveness in taking so +long to reply to her appeal. Hugh Alston cursed the unlucky star that he +must have been born under. + +Two middle-aged women, seated at a small table, taking their tea after +strenuous shopping at the sales, watched him and discussed him frankly. + +"Evidently here to meet someone!" + +"And she hasn't come!" + +"You can see how disappointed he looks, poor fellow." + +"Too bad of her!" + +"My dear, what some men can see in some women..." + +"And a girl who would keep a man like that waiting deserves to lose +him." + +"I hope she does. See, he's going now. I hope she comes later and is +disappointed." + +"Oh no, I think that must be she. What a handsome girl, but how cold and +proud looking!" + +She had come, even as he was giving up in despair. As he turned to +leave, she came, and they met face to face. + +The two amiable busybodies sipped their tea and watched. + +"My dear, she didn't even offer him her hand--such a cold and stately +bow. They can't be lovers, after all!" + +"I don't think I ever saw a more lovely girl!" + +"But icily cold. That pink chiffon I bought at Robinson's will make up +into a charming evening dress for Irene, don't you think?" + +"I am afraid I am late," Joan said, and her voice was clear and cold, +expressionless as a voice could be. + +"Surely I deserve that at least, after the unforgivable delay in +answering your letter." + +"Yes," she said, "you--you were a long time answering." And suddenly she +realised what that delay had meant. + +Yesterday, if his answer had come, perhaps she would not have done as +she had done. But it was done now, past recall. + +"I was away. I found Hurst Dormer irksome and lonely. Lady Linden came +over; she invited me to stay at Cornbridge," he explained. "So I went, +and no letters were forwarded. Yours came within a few hours of my +leaving. I hope you understand that if I had had it--" + +"You would have answered it before, Mr. Alston? Yes, I am glad to feel +the neglect was not intentional." + +"Intentional!" + +"I--I thought, judging from the manner in which we last parted, and what +you then said to me, that you--you preferred not to--see me again." + +"I was hurt then, hurt and bitter. I had no right to say what I said. I +ask you to accept my apologies, Joan." + +She started a little at the sound of her name, but did not look at him. + +"Perhaps you were right. I have thought it over since. Yes, I think I +acted meanly; it was a thing a woman would do. That is where a woman +fails--in small things--ideas, mean ideas come to her mind, just like +that one. A man would not think such things. Yes, I am ashamed by the +smallness of it. You said 'ungenerous.' I think a better expression +would have been 'mean-spirited.'" + +"Joan!" + +"But we need not discuss that. We owe one another apologies. Shall we +take it that they are offered and accepted?" + +He nodded. "Tea?" he asked, "or coffee?" For the hotel servant had come +for his orders. + +"Tea, please," she said; "and--and this time I will not ask for the +bill." The faintest flicker of a smile crossed her lips, and then was +gone, and he thought that in its place a look of weariness and +unhappiness came into the girl's face. + +She had sent for him to ask his help. His letter had only reached her +that morning, and when she had read it, she had asked herself, "Shall I +go? Shall I see him?" And had answered "No! It is over; I do not need +his help now. I have someone else to whom I must turn for help, someone +who will give it readily." + +And yet she had come--that is the way of women. And because she had +come, she would still ask his help, and not ask it of that other. For +surely he who had brought all this trouble on to her should be the one +to clear her path? + +The waiter brought the tea, and Hugh leaned back and watched her as she +poured it out. And, watching her, there came to him a vision of the +bright morning room at Hurst Dormer, a vision of all the old familiar +things he had known since boyhood: and in that vision, that day-dream, +he saw her sitting where his mother once had sat, and she was pouring +out tea, even as now. + +A clearer, stronger vision this than any he had had in the old days of +Marjorie. He smiled at the thought of those dreams, so utterly broken +and dead and wafted away into the nothingness of which they had been +built. + +"You sent for me to help you?" + +"Yes!" A tinge of colour rose in her cheeks and waxed till her cheeks +and even her throat were flooded with a brilliant, glorious flush, and +then, suddenly as it had come, it died away again, leaving her whiter +than before. + +"I wanted your help. I felt that I had a right to ask it, seeing that +you--you--" + +"Have caused you trouble and annoyance? You wrote that," he said. + +She bowed her head. + +"What you did, has brought more trouble, more shame, more annoyance to +me than I can ever explain. I do not ask you to tell me why you did +it--it was cruel and mean, unmanly; but you did it. And it can never be +undone, so I ask for no reasons, no explanations. They--they do not +interest me now. You have brought me trouble and--even danger--and so I +turned to you, to ask your help. I have the right, have I not the +right--to demand it?" + +"The greatest right on earth," he said. "Joan, how can I help you?" + +But she did not answer immediately, for the answer would be difficult. + +"When you played with a woman's name," she said, "you played with the +most fragile, the most delicate and easily breakable thing there is. Do +you realise that? A woman's fair name is her most sacred possession, and +yet you played with mine, used it for your own purpose, and so have +brought me to shame and misery." + +"Joan," he leaned towards her, "how--how--tell me how?" + +"Three days ago," she said quietly, "I submitted and paid three thousand +pounds blackmail, rather than that your name and mine, linked together, +should be dragged in the mire!" + +It was almost as though those white hands of hers had struck him a heavy +blow between the eyes. Hugh sat and stared at her in amaze. + +Her words seemed obscure, scarcely possible to understand, yet he had +gathered in the sense of them. + +"Three days ago I submitted and paid three thousand pounds blackmail +rather than your name and mine, linked together, should be dragged in +the mire." + +A girl might well shrink to tell a man what she must tell him, to go +into explanations that were an offence to the purity of her mind. Yet, +listening to her, looking at her, at the pale, proud young face, white +as marble, Hugh Alston knew that he had never admired and reverenced her +as he did now. + +"The story that you told of our marriage, that lie that I can never +understand, passed from lip to lip. Many have heard it; it has caused +many to wonder. I do not ask why you uttered it. It does not matter now, +nothing matters, save that you did utter it, and it has gone abroad. +Then one day you came to the office where I was employed, and the man +who employed me put his private room at your disposal, knowing that by +means of some spyhole he had contrived he could hear all that passed +between us. And then you offered me marriage--by way of atonement. Do +you remember? You offered to--to atone by marrying me." + +"In my mad, presumptuous folly, Joan!" + +"And it was overheard; the man heard all. He did not understand--how +should he? His vile mind grasped at other meanings. He went down to +Marlbury and to Morchester to make enquiries, to look for an entry in a +register that was never made. He went to General Bartholomew and then +Cornbridge, where he saw Lady Linden, and heard from her all that she +had to tell, and then--then he came to me. He told me that he knew the +truth, and that if I would marry him he would forgive--forgive +everything!" + +Hugh Alston said nothing. He sat with his big hands gripped hard, and +thinking of Philip Slotman a red fury passed like a mist before his +eyes. + +"I told him to go, and then came a letter from him, a friendly letter, +a letter that could not cause him any trouble. He assured me of his +friendship and of his--silence, you understand, his silence--and asked +me as a friend to lend him three thousand pounds. It was blackmail--oh, +I knew that. I hesitated, and did not know what to do. There was none to +whom I could turn--no one. I had no friend. Helen Everard is only a +friend of a few short weeks. I felt that I could not go to her, I felt +somehow that she would never understand. And then--then at last, +because, I suppose, I am a woman and therefore a coward, and because I +was so alone--so helpless--I sent the money." + +"Oh, that I--" + +"Remember," she said, "remember I had written to you, asking your help. +I had waited days, and no answer had come. I had no right to believe +that I could ask your help." + +"Joan, Joan, didn't you know that you could? Have you forgotten what I +told you once--that stands true to-day as then, will stand true to the +last hour of my life. I have brought shame and misery on you, God +forgive me--yet unintentionally, Joan." He leaned forward, and grasped +at her hand and held it, though she would have drawn it free of him. "I +told you that I loved you that night. I love you now--my love for you +gives me the right to protect you!" + +"You have no rights, no rights," she said, and drew her hand away. + +"Because you will not give me those rights. I asked you to marry me +once. I came to you, thinking in my small soul that I was doing a fine +thing, offering atonement--my--my very words, atonement--for the evil I +had unwittingly done. And you refused to accept the prize!" He laughed +bitterly. "You refused with scorn, just scorn, Joan. You made me realise +that I had but added to my offence. I--I to offer you marriage, in my +lordly way, when I should have sued on my knees to you for forgiveness, +as I would sue now, humbly and contritely, offering love and love +alone--love and worship and service to the end of my days, as please +Heaven I shall sue, Joan." + +"You cannot!" she said quietly. "You cannot, and if you should, the +answer will be the same, as then!" + +"Because you can never forgive?" + +"Because I have no power to give what you would ask for!" + +"Your love?" + +She did not answer. She turned her face away, for she knew she could not +in truth say "No" to that, for the knowledge that she had been trying to +stifle was with her now, the knowledge that meant that she could not +love the man whose wife she had promised to be. + +"My--my hand--" she said. + +And he, not understanding for the moment, looked at her, and then +suddenly understanding came to him. + +"You--you mean?" + +"You--you did not answer my letter, and I--I waited," she said, and her +voice was low and muffled. There was no pride in her face now; all its +hardness, all its bitterness and scorn were gone. + +"I waited and waited--and thought--hoped," she said, "and nothing came. +And yesterday a man--a man I like and admire, a fine man, a good man, +honest and noble, a man who--who loves me better than I deserve, came to +me--and--and so to-day it is too late! Though," she cried, with a touch +of scorn for herself, "it would have made no difference--nothing would +have made any difference. You--you understand that I scarcely know what +I am saying!" + +"You have given your promise to another man?" he asked quietly. + +"Yes!" + +"And you do not love him?" + +"He's a man," she cried, "a man who would not make a jest of a woman's +name." + +"And even so, you do not love him, because that would not be possible." + +"You have no right to say that," and she wrenched her hand free. + +"I have the right, the right you gave me." + +"I--I gave you no right." + +"You have. You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart. +You do not love that man, because you love me!" + +Back into the white face came all the hardness and coldness that he so +well knew. She rose; she looked down on him. + +"It is--untrue. I do not. I have but one feeling for you +always--always--the same, the one feeling. I despise you. How could I +love a thing that I despise?" + +And, knowing that it was a lie, she dared not meet the scrutiny of his +eyes, and turned quickly away. + +"Joan!" he said. He would have followed her, but then came the waiter +with his bill, and he was forced to stay, and when he reached the street +she was gone. + +"I quite thought that they were going to make it up, and then it seemed +that they quarrelled again," one of the ladies at the other table said. + +The other nodded. "I think that they do not know their own minds, young +people seldom do. I wish I had bought three yards more of that cerise +ninon. It would have made up so well for Violet, don't you think?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +MR. ALSTON CALLS + + +Mr. Philip Slotman sat in his office; he was slowly deciphering a +letter, ill-written and badly spelled. + + "DEAR SIR, + + "According to promise I am writing to you hopeing it finds you as + it leaves me at present. Dear sir, having some news I am writing + to tell you saime. Yesterday Mr. John Everard of Buddesby was here + and him and Miss Jone was in the garden for a long time. I seen + them from my window, but could not get near enuff to hear. Anyhow + I see him kissing her hand. Laiter, after he had gone, I seen Miss + Jone and Mrs. Everard together, and listened as best I could. From + what I heard I imadgined that Miss Jone and Mr. John Everard is + now engaged to be married, which Mrs. Everard seems very pleased + to hear. + + "This morning Miss Jone gets a letter and the postmark is Hurst + Dormer, like you told me to look out for. She is now gone to + London. Please send money in accordance with promise and I will + write and tell you all the news as soon as there is any more. + + "Youres truley, + "MISS ALICE BETTS." + +The door opened, a boy clerk came in. Slotman thrust the letter he had +been reading into an open drawer. + +"What is it? What do you want?" + +"A gentleman to see you, sir. Mr. Alston from--" + +"I can't see him!" Slotman said quickly. "Tell him I am out, and +that--" + +"I am already here, and you are going to see me." Hugh Alston came in. +"You can go!" to the boy, who hesitated. "You hear me, you can go!" + +Hugh closed the door after the lad. + +"You're not going to be too busy to see me this morning, Slotman, for I +have interesting things to discuss with you." + +"I am a busy man," Slotman began nervously. + +"Very!" said Hugh--"very, so I hear." + +He stepped into the room, and faced Slotman across the paper-littered +table. + +"I have been hearing about some of your enterprises," he said, and there +was that in his face that caused Mr. Slotman a feeling of insecurity and +uneasiness. "One of them is blackmail!" + +"How dare--" Slotman began, with an attempt at bluster. + +"That's what I am here for; to dare. You have been blackmailing a young +lady whose name we need not mention. You have obtained the sum of three +thousand pounds from her, by means of threats. I want that money--and +more; I want a declaration from you that you will never molest her +again; for if you do--if you do--" + +Hugh's face was not good to see, and Mr. Slotman quivered uneasily in +his chair. + +"The--the money was lent to me. Miss Meredyth worked for me, and--and I +went to her, explaining that my business was in a precarious condition, +and she very kindly lent me the money. And I haven't got it, Mr. Alston. +I'll swear I haven't a penny of it left. I could not repay it if I +wanted to; it--it was a friendly loan." + +Slotman leaned back in his chair; he looked at Hugh. + +"You have done me a cruel wrong, Mr. Alston," he said, in the tone of a +deeply injured man. "Miss Meredyth worked for me, and while she was here +I respected her, even more." He paused. "At any rate I respected her. +She attracted me, and, I will confess it, I fell in love with her. She +was poor; she had nothing then to tempt a fortune hunter, and thank +Heaven I can say I was never that. I asked her to be my wife, no man +could do more, no man could act more honourably. You'll admit that, eh? +You must admit that?" + +"And she refused you?" + +"Not--not definitely. It was too good an offer for a girl in her +position to refuse without consideration." + +"You lie!" + +Slotman shifted uneasily. "I cannot force your belief." + +"You're right, you can't. Well, go on--what more?" + +"She came into this money; my proposal no longer tempted her. She then +refused me, even though I told her that the past--her past--would be +forgotten, that I would never refer to it." + +"What past?" Hugh shouted. + +"Hers and yours," Slotman said boldly. "A supposed marriage that never +took place, her sudden disappearance from her school in June, nineteen +hundred and eighteen, when that marriage was supposed to have been +celebrated--but never was. Her story of leaving England for +Australia--an obvious lie, Mr. Alston. All those things I knew. All +those things I can prove--against her--and against you--and--and--" +Slotman's voice quivered. He leaped to his feet and uttered a shout for +help. + +The blood-red mist was before Hugh's eyes, and out of that mist appeared +a vision of a face, an unpleasant face, with starting eyes and gaping +mouth. + +This he saw, and then his vision cleared, and with a shudder he released +his hold on the man's throat, and Philip Slotman subsided limply into +his chair. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE WATCHER + + +Helen Everard's pleasant face was beaming. Her smile expressed complete +contentment and satisfaction, for everything was going as everything +should go. Johnny was an accepted lover, Joan's future would be +protected; she herself would be left free to make her long journey to +the dear ones at the other side of the world. All was well! + +Joan had been to London yesterday, had rushed off with scarcely a word, +and had returned at night, tired and seemingly dispirited. + +Joan, quiet and calm, smiled at Helen and kissed her good morning, but +spoke hardly at all. + +"You had a tiring day in Town yesterday, dear?" + +"Very!" + +"Shopping?" + +"No!" + +Helen asked no more questions. She thought of Hugh Alston. Could it be +anything to do with him? She could never quite understand the position +of Hugh Alston. Of course the talk about a marriage having taken place +years ago between Hugh Alston and Joan was absurd, was ridiculous. Joan +was proving the absurdity of it even now by accepting Johnny. + +"Connie is coming over this afternoon to see you, Joan," she said. "She +sent me a note over yesterday by a boy. Johnny has told her of course, +and Connie is delighted beyond words. She sends you her dear love." + +"Thank you!" Joan said calmly. + +"Of course," Helen hesitated, "the marriage need not be long delayed. +You see--" She paused, and then went into explanations about Jessie and +the children out in Australia, and her own promise to go to them. + +"So this afternoon I want you and Connie to have a long, long talk," +Helen said. "There will be so much for you to discuss. Connie is the +business man, you know. Poor Johnny is hopeless when it comes to +discussing things and--and arrangements. Of course, dear, you quite +understand that Johnny is not well off." + +"I know, but that does not matter." + +"I know, but even though Johnny is one of the finest and straightest men +living, it will be better if in some way your own money is so tied up +that it belongs to you and to you only. Johnny himself would wish it. He +doesn't want to touch one penny of your money!" + +"I am sure of that." Joan rose. She went out into the garden. She wanted +to get away from Helen's well-meant, friendly, affectionate chatter +about the future, and about money and marriage. She went to the bench +beside the pool and sat there, staring at the green water. + +"It was true," she whispered to herself, "all true, what I said. I--I do +despise him. How could I love a thing that I despised; and I do despise +him!" + +It was not of Johnny Everard she was thinking. + +"He said--he said that he had a right, that my love for him gave him the +right! How dared he?" A deep flush stole into her cheeks, and then died +out. + +She rose suddenly with a gesture of impatience. + +"It is a lie! It is wrong, and it is nonsense. I am engaged to marry +Johnny Everard, and there is no finer, better man living! I shall never +see that other man again. Yesterday he and I parted for good and for +always, and I am glad--glad!" And she knew even while she uttered the +words that she was very miserable. + +Connie Everard drove the pony-trap over to Starden. She brought with her +a boy who would drive it back again. Later in the afternoon Johnny would +drive the car over for her and take her back. + +Connie, having attended carefully to her toilet, descended to the +waiting pony-trap, and found, to her surprise and a little to her +annoyance, that Ellice was already seated in the little vehicle. + +"Ellice, dear, I am sorry, but--" + +"You don't want to take me, Connie; but, all the same, I am going. I +want to see--her!" + +"Why?" + +"I want to see her," the girl said. A dusky glow of sudden passion came +into her face. "I want to see her. There is no harm, is there?" She +laughed shrilly. "I shan't hurt her by looking at her. I want to see her +again, the woman that he loves." There was a shake in her voice, a +suggestion of passionate tears, but the child held herself in check. + +"Ellice, darling, it will be better if you--" + +"If I don't go. I know, but I am going. You--you can't turn me out, +Connie. I am too strong; I shall cling to the sides of the cart." + +There was a look, half of laughter, half of defiance, in the girl's +eyes. + +"Connie, I am going, and nothing shall prevent me!" + +Connie sighed, and stepped into the cart and took up the reins. "Very +well, dear!" she said resignedly. + +"You are angry with me, Connie?" + +"Why should you want to go to Starden?" + +"I want to see her again. I want to--to understand, to--to know things." + +"What do you mean, to understand, to know things?" + +"I want to watch her!" + +"Ellice, you will make me angry presently. Ellice," Connie added +suddenly, "I suppose you don't intend to make a scene, and make yourself +foolish and--and cheap?" + +"I shall say nothing. I only want to watch and to try and understand." + +"I think you are acting foolishly and wrongly, Ellice. I think you are a +very foolish child!" + +"I wish," Ellice said, and said it without passion, but with a deep +certainty in her voice, "I wish that I were dead, Connie." + +"You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself," said Connie, who could +think of nothing better to say. + +She made one more attempt when Starden was reached. + +"Ellice, child, why not go back with Hobbins?" + +"I am coming with you," Ellice said. + +"You--you will not--I mean you will--not be silly or rude to--" + +Ellice drew herself up with a childish dignity. "I shall not forget that +I am a lady, Connie," she said, and said it with such stateliness and +such dignity that Connie felt no inclination to laugh. + +Helen frowned. She was annoyed at the sight of Ellice, frankly she did +not like the girl. Helen was a good, honest woman who liked everything +that was good and honest. Ellice Brand might be good and honest, but +there was something about the girl that was beyond Helen's ken. She was +so elfin, so gipsy-like, so different from most girls Helen knew, and +had known. + +During the long afternoon, when they sat for a time in the garden, or in +the shady drawing-room, Joan was aware of the fixed and intent gaze of a +pair of dark eyes. Strangely and wonderfully dark were those eyes, and +they seemed to possess some magnetic power, a power of making themselves +felt. More than once in the middle of saying something to Helen or to +Connie, Joan found herself at a loss for words, and impelled by some +unknown force to turn her head and look straight into those eyes that +blazed in the little white face. + +Why did the girl stare at her so? Why, Joan wondered? A strange, +elfin-like child, a bud on the point of bursting into a wondrous beauty, +Joan realised, and realised too that there was enmity in the dark eyes +that stared at her so mercilessly. + +"Ellice, child, go out into the garden," Helen said presently. "Come +with me, we will leave Connie and Joan to have a little talk. Come, +there are lots of things to see. This is a wonderful garden, you +know--far, far better than Buddesby." + +"It isn't," Ellice said quietly. "There's no garden in the world like +Buddesby garden, and no place in the world like Buddesby, but I will +come with you if you want me to." + +"A strange girl!" Joan said. + +"A very dear, good, lovable, but passionate child," Connie said. "Now +let us talk of you and Johnny, Joan, of the future. Helen has told you +that--that she--" + +"She wishes to leave us soon? Yes." + +"And so," Connie slipped her hand into Joan's, "the marriage need not be +long delayed." + +"Whenever--he wishes it," Joan said, and for her life she could not put +any warmth into her voice, and Connie, who noticed most things, noticed +the chill coldness of it. + +"And yet she must love Johnny, or she would not marry him," Connie +thought. + +"I leave everything to you, and to Helen and to him." + +It seemed almost as if Joan had a strange disinclination to utter +Johnny's name. Johnny sounded so babyish, so childlike, so affectionate, +yet she felt that she could not speak of him as "John." It would sound +hard and crude in the ears of those who loved him, and called him by the +more tender name. + +It was another shock to Connie later when Johnny came. She watched for +the greeting between these two, and felt shocked and startled when +Johnny took Joan's hand and held it for a moment, then lifted it to his +lips. No other kiss passed between them. + +And Connie felt her own cheeks burning, and wondered why. + +How strange! Lovers, and particularly accepted lovers, always kissed! + +There was that about Johnny that for the first time in her life almost +irritated Connie. She watched him, and saw that his eyes were following +Joan with that look of strange, dog-like devotion that Connie remembered +with a start she had herself surprised in Ellice's eyes before now. + +And as she watched, so watched another, herself almost forgotten as she +sat in a corner of the room. The big black eyes were on these two, +drifting from the face of one to the face of the other, taking no heed, +and no count of anything else but of these two affianced lovers. + +Very clearly and almost coldly Joan had expressed her own wishes. + +"If you wish the marriage to take place soon, I am content. I would like +it to--to be--not very soon--not just yet," she added, and seemed to be +speaking against her own will, and as though in opposition to her own +thoughts. "Still, whatever you arrange, I will willingly agree to. I +prefer to leave it all to you, Helen, and you, Connie, and--and you, +Johnny. But it might take place just before Helen goes away. That would +be time enough, would it not?" + +"It was the very thing I was going to suggest," Helen said. "In three +months' time then, Joan." + +Joan bowed her head. "In three months' time then," she said. + +They were all three very silent as Johnny drove the little car back to +Buddesby that evening. The sun was down, but the twilight lingered. +Ellice sat crushed in between Johnny's big bulk and Connie, and she +would not have changed places with the queen on her throne. + +"There's Rundle with that horrible lurcher dog of his," said Johnny, +and spoke more to make conversation than anything else. + +They could see the man, the village poacher, slouching along under a +hedge with the ever-faithful dog close at heel. + +"A horrible, fierce-looking beast," said Connie. "It fights with every +dog in the place, and--" + +"But it loves him; it loves its master," Ellice said passionately. "It +would die for its master, wouldn't it?" + +"Why, I daresay it would, Gipsy," Johnny said. "But why so excited about +it, little girl?" + +"If you--if you," Ellice said, "had the offer of two dogs, the one +splendid, a thoroughbred deerhound, graceful, beautiful, fine to look +at, but cold and with no love to give its master, and the other--a +hideous beast like Rundle's lurcher--but a beast who could love and die +for its master, and dying lick the hand of the master it loved, glad and +grateful to--to die for him--which would you have, which would you have, +Johnny?" + +Johnny was hardly listening. He was looking down the dusky road and +seeing in imagination a face, the most beautiful, wonderful face that +his world had ever held. + +"I don't know, Gipsy girl," he said. "I don't know!" + +"No!" Ellice said; and her voice shook and quavered in an unnatural +laugh. "You don't know, Johnny; you don't know!" + +And Connie, who heard and understood, shivered a little at the sound of +the girl's laughter. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +"HE DOES NOT LOVE ME NOW" + + +"Tom," said Lady Linden, "is by no means a fool, Marjorie." + +"No, aunt." + +"He has ideas. I don't say that they are brilliant, but he gets the germ +of a plan into his brain. And now I will tell you what he suggests about +Partridge's cottage and land when the lease falls in." + +Lady Linden proceeded to explain Tom Arundel's idea, and Marjorie sat +and stared out into the garden and thought of Hugh. + +Was he at Hurst Dormer now? If not, where was he? What was he doing? +What was he thinking about? Did he still love her, or had he fallen in +love with Joan? And, if he had, would he marry Joan? and if not. + +"So there you see, and what do you think of that?" asked Lady Linden, +coming to the end of her remarks. + +"I think it would be very nice!" + +"Very nice!" Lady Linden snorted. "Very nice! What a feeble remark. My +good Marjorie, do you take no intelligent interest in anything? Upon my +word, now I come to look back I wonder at myself, I do indeed. I wonder +at myself to think that a man like Hugh Alston, an intellectual, +deep-thinking man, a man with common-sense and plenty of it--what was I +saying? Oh yes, I wonder at myself for ever hoping or believing that a +man like Hugh could fall in love with a silly little donkey like you. +And yet men do, even clever men--I've known several quite clever men +fall in love with perfect fools of women. But I was wrong, and you are +right. I see it now. Tom Arundel is the man for you; you are fitted for +one another. He is not quite a fool, but you are. He's not clever enough +to be annoyed by your folly. Hugh, on the other hand, would positively +dislike you after a month. There! don't howl, for goodness' sake--don't +snivel, child! Run away and play with your doll" + +"Patience!" said Lady Linden, when her niece went out--"I have the +patience of ten Jobs rolled into one. She's a good little soul, but an +awful idiot! And bless my wig!" added her ladyship, who did not wear +one, but her own luxuriant hair, "what's that hopeless idiot of a +Perkins doing with those standard roses?" She sallied out, battle in her +eyes, to tell Perkins, the under-gardener, something about the culture +of roses, and incidentally to point out what her opinion of himself was +in plain and straightforward language. + +Meanwhile, Marjorie had hurried out. It was not true! She was not so +stupid and so silly that Hugh could never have fallen in love with her. +Why, he had fallen in love with her! He had wanted her for his wife, and +she--she in her blindness and her folly, in her stupidity, which her +aunt had but now been flinging in her teeth, had not realised that he +was the one man in her world, the only man, and that she loved him as +never, never could she love Tom Arundel or anyone else. + +The little ancient disreputable car had been repaired by Rodding, the +village handyman, who by some conjuring trick had made it run again. +Marjorie started it. + +She had made up her mind. She would go to Hurst Dormer, she would see +Hugh and--and quite what she would do she did not know. Everything was +on the knees of the gods, only she knew that she was very unhappy, a +very miserable, unhappy, foolish girl, who had got what she had asked +for, and found that she did not want it now she had it. + +Piff, piff, paff, paff went the car, and Marjorie rolled off with a +succession of jerks, leaving behind an odoriferous cloud of smoke and +exhaust gases that lay like a blue mist along the drive, and presently +made Lady Linden cough and speak in uncomplimentary terms of motoring +and motorists generally. + +On to Hurst Dormer Marjorie plugged, sad at heart, realising her folly. + +"It is my fault," she felt miserably; "it is all my fault, and I am not +fair to Tom. He doesn't understand me. I see him look at me sometimes, +and I don't wonder at it. He doesn't understand me a bit; he has every +right to--to think--I love him, and I don't--I don't. I love Hugh!" + +It was an hour later that Marjorie put in an appearance at Hurst Dormer. + +Hugh was there, and Hugh was in. It brought relief. She wanted to cry +with the relief she felt. + +Over the tea-table, where she poured out the tea from the old silver +Anne teapot, she looked at him, and saw many changes that one not loving +him, as she knew she did now, might have missed. The cheery frank smile +was there yet, but it had lost much of its happiness. His eyes were no +less kind, but they had a tired look about them, a wistful look. Oh, +that she might cheat herself into believing that their wistfulness was +for her! But Marjorie was not the little fool her aunt called her. She +was a woman, and was gifted with a woman's understanding. + +"He does not love me now, not as he did. I had my chance, and I said no, +and now--now it is gone for ever." + +And he, leaning back in his chair, watched her pouring out the tea as he +had a few days ago watched another pouring out tea in a London hotel. +The sight of Joan performing that domestic duty had brought to him then +a vision of this same old room, this very old teapot, that his mother +had used. And now, seeing Marjorie here, pouring out the tea, the only +vision, the only remembrance that it brought to him was the memory of +another girl pouring out tea in a London hotel. + +"Hugh, have you seen her--Joan?" + +He started--started at the sound of the name that was forever in his +thoughts. + +"Yes, dear," he said simply, for why should he lie to this child? + +"Oh!" she said. "Oh, and--and Hugh, she and you--" She paused, she +held her face down that he might not see it. + +"Joan Meredyth," he said slowly, "and I met in Town a few days ago. She +told me then, that she is engaged to be married." + +"Oh!" Marjorie said, and her heart leaped with a new-born hope. + +"And I," Hugh went on, "am worried and anxious about her." + +"Hugh!" + +"I can't worry you, little girl. It is nothing in which you could help; +it is my fault, my folly!" + +"Mine!" she said. + +"No, it is mine. The whole idea was mine; I shoulder the blame of it +all. It has succeeded in what we attempted. You are all right, you and +Tom. I've made a lovely mess of everything else. But that does not +matter so much. What we wanted, we won, eh?" He smiled at her, little +dreaming that she had only won dead-sea fruit. + +"Why are you worried and anxious about Joan?" + +"I am not going to tell you, dear. I can't very well. Besides, you +couldn't help. You are happy, you are all right. Tom is in high favour +with her ladyship, so that's good, and you--you and Tom are happy, eh?" + +"Yes," she said miserably. + +"He's a good fellow, Marjorie. Make allowances for him. He'll need 'em, +he's no angel; but he means well, and he's a good clean, honest man, is +Tom Arundel, and you'll be a happy girl when you are his wife; please +God!" he added, and put his hand on her shoulder, and did not notice +that she was weeping silently. + +He drove her back to Cornbridge in the moonlight, and left her at the +gates of the Manor House. "Little girl," he said, "in this life there's +a good deal of give and take. Don't expect too much, and don't be hurt +if you don't get everything that you ask for. Remember this--I--I cared +for you very much." "Cared!" she thought. "Cared?" He spoke in the +past--Cared!" + +"But I gave you up because you loved another man; you loved a man more +worthy than I am. I wouldn't have stood aside if I had felt that the +other man was not good enough, that he was a waster and would not make +you happy; but I knew Tom better than that. Stick to him, don't ask for +too much. Believe always that he loves you, and that he is built of the +stuff that keeps straight and true, and so, God bless you, dear!" + +He kissed her frankly as a brother might, and sat there watching her up +the drive to the house. He did not guess that when she gained the house +she slipped in by a garden door and ran up to her own room to indulge in +that relief that a woman may ever find when the grief is not too black +and too bitter, the relief of tears. + +"I am worried about her," Hugh thought to himself; but "her" to him +meant Joan, not Marjorie. + +When he said, "I am worried about her," he meant that he was worried +about Joan. If he said, "She would have liked this," "She" would mean +Joan. + +"I am worried about her and that blackguard Slotman," he thought. "There +is something about that man--snake--toad--something uncanny. She's +there; she has money and he's out for money. If I can sit here and tell +myself that I have scared Slotman from offending and annoying her again, +I am an idiot. When there's money to be gained, a man like Slotman will +want a lot of scaring off it." + +A week had passed since Marjorie's visit. + +Hugh sent for his housekeeper, Mrs. Morrisey. + +"Mrs. Morrisey, I am going to London." + +"Oh, Mr. Alston, when the men are--" + +"The men are all right. I have to go to London on business." + +"Very queer and restless he's been," Mrs. Morrisey thought. "I never +known him like it before. When I thought he was in love with that pretty +little Miss Linden and wanting to marry her, he was not a bit like he is +now. He kept cheerful and smiling, and now; forever on the move. No +sooner does he get here than back to London he wants to go." + +"Shall you be away for long, sir?" + +"I don't know," said Hugh. "Perhaps; perhaps not, I can't say." + +"I see. Very good, sir. I'll see to things, of course. And about +letters, perhaps you won't want them forwarded as you didn't last time, +and--" + +"I shall want every letter forwarded, the very hour it arrives," said +Hugh quickly. + +"Very good, sir. Where shall I send them to?" + +"I don't know yet. I'll wire you an address." + +Yes, he must go to London. He could not go and watch Joan at Starden, +but he could go to London and watch Mr. Philip Slotman. + +"What I'll do is this--I'll have a watch kept on that man. There are +private detective chaps who'll do it for me. If he goes down to Starden, +I'll be after him hot-foot. And if he does go there to annoy and insult +Joan--I'll break his neck!" he added, with cheerful decision. + +"And she--she is going to marry another man, a man she doesn't love--she +can't love. I know she cannot love." He added aloud: "Joan, you don't +love him, my darling, you know you don't. You dared not stay and face me +that day. Your words meant nothing. You may think you despise me, but +you don't: you want to, my dear, but you can't; and you can't because, +thank God, you love me! Oh, fool! Cheer yourself up, slap yourself on +the back. It doesn't help you. She may love you as you boast, but she'll +never marry you. She wants to hate you, and she'll keep on wanting to +hate, and I believe--Heaven help me--that her will is stronger than her +heart. But--but anyhow, that brute Slotman shan't worry her while I can +crawl about." + +He was driven to the station the following morning. And now he was in +the train for London. + +"I'll find out a firm of detectives and put 'em on Slotman," he thought, +"but first I'll go and have a look round. What's the name of the +place?--Gracebury." + +At the entrance to Gracebury, which as everyone knows is a cul-de-sac of +no considerable extent, Hugh stopped his taxi and got out. He walked +down the wide pavement till he came to the familiar door. + +"I'll see him," he thought. "I'll go in and have a few words with him, +just to remind him that his neck is in jeopardy." + +He went up the stone steps and paused. + +The door of Mr. Philip Slotman's office was closed. On the door was +pasted a paper, stating that a suite of three offices was to let. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +"WHY DOES SHE TAKE HIM FROM ME?" + + +"Why--why--why?" Ellice asked herself. Why should this woman who did not +love him wish to take him away from her, who worshipped the ground he +trod on, who looked up to him as the best, the finest of all God's +created creatures? + +That Joan Meredyth did not love John Everard no one understood more +clearly than Ellice Brand. She had watched them when they were together, +she had watched the girl apart; and the watcher's body might be that of +a child, but her eyes were the eyes of a woman, as was her heart too. + +"Why should she take him from me?" she asked herself, and all her being +rose in passionate revolt and resentment. + +"Perhaps she does not know that I love him. Perhaps she looks on me only +as a child--a silly, foolish, infatuated child. But I am not! I am not!" +Ellice cried. "I am not! I love him. I loved him when I was a baby, when +I came here eight years ago, and now I am eighteen and a woman, and I +have never changed and never shall!" + +During the days that followed the announcement of Joan Meredyth's +engagement to John Everard, Connie watched the girl. She felt troubled, +anxious, and yet scarcely could say why. She knew the girl's passionate +nature. Connie almost dreaded something reckless even tragic. She was +more worried than she could say and of course she could not consult +Johnny. There was no one to consult but Helen, and Helen did not +understand Ellice in the least. Helen was inclined to look down on +Ellice from her superior height as a wayward, wilful, foolish +child--nothing more. + +"Send her away. I suppose she is really too old to go to school now, +Connie. How old is she, sixteen?" + +"Eighteen." + +"She has the heart and the body of a child." + +"And the soul of a woman!" + +"Sometimes, Connie dear," said Helen sweetly, "you make me almost angry. +You actually seem to be siding with this foolish little thing!" + +Connie sighed. "In--in some ways I do. She loves him so, and I know it. +I can't be hard-hearted, I can't blind myself to the truth. Of course, I +know that Johnny's marriage with Joan is the best thing in the world for +both of them, but--" + +"But just because a stupid, self-willed girl of eighteen believes +herself deeply in love with Johnny--Oh, Connie, do be your own +reasonable self." + +Johnny Everard, blind as most men are, did not notice how quiet and +reserved Ellice had grown of late, how seldom she spoke to him, how when +he spoke to her she only answered him in brief monosyllables, and how +never came a smile now to her red lips, and certainly never a smile into +her great dark eyes. + +He did not see what Connie saw--the heaviness about those eyes, the +suggestion of tears during the night, when she came down silently to her +breakfast. She had changed, and yet he did not see it, and if he had +seen it might never guess at the cause. + +And Connie too, always kindly and gentle, always sweet and unselfish; +during these days the girl's unselfishness was something to wonder at. + +She had always loved Ellice; she had understood the child as none other +had. And now there seemed to be a bond between them that drew them +closer. + +Three years ago Johnny had bought a bicycle for Ellice. She had been +going daily then to Miss Richmond's school at Great Langbourne, three +miles away, and he had bought the bicycle that she might ride to school +and back again. Since she had left school the bicycle had remained +untouched and rusted in one of the outhouses, but now Ellice had got the +machine out and cleaned it and put new tyres on it. + +Deep down in her mind was a plan, as yet not wholly formed, a desperate +venture that one day she might embark on, and the old bicycle was part +of that plan, for she would need it to carry out the plan. She had not +decided yet, not even if she would ever carry it out, but she might. + +Day after day saw her on the road; more often than not her way lay +towards Starden village. She would ride the six and a half miles to +Starden, wait there for a time, and then ride back. She never called at +Starden Hall. Helen knew nothing of these trips. + +Connie watched the girl with misgivings and doubts, and Ellice knew that +the elder girl was watching her. + +"Connie, I want to speak to you," she said quietly one morning. + +"Yes, darling?" + +Ellice slipped her small brown hand into Connie's. + +"I--I know that you are worrying, dear, that you are anxious--and for +me." + +Connie nodded, tears came into her eyes. + +"I want you to understand, Connie, that I--I promise you I will do +nothing--nothing, I will never do anything unless I come to you first +and tell you. I promise you that I will do nothing--nothing that I +should not do, nothing mad and foolish and wrong, unless I come to you +first and tell you just what I am going to do." + +"Thank you, dear, for telling me this. It lifts a great weight and a +great anxiety from my heart. Thank you, dear--oh, Ellice darling, I +thought once that it would be a fine thing for him, but now--now I could +wish it otherwise!" + +Another moment and the girl was in her arms, clasping her passionately, +and kissing her passionately and gratefully. + +Then suddenly Ellice broke away, and a few minutes later was riding hard +down the road to Starden. + +It was always to Starden that she rode. Always she passed the great +gates of Starden Hall, yet never even glanced at them. She rode into the +little village, propped her bicycle against the railings that surrounded +the old stocks that stood on the village green, and there sat on a seat +and watched the ducks in the green village pond and the children playing +cricket. Then, after waiting perhaps an hour, she would mount and ride +slowly back to Buddesby again. + +It was the programme that she carried out this morning. It was twelve +o'clock when she came in sight of Buddesby village, a mile distant as +yet. + +"Missy! Missy!" Someone was calling. Ellice slowed down and looked about +her. On the bank beside the road a man sat, and he was nursing an ugly +yellow lurcher dog in his arms. + +"Missy!" the man called, and his voice was broken and harsh with +suffering. + +It was Rundle, the poacher, and his dog, and there was blood on Rundle's +hand, blood trickling down from a wound in the dog's side. The man was +holding the dog as he might have held a child. The big ugly yellow head +was against the man's breast, and in its agony the dog was licking the +man's rough hand. + +And watching, there came back to Ellice's memory what she had said of +this man and his dog. + +"You'll do something for me, missy, something as I--I can't do myself!" +He shuddered. "Will you ride on to Taylor's and ask him to come here and +bring--his gun?" + +"Why?" + +"I--I can't do it myself!" + +"He might be cured." + +"There's only Mister Vinston, the Vet, and he wouldn't look at this poor +tyke of mine. He hates him too bad for that, because Snatcher killed one +of them fancy poodle dogs of his two years ago; and Mr. Vinston ain't +never forgot it--and never will. He wouldn't do nothing to save +Snatcher, miss. Ask Taylor to come and bring his gun." + +Ellice nodded. She stretched out her hand and touched the shaggy yellow +head, and in her eyes was infinite pity. Then she mounted the bicycle, +and rode like the wind to Buddesby. What she said to Mr. Ralph Vinston, +the smart young veterinary surgeon, only she and Mr. Ralph Vinston knew. + +He had refused definitely and decidedly. "It'll be a blessing to the +place if the beast dies," he said. "You'd better take his message to +Taylor. The gun's the best remedy for Rundle's accursed dog, Miss +Ellice." + +And then the girl had talked to him, had talked with flashing eyes and +heaving breast, and the end of it was that Ralph Vinston made a +collection of surgical instruments, bandages, and other necessaries, +bundled them into his little car, and was away down the road with Ellice +in company within ten minutes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +"WAITING" + + +Hugh Alston had certainly not attempted anything in the way of +picturesque disguise. There was nothing brigandish or romantic about the +appearance of the very ordinary-looking young man who put in an +appearance at Starden village. + +Quite what his plans were, what he proposed doing and how he should do +it, Hugh had not the slightest idea. He mistrusted Slotman. He +experienced exactly the same feelings as would a man who, hearing that +there was a savage wild beast let loose where an immense amount of harm +may be done, puts a gun under his arm and sallies forth. + +Even if Joan had not the immense claim on him that she had, he believed +he would do exactly what he was doing now. He might be wrong about +Slotman, of course. The man might have cleared out and left the country, +but Hugh fancied that he had not. Here was a little gold-mine, a young +girl, rich and unprotected, a girl of whom this villain believed certain +things, which if true would give him a great power over her. That they +were not true, Slotman did not know, and he would use his fancied +knowledge to obtain his ends and to make Joan's life unbearable. + +So Hugh Alston was here in rough, shaggy tweeds, sitting on the +self-same seat beside the old stocks where most mornings Ellice Brand +came. + +"I'm here," he said to himself, and pulled hard on his pipe. "I am here, +and here I am going to stay. Sooner or later, unless I am dead out in my +reckonings, that brute will turn up, and when he does he'll find me here +ahead of and waiting for him." + +"The Meredyths," said Mrs. Bonner, "hev lived at Starden"--she called it +'Sta-a-arden'--"oh, I wouldn't like to say for how long, centuries +anyhow. Then for a time things got despirit with them, and the place was +sold. Bought it was by Mr. Gorridge, a London gentleman. Thirty years he +lived here. I remember him buying it; I would be about eighteen then, +just before I married Bonner. Master Roger I think it was, anyhow one of +'em--the Meredyths I mean--went to Australia and kep' sheep or something +there, and made money, and he bought the old place back, Mr. Gorridge +being dead and gone. You'll see 'is tomb in the church, Mr. Alston." + +"Thank you," Hugh said. "I'll be sure to look for it." + +"A wonderful expensive tomb, and much admired," said Mrs. Bonner. + +"I am sure it must be in the best taste. And then?" + +"Oh, then Mr. Roger died at sea and left it all, Starden Hall and his +money, to Miss Joan Meredyth. And she lives there now, and I suppose +she'll go on living there when she is married." + +"When she is married," he repeated. + +"To Mr. John Everard of Buddesby, a rare pleasant-spoken, nice gentleman +as no one can speak a word against. Passes here most days in his car, he +does--always running over from Buddesby, as is but natcheral." + +Starden Hall gates stood about a quarter of a mile out of Starden +village, and midway between the village and the Hall gates was Mrs. +Bonner's clean, typically Kentish little cottage. + +Artists were Mrs. Bonner's usual customers. The cottage was old, +half-timbered and hipped-roofed. The roof was clad with Sussex stone, +lichen-covered, and a feast of colour from grey and vivid yellow to the +most tender green. Mrs. Bonner herself was a comfortable body, built on +ample and generous lines, a born house manager, a born cook, and of a +cleanliness that she herself described as "scrutinous." + +So Hugh, casting about for a retreat, had happened on Mrs. Bonner's +cottage and had installed himself here--for how long he knew not, for +what purpose he scarcely even guessed at. Yet here he was. + +Mrs. Bonner had seen Philip Slotman, as she saw most things and people +that at one time or another passed within range of her windows. + +She recognised him from Hugh's description. + +"It would be about best part of a fortnight ago," she said. "He had +shammy leather gloves on, and was in Hickman's cab. Hickman waited for +him at the hall gates and then took him back." + +"And he's not been here since?" + +"I fancy, but I ain't sure, that I did see him one day in a car," said +Mrs. Bonner; "but I couldn't swear to it." + +Twice he had seen "Her" from the window of Mrs. Bonner's little cottage, +once a mere glimpse as she had flashed by in a car; the other time she +had been afoot, walking and alone. He had gazed on the slim grace of her +figure, himself hidden behind Mrs. Bonner's spotless white lace +curtains. He had watched her, his soul in his eyes, the woman he loved +and who was not for him, could never be for him now, and there fell upon +him a sense of desolation, of loneliness, of utter hopelessness. + +Three days had passed since his coming to Starden. He had seen Joan +twice, he had seen the man she was to marry. Once he had caught a +glimpse of John Everard hurrying to Starden Hall in his little car, he +himself had been standing by Mrs. Bonner's gate. Everard had turned his +head and glanced at him, with that curiosity about strangers that all +dwellers in rustic places feel. + +"An artist, I suppose," Johnny thought as he drove on. + +Hugh watched him down the road; he had seen Everard's glance at him, and +had summed him up. The man was just what he would have imagined, a man +of his own stamp, no Adonis--just an ordinary, healthy, clean-living +Englishman. + +"I rather like the look of him," thought Hugh. "He seems all right." And +then he smiled at his thoughts a trifle bitterly. "By every right on +earth I ought to hate him." + +Johnny drove his small car to the doors of the Hall. + +"Joan," he said, "come out. Come out for a spin--the car's running +finely to-day. Come out, and we'll go and have lunch at Langbourne or +somewhere. What do you say?" His face was eager. "You know," he added, +"you have never been out with me in my car yet." + +"If you would like me to." + +"Go and get ready then, and I'll tell Helen," he said. "We shan't be +back to lunch." + +Hugh had been on his way to the village when he saw Everard in his +little car. He went to the village because, if he went in the opposite +direction, it would take him to the Hall gates, and he did not wish to +go there. He did not wish her to see him, to form the idea that he was +here loitering about for the purpose of seeing her. + +Sooner or later he knew she must be made aware of his presence, then he +hoped for an opportunity to explain, but he would not seek it yet. So he +made his way to the village, stopped to give pennies to small +white-haired children, patted the shaggy dusty heads of vagrant dogs, +and finally came to anchor on the seat beside the railed-in stocks. + +And there on that same seat sat a small, dark-eyed maiden, whose rusty +bicycle reclined against the railings. She had been here yesterday for +fifteen minutes or so. He and she had occupied the seat without the +exchange of a word, according to English custom. + +Hugh looked at her. Because he regarded one woman as the embodiment of +all that was perfect and graceful and beautiful, it did not blind him to +beauty in others. He saw in this girl what those blinder than he had not +yet recognised--the dawning of a wonderful, a radiant and glowing +beauty. And because he had a very sincere and honest appreciation of the +beautiful, she interested him, and he smiled. He lifted his hat. + +The girl stared at him; she started a little as he raised his hat. She +gave the slightest inclination of her head. It was not encouraging. + +Hugh sat down. He was thinking of the man he had seen a while ago--a +clean, honest, open-faced man, a man he felt he could like, and yet by +every reason ought to hate. + +The girl was studying his profile. + +She had the suspicion that is inherent in all shy wild things, and yet, +looking at him, she felt that this man was no dangerous animal to be +feared and avoided. + +Turning suddenly, he caught her glance and smiled. + +"You live here?" + +"No!" + +"Yet you--oh, I see, you are staying here--" + +"No, I live at Little Langbourne." + +He smiled, having no idea where Little Langbourne might be. + +They talked--of nothing, of the ducks and geese on the green, of the +weather, of the sunshine, of the ancient stocks. + +"You are staying here?" she asked. + +"Yes, at Mrs. Bonner's." + +"Oh, then you are an artist?" + +"Nothing so ornamental, I am afraid. No--quite a useless person." + +"If you are not an artist, and have no friends here, do you not find it +a little dull?" + +"Yes, but I am a patient animal. I am waiting, you see." + +"Waiting--for what?" + +Hugh smiled. "For something that may happen, and yet may not. I am +waiting in case it does. Of course you don't understand, little girl, +I--I mean--I am sorry," he apologised. "I was forgetting, thinking of a +friend, another girl I know." + +"I am not offended. Why should I be? I am a girl and--and not very big, +am I?" She rose and smiled at him, and held out her hand. + +"Thank you," Hugh said. He took her hand and held it. "I think you are +generous." + +"For not being offended by a silly thing like that!" She laughed and +turned to get the bicycle. But it had slipped, the handle-bar had become +wedged in the railings; it took all Hugh's strength to persuade the +handle-bar to come out. + +"I am afraid you can't ride it like this, the bar's got twisted. If you +have a spanner--" + +"I haven't," said Ellice. + +"Then if you will permit I will wheel it into the village. There's a +cycle shop there, and I'll fix it up for you." + +So, he wheeling the bicycle, and she beside him, they crossed the green +and came to the village street. And down the road came a little +grey-painted car, which Johnny Everard was driving with more pride than +he had ever experienced before. + +"Why, hello!" thought Johnny. "What on earth is Ellice doing here, and +who is the fellow she is with? He's the man I saw at Mrs. Bonner's gate +and--" + +He turned his head and glanced at Joan. He was going to say something to +her, something about the unexpectedness of seeing Ellice here, but +Johnny Everard said nothing. He was startled, for Joan's face was white, +and her lips were compressed. And in Joan's brain was dinning the +question. "He here--what does he do here? Has he come here to torment me +further, to pester and plague and annoy me with his speeches that I will +never listen to? How dare he come here?" + +He had seen her, had paused. He lifted his hand to his hat and raised +it, but Joan stared straight before her. + +It was the cut direct, and there came a dusky red into Hugh's face as he +realised the fact. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +"IF YOU NEED ME" + + +Naturally enough, Johnny Everard, seeing Ellice, would have stopped. He +had his foot on the clutch and was feeling for the brake when Joan +realised his intention. + +"Please drive on! Please drive straight on!" + +And Johnny, receiving his instructions, obeyed them without hesitation. +Another moment, and Joan regretted. But it was too late, the car had +gone on; the two figures, the man and the girl with the bicycle, were +left behind. It was too late--and the girl felt almost shocked by what +she had done. + +But Joan's temper was on edge, the day had lost any beauty that it might +have held for her. She wanted to get back, she wanted to be alone, she +wanted to decide, to think things out for herself. + +Johnny looked at her. This was beyond his understanding. What had +happened? Was it the man who had caused Joan to look so white and angry, +or was it Ellice? + +It could hardly be the man after all, for she had evidently not known +him. She had not recognised him in any way. + +Johnny was not good at guess-work. Here was something beyond him. If it +were Ellice, then why should the sight of Ellice upset Joan? And why--it +came to him suddenly--had Joan cut Ellice? + +For in cutting the man Joan had also cut the girl, and had not thought, +the girl meaning little or nothing to her. + +"Johnny, I--I--don't think me unkind--or ungracious--but--I would like +to go back soon. I don't mean--" She paused. "Let's go back by way of +Bennerden." + +It meant that she did not want to go back by the same road with the +chance of seeing those two again. + +Ellice's cheeks were burning, and her eyes were bright with anger. Joan +Meredyth had cut her, and it seemed to her that Johnny had aided and +abetted. + +Then she happened to glance at Hugh Alston, and intuition prompted her. + +"I think you know her," she said quickly. + +"Yes, I--I know her." + +"And she was not pleased to see you?" + +"Apparently not!" he laughed, but the laughter was shaky. "Here we are! +We'll soon get the bicycle fixed up." + +Ellice stood watching him while with a borrowed spanner he adjusted the +handle-bars. + +What did this man know of Joan, and why had Joan cut him dead? Perhaps +they were old lovers, perhaps a thousand things? Ellice shrugged her +shoulders. It was nothing to her. If she must fight this woman, this +rich, beautiful woman for her love's sake, she would not fight with +underhand weapons. There would be no digging in pasts, for Ellice. + +"Thank you," she said. "You have been very kind!" Again she held out her +hand to him, and gave him a frank and friendly smile. "I hope that we +shall meet again." + +"I think," he said, "that we shall often meet again." + +He stood and watched the graceful little figure of her as she sped +swiftly down the road, then turned and walked slowly back towards Mrs. +Bonner's cottage. + +So Joan had seen him, and had cut him dead. + +"If I was not so dead sure, so dead certain sure that Slotman will turn +up eventually, I would clear out," Hugh thought to himself. "I'd go back +to Hurst Dormer and stick there, whether I wanted to or not." + +Ellice, pedalling homeward, went more slowly now she was clear of the +village. She wanted to think it all over in her mind, and arrived at +conclusions. At first she had thought that Joan Meredyth and Johnny too +had deliberately cut her dead. But that was folly; they had cut her, but +then in this matter she had not counted. She was gifted with plenty of +common-sense. Connie's teaching and precept had not gone for nothing with +the girl. + +"Joan Meredyth knows that man, and he knows her." + +Half a mile out of Little Langbourne, Ellice put on the brake and +alighted. + +"How is Snatcher?" she asked. + +Rundle touched his hat. A big and fearsome-looking man was Rundle. +Village mothers frightened small children into good behaviour by +threatening them that Rundle would come and take them away--a name to +conjure with. Little Langbourne only knew peace and felt secure when +Rundle was undergoing one of his temporary retirements from activity, +when, as a guest of the State, he cursed his luck and the gamekeepers +who had been one too many for him. + +But there was nothing fearsome about the Rundle who faced little Ellice +Brand. There was a smile on the man's lips, in his eyes a look of +intense gratitude. + +Ragged and disreputable person that he was, he would have lain down and +allowed this little lady to wipe her feet on him, did she wish it. + +"How is Snatcher?" + +"Fine, missy!" he said. "Fine--fine!" His eyes glistened. "Snatcher's +going to pull through, missy. 'Twas a car did hit he," he added, "and I +saw the chap who was in it. I saw him, and I saw him laugh when Snatcher +went rolling over in the dust. I'll watch out for that man, missy." + +"Tell me about Snatcher!" + +"Leg broke, and a terrible cut from a great flint; but he'll pull +through--thanks to you!" + +"To Mr. Vinston, you mean!" + +Rundle shook his head. "To you. He wouldn't 'a come for me, nor +Snatcher; he hates my poor tyke. But he's put Snatcher right for all +that, and because you made him do it, and I don't wonder!" Rundle looked +at her. "I don't wonder," he added. "There's be few men who wouldn't do +what you'd tell 'em to." + +"Now," said Ellice, "you are talking absurdly. Of course I just shamed +Mr. Vinston into doing it. I'd like to come and see Snatcher, Rundle." + +"The queen wouldn't be as welcome," he said simply. + +Helen expressed no surprise at the unseasonable return of Joan and +Johnny from their trip. There was no accounting for Joan's moods; the +main and the great thing was, it was due to no quarrel between them. + +Johnny stayed to lunch. After it, Joan left him with Helen and went to +her own room. She wanted to be alone, she wanted to think things out, to +decide how to act, if she were to act at all. + +"He called me ungenerous--three times," she said, "ungenerous and--and +now I know that I am, I deserve it." She felt as a child feels when it +has done wrong and longs to beg for forgiveness. In spite of her pride, +her coldness and her haughtiness, there was much of the child still in +Joan Meredyth's composition--of the child's honesty and the child's +frankness and innocence and desire to avoid hurting others. + +"It was cruel--it was cowardly. But why is he here? What right has he to +come here when I--I told him--when he knows--that I, that Johnny and +I--" + +And now, with her mind wavering this way and that way, anxious to excuse +herself and blame him one moment, condemning herself the next, Joan took +pen and paper and wrote hurriedly. + + "I am sorry for what I did. It was inexcusable, and it was + ungenerous. I ask you to forgive me, it was so unexpected. Perhaps + I have hurt myself by doing it more than I hurt you. If I did hurt + you, I ask your forgiveness, and I ask you also, most earnestly, + to go, to leave Starden." + +She would have written more, much more, words were tumbling over in her +brain. She had so much more to say to him, and yet she said nothing. She +signed her name and addressed the letter to Hugh Alston at Mrs. Bonner's +cottage. She took it out and gave it to a gardener's boy. + +"Take that letter and give it the gentleman it is addressed to, if he is +there. If he is not there, bring it back to me." + +"Yes, miss." The boy pocketed the letter and a shilling, and went +whistling down the road. + +So she had written, she had confessed her fault and asked for +forgiveness--that was like Joan. One moment the haughty cold, proud +woman, the next the child, admitting her faults and asking for pardon. + +The letter had been duly delivered at Mrs. Bonner's cottage, and, coming +in later, Hugh found it. + +"Bettses' Bob brought it," said Mrs. Bonner. "From Miss Meredyth at the +Hall," she added, and looked curiously at Hugh. + +"That's all right, thanks!" + +Mrs. Bonner quivered with curiosity. Who was this lodger of hers who +received letters from Miss Meredyth, when he had not even admitted that +he knew her? + +"Very funny!" thought Mrs. Bonner. + +Hugh read the letter. "I am sorry--for what I did.... I ask you to +forgive me.... Perhaps I have hurt myself more than I have hurt you ..." + +"Any answer to go back to the Hall?" + +"None!" + +"Ah!" Mrs. Bonner hesitated. "I didn't know you knew Miss Meredyth." + +"I am going out," said Hugh. Avoid Mrs. Bonner while she was in this +curious mood, he knew he must. + +"If there's one thing I can't abide, it is secretiveness," said Mrs. +Bonner, as she watched him up the road towards the village. + +Should he answer the letter? Hugh wondered. Or should he just accept it +in silence, as an apology for an act of rudeness? He hated that idea. +She might think that he did not forgive, that he bore malice and +ill-will. + +"No, I must answer it," he decided, "but what shall I say?" He knew what +he wanted to say, he knew that he wanted to ask her to meet him, and he +knew only too well that she would refuse. + +"There is no sense," said Hugh deliberately, "no sense whatever in +riding for a certain fall." He was staring at a small flaxen-haired, +dirty-faced boy as he spoke. The boy grinned at him. + +"You have a sense of humour," said Hugh, "and, no doubt, a sweet tooth." +He felt in his pocket for the coin that the Starden children had grown +to expect from him. The boy took it, yelled and whooped, and sped down +the street to the sweetstuff shop. + +"But the fact remains," said Hugh to himself, "there is no sense in +deliberately riding for a fall. If I asked her to meet me, she would +either refuse or ignore the request, so I shall not ask. Yet, all the +same, she and I will meet sooner or later, and when we meet, it will be +by accident, not by--" He paused. Outside the cycle-shop stood a small +two-seater car that had a familiar look to Hugh. As he glanced at the +car its owner came out of the shop with a can of petrol in his hand. + +He saw Hugh, looked him in the eyes, and nodded in friendly fashion. + +"A nice day!" he said. + +"Very!" + +"I have to thank you for helping my--" Johnny paused; he had almost said +sister, but of course Ellice was not his sister--"my little friend +yesterday, about the bike I mean." + +"That's nothing! Excuse interference on my part, but if you pour that +petrol into the radiator, you will probably develop trouble." + +Johnny Everard laughed. "I am new to it, and I am always +doing odd things like that. Of course, that's for water. Lawson over at +Little Langbourne generally sees to things for me." + +Hugh nodded. He looked at the man standing but a few feet from him, the +man who was to gain that which Hugh coveted and desired most in the +world, looked at him and yet felt no dislike, no great enmity, no +furious hate. + +"It was very good of you to help the kiddie with her bike," said Johnny, +as he splashed the petrol into the tank. "If you find yourself at any +time over at Little Langbourne, we'd be glad to see you. My name's +Everard, my place is Buddesby." + +"Thanks! It is very good of you, and I shan't forget!" He nodded, +smiled, and walked on, then glanced back. He could see Johnny fumbling +with the car, and he smiled. + +"That's my hated rival, and he seems a decent sort of chap." + +An hour later he was back at Mrs. Bonner's cottage. + +"The post's come in since you went, Mr. Alston," said Mrs. Bonner, "and +there's a letter for you." + +It was a bulky envelope from Hurst Dormer. There was a note from Mrs. +Morrisey, to say that everything was going as it should go, and she +enclosed all the letters that had come by post. + +And the first letter that Hugh opened was one on pink paper, delicately +scented. How well he remembered that scent! How it brought back to him a +certain pretty little face, and a pair of sweet blue eyes. + +"Dear little maid," he said. He read the letter, and stared at it in +astonishment and dismay. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +THE SPY + + +It seemed to Hugh Alston that he had not read the letter aright; it was +so amazing, so disconcerting, that he felt bewildered. What on earth is +wrong? he thought, then he took the letter to the better light at the +window and read again. + + "MY DEAR HUGH, + + "I have been over to Hurst Dormer three times in + the car, each time hoping and praying that I might find you; but + you are never there now, so I am writing, Hugh, hoping that you + will get my letter. I know I have no right to." (This, Hugh + noticed, had been carefully crossed out.) "I want to see you so + much. I want to ask your advice and help. I don't know what to do, + and I am so unhappy, so wretched. Forgive me, dear, for troubling + you, but if--if only I could see you I am sure you would help me, + and tell me what it is right I should do. Ever and ever + + "Your loving, + "MARJORIE." + +"So unhappy, so wretched!" Hugh read, and it was this that had amazed +him. Here was a girl engaged to be married to the man she loved, the man +she had told him she could not live without, the man of her own choice, +of her own heart--he himself smoothed the way for her, had taken away +his own undesirable person, had stepped aside, leaving the field to his +rival, and now ... + +Hugh blinked at the letter. "What on earth should she be unhappy about? +She has had a quarrel with Tom perhaps, and she wants me to go and talk +to him like a Dutch Uncle. Poor little maid! I daresay it is all about +twopence! But it seems very real and tragic to her." Hugh sighed. He +ought to stay here. This was his place, watching and keeping guard and +ward for Joan, yet Marjorie wanted him. + +"I'll go. I can be there and back in a couple of days. I'll go." + +He had just time to write and catch the early outward mail from Starden, +to-day was Thursday. + + "MY DEAR MARJORIE, + + "I have had your letter, and it has worried me not a little. I + can't bear to think of you as unhappy, little girl. I shall come + back to Hurst Dormer, and shall be there to-morrow, Friday, early + in the afternoon. Send me a wire to say if you will come, or if + you would rather that I came to Cornbridge. + + "At any rate, be sure that if you are in any trouble or + difficulty, or are worried and anxious, you have done just the + right thing in appealing for help to + + "Your old friend, + "HUGH." + +He rang the bell for Mrs. Bonner. + +"Mrs. Bonner, I find I am obliged to go away for a time." + +"You mean--" + +"No," he said, "I don't. I mean that my absence will be temporary. I +can't say exactly how long I shall be away, but in the meantime I would +like to keep my rooms here." + +Mrs. Bonner's face cleared. "Oh yes," she said, "ezackly, I see!" + +"I shall run up to Town to-night, and I will write you or wire you when +you may expect me back. It may be a week, it may be less; anyhow, I +shall come back." + +"I am very glad to hear that, Mr. Alston," said Mrs. Bonner heartily. + +"I shan't take many things with me, just enough for the night. I'll go +and pack my bag, and clear off to catch the six o'clock up train." + +Why not go down to Hurst Dormer to-night, and send off this letter to +Marjorie from Town instead of posting it here? He could see to a few +things in Hurst Dormer on the morrow, see Marjorie, arrange her little +troubles and then be back here by Saturday; but as he was not sure of +his movements he left it that he would wire Mrs. Bonner his probable +time of returning. + +"One thing, I'll be able to have a good clear-up when he's gone," Mrs. +Bonner thought. Forever her thoughts turned in the direction of soap and +water. The temporary absence of anyone meant to Mrs. Bonner an +opportunity for a good clean, and she had already started one that very +evening when there came a tapping on her door. + +"Now, whoever is that worriting this time of the night?" With sleeves +rolled up over bare and plump arms she went to the door. + +"Oh, good evening, Mrs. Bonner. I 'eard about you losing your lodger." + +Mrs. Bonner stared into the darkness. + +"Oh, it's you!" Judging by the expression of her voice, the visitor was +not a favoured one. + +"Yes, it's me!" + +"Well, what do you want, Alice Betts?" + +"Oh, nothing. I thought I'd just call in friendly-like." + +"Very good of you, only I'm busy cleaning up." + +"Men do make a mess, don't they? Fancy 'is going off like that. I wonder +if the letter had anything to do with it?" + +"Letter?" + +"Yes, the one Miss Joan give our Bob to bring 'im this afternoon." + +"Ha!" said Mrs. Bonner. "I shouldn't be surprised." + +"Nor should I. I wonder what he is to her, don't you?" + +"No, I don't. I ain't bothered my head thinking. It ain't none of my +business, Alice Betts." + +Alice Betts giggled. + +"Well, any'ow he's gone," she said, and Mrs. Bonner did not contradict +her. "And gone sudden." + +"Very!" + +"Depend on it, it was the letter done it. Well, I won't be keeping you." + +"No, I ain't got no time for talking," said Mrs. Bonner, and closed the +door. "A nosey Parker if ever there was one! Always shoving 'er saller +face where she ain't wanted. I can't abide that gel!" + +Miss Alice Betts hurried off to the Bettses' cottage in Starden. + +"I got a letter to write in a 'urry. Give me a paper and envelope," she +demanded. + + "MISTER P. SLOTMAN, Dear sir," Alice wrote. "This is to imform + you, as agreed, that Mister Alston has gone. Miss Jone writ him a + letter, what about cannot say, only as soon as he gets it, he + packs up and leaves Starden. I have been to Mrs. Bonner's to make + sure and find it is correck, him having packed up and gone to + London. So no more at present from yours truely, MISS ALICE + BETTS." + +And this letter, addressed to Mr. P. Slotman at the new address with +which he had furnished her, went out from Starden by the early morning +mail. + +After Mrs. Bonner's comfortable but restricted cottage, it was good to +be back in the spacious old rooms of Hurst Dormer. Hugh Alston was a +home man. He had wired Mrs. Morrisey, and now he was back. To-night he +slept once again in his own bed, the bed he had slept in since boyhood. + +The following morning brought a telegram delivered by a shock-headed +village urchin. + + "I will be with you and so glad to see you on Saturday--MARJORIE." + +Saturday, and he had hurried so that he might see her to-day. + +It was not till late Saturday afternoon that Marjorie came at last, and +Hugh had been fuming up and down, looking for her since early morning. +Yet if he felt any ill-temper at her delay it was gone at a sight of the +little face, so white and woebegone, so frankly miserable and unhappy +that his heart ached for the child. + +"Oh, Hugh, it is so good to see you again." + +He kissed her. What else could he do? And then, holding her hand and +drawing it through his arm, he led her into the house. He rang the bell +for tea, for it was tea-time when she came. + +"You are going to have a good tea first, then you are going to tell me +all your troubles, and we are going to put them all straight and right. +And then--then, Marjorie, you are going to smile as you used to." + +A faint smile came to her lips, her eyes were on his face. "Oh, Hugh, +if--if you knew how--how good it is to see you again and hear you speak +to me." + +He put his hand on her shoulders. + +"It is always good to me to see you," he said softly. "You're one of the +best things in my world, Marjorie, little maid." + +She bent her head, so that her soft cheek touched his hand, and what man +could draw his hand away from that caress? Not Hugh Alston. + +And now came Phipps with the tea, which he arranged on the small table +and retired. + +"It's all right between them two," he announced in the kitchen a little +later. "She'll be missus here after all, I'll lay ten to one." + +"Law bless and save us!" said cook. "I thought it was off, and she was +going to marry young Mr. Arundel." + +Ordinarily, Marjorie had the sensible appetite of a young country girl. +To-day she ate nothing. She sipped her tea, and looked with great +soulful, miserable eyes at Hugh. + +"And now, little girl, come, tell me." + +"Oh, Hugh, not now. It is so difficult, almost impossible to tell you. I +wrote that letter days and days before I posted it, and then I made up +my mind all of a sudden to post it, and regretted it the moment after." + +"Why?" + +She shook her head. + +"There is something wrong between you and Tom? Tell me, girlie!" + +She was silent for a moment. "There is--everything wrong between Tom +and--and me. But it is my--my fault, not his. Oh, Hugh, it is all my +fault!" + +"How?" + +"I--I don't love him!" the girl gasped. + +"Eh?" Hugh started. He sat back and stared at her. "Why--you--I--I +thought--" + +"So did I!" she cried, bursting into tears, "but I was wrong--wrong--all +wrong. I didn't understand!" Her breast was heaving, there were sobs in +her throat, sobs she fought and struggled against. + +The dawn of understanding came to him. He believed he saw. She had +fancied herself in love with Tom, and now she knew she was not--how did +she know? For the simple reason that she found she was in love with +someone else. Now who on earth could it be? he wondered. + +"Won't you tell me all about it, dear?" + +"I--I can't. Don't ask me--I ought not to have written, I ought not to +have come. I wish--I wish I had not. It is my fault, not Tom's; he is +good and kind and--and patient with me, and I know I am unkind and cross +to him, and I feel ashamed of myself!" + +"Marjorie!" + +"Yes, Hugh?" She looked up. + +"Tell me the truth, dear," he said gravely. "Do you realise that you +are not in love with Tom because you know now that you are in love with +someone else?" + +She did not answer in words, nodding speechlessly. + +"Is he a good man, dear?" + +"The best in the world, Hugh," she said softly--"the finest, the +dearest, and best." + +"That's bad!" Hugh thought. "But I might have guessed that she would say +that, bless her little heart! Poor Tom!" He sighed. "So, after all, this +beautiful muddle I have made of things goes for nothing! Do you care to +tell me who he is, Marjorie?" + +"Don't ask me--don't ask me! I can't tell you! I wish I hadn't come. I +had no right to ask you to--to listen to me. I wish I hadn't written +now!" + +He came across to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He bent and +kissed the bright hair. + +"Little girl, remember always that I am your old friend and your true +friend, who would help you in every way at any time. I am not of much +use, I am afraid; but such as I am, I am at your service, dear, always, +always! Tell me, what can I do? How can I help you?" + +"Nothing, nothing, you--you can't help me, Hugh!" + +"Can I see Tom?" + +"No, oh no, you must not!" + +"Can I see--the other? Marjorie, does he know? Has he spoken to you--not +knowing perhaps of your engagement to Tom?" + +She shook her head. "He--he doesn't know anything!" + +Silence fell on them. + +"Don't think about it any more, you can't help me. Hugh, where have you +been all this long time?" + +"I have been in Kent, at Starden." + +"Is--is that where she--" + +"Joan? Yes! she lives there. I have been there, believing I can help +her, and I shall help her!" + +"You--you love her so?" + +"Better than my life," he said quietly, and never dreamed how those +four words entered like a keen-edged sword into the heart of the girl +who heard them. + +She rose almost immediately. + +"I am a foolish, silly girl, and--and, Hugh, I want you to forget what I +told you. I shall forget it. I shall go back to--to Tom, and I will try +and be worthy of him, try and be good-tempered and--all he wants me to +be. Good-bye, Hugh!" + +It seemed to him that she had changed suddenly, changed under his very +eyes; the tenderness and the tears seemed to have vanished. She spoke +almost coldly, and with a dignity he had never seen in her before, and +then she went with scarce a look at him, leaving him sorely puzzled. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +GONE + + + "DEAR JOAN, + + "I daresay you will wonder at not having heard from me for so + long, but I have been busy. Things have been going from bad to + worse with me of late, and I have been obliged to give up the old + offices in Gracebury. I often think of the days when we were so + much together, as I daresay you do. Naturally I miss you, and + naturally I want to see you again. I feel that you seemed to have + some objection to my coming to your house. That being so, I wish + to consult your wishes in every way, and so I am writing to + suggest that you meet me to-morrow, that is Saturday night, on the + Little Langbourne Road. I daresay you will wonder why I am so + familiar with your neighbourhood, but to tell you the truth I am + naturally so interested in you that I have been down quietly + several times--motoring, just to look round and hear news of you + from local gossip, which is always amusing. I have heard of your + engagement, of course, and I am interested; but we will talk of + that when we meet--to-morrow night at the gate leading into the + field where the big ruined barn stands, about half a mile out of + Starden on the Little Langbourne Road at nine o'clock. This is + definite and precise, isn't it? It will then be dark enough for + you to be unobserved, and you will come. I am sure you will come. + You would not anger and pain an old friend by refusing. + + "I hear that the happy man is a sort of gentleman farmer who lives + at Buddesby in Little Langbourne. If by any chance I should fail + to see you at the place of meeting, I shall put up at Little + Langbourne, and shall probably make the acquaintance of Mr. John + Everard. + + "Believe me, + "Your friend, + "PHILIP SLOTMAN." + +It was a letter that all the world might read, and see no deep and +hidden meaning behind it, but Joan knew better. She read threat and +menace in every line. The man threatened that if she did not keep this +appointment he would go to Langbourne and find John Everard, and then +into John Everard's ears he would pour out his poisoned, lying, +slanderous story. + +Better a thousand times that she herself should go to Johnny and tell +him the whole truth, hiding nothing. Yet she knew that she could not do +that; her pride forbade. If she loved him--then it would be different. +She could go to him, she could tell him everything, laying bare her +soul, just because she loved him. But she did not love him. She liked +him, she admired him, she honoured him; but she did not love him, and in +her innermost heart she knew why she did not love Johnny Everard, and +never would. + +But the letter had come, the threat was here. What could she do? to whom +turn? And then she remembered that hard by her own gate was a man, the +man to whom she owed all this, all her troubles and all her annoyance +and shame, but a man who would fight for and protect and stand by her. +Her heart swelled, the tears gathered for a moment in her eyes. + +He had not answered the letter she had sent him a couple of days ago. +She had looked for an answer, and had felt disappointed at not receiving +one, though she had told herself that she expected none. + +For long Joan hesitated, pride fighting against her desire for help and +support. But pride gave way; she felt terribly lonely, even though she +was soon to be married to a man who loved her. To that man ought she to +turn, yet she did not, and hardly even gave it a thought. She had made +no false pretences to Johnny Everard. She had told him frankly that she +did not love him, yet that if he were willing to take her without love, +she would go to him. + +So now, having decided what she would do, Joan went to her room to write +a letter to the man she must turn to, the man who had the right to help +her. She flushed as the words brought another memory into her mind; the +flush ran from brow to chin, for back into her mind came the words the +man had uttered. Strange it was how her mind treasured up almost all +that he had ever said to her. + +_"You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart!"_ + +That was what he had said, and she would never forget, because she +knew--that it was true. + +She went to her own room, where was her private writing-table. She found +the room in the hands of a maid dusting and sweeping. + +"You need not go, Alice," she said. "I am only going to write a letter." +The girl went on with her work. + +"I did not think to appeal to you, yet I find I must appeal for help +that I know you will give, because but for you I should not need it. +I--" + +She paused. + +"Funny, miss, Mrs. Bonner's lodger going off like that in such a hurry, +wasn't it?" said the girl on her knees beside the hearth. + +Joan started. "What do you mean, Alice?" + +"The gentleman you gave our Bob a letter for--Mr. Alston," said Alice +Betts. "Funny his going off like he did in such a hurry." + +"Then you--you mean he is gone?" + +"Thursday night, miss." + +Gone! A feeling of desolation and helplessness swept over Joan. + +Gone when she had counted so on his help! She remembered what she had +written: "I ask you earnestly to leave Starden," and he had obeyed her. +It was her own fault; she had driven him away, and now she needed him. + +The girl was watching her out of the corner of her small black eyes. She +saw Joan tear up the letter she had commenced to write. + +"It was to him, she didn't know he had gone," Alice Betts thought, and +Alice Betts was right. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Philip Slotman had fallen on evil days, yet Mr. Philip Slotman's +wardrobe of excellent and tasteful clothes was so large and varied that +poverty was not likely to affect his appearance for a long time to come. + +Presumably also his stock of cigars was large, for leaning against the +gate beside the tumble-down barn he was drowning the clean smell of the +earth and the night with the more insinuating and somewhat sickly smell +of a fine Havannah. + +Some way down the road, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, stood a +large shabby car drawn up against a hedge, and in that car dozed a +chauffeur. + +Mr. Slotman took out his watch and looked at it in the dim light. + +It was past nine, and he muttered an oath under his breath. + +"She won't be such a fool as not to come now that fellow's gone!" he +thought, and he was right, for a few moments later she was there. + +"So you did come?" + +"I am here," Joan said quietly. "You wish to speak to me?" + +"Don't be so confoundedly hold-off! Aren't you going to shake hands?" + +"Certainly not!" + +"Oh, very well!" he snarled. "Don't then. Still putting on your airs, my +lady!" + +"I am here to hear anything you wish to say to me. Any threats that you +have to make, any bargain that you wish to propose. I thought when I +paid you that money--" + +"That money's gone; it went in a few hours." + +He felt savagely angry at her calmness, at her pride and superiority. +Why, knowing what he knew, she ought to be pretty well on her knees to +him. + +"Please tell me what you wish to see me about and let me go. It is +money, of course?" + +Her voice was level, filled with scorn and utter contempt, and it made +the man writhe in helpless fury. + +"Look here, stow that!" he said coarsely. "Don't ride the high horse +with me. Remember I know you, know all about you. I know who you are and +what you are, and--and don't--don't"--he was stuttering and stammering in +his rage--"don't think you can put me in my place, because you can't!" + +Joan did not answer. + +"If I want money I've got a right to ask for it! And I do. I've got +something to sell, ain't I?--knowledge and silence. And silence is worth +a lot, my girl, when a woman's engaged to be married, and when there's +things in her past she don't care about people knowing of. Yes, Miss +Joan Meredyth, my lady clerk on three quid a week was one person, but +Miss Meredyth of Starden Hall, engaged to be married to Mr. John Everard +of Buddesby, is another, ain't she?" + +"Please say what you have to say," she said coldly. "I do not wish to +stay here with you." + +"But you are going to," he said. "You are going to!" He reached out +suddenly and gripped her hand. He had expected that she might struggle; +it would have been human if she had, but she didn't. + +"Please release my hand," she said coldly. "I do not wish to stay here +with you!" She paused. "Tell me why you wish to see me!" + +He dropped her hand with a snarling oath. + +"Well, if you want to know, it is money, and this time it is good money. +I am up against it, and I've got to have money. I've been down here +several times, hunting round, listening to things, hearing things. I +heard about your engagement. I have heard about you. Oh, everyone looks +up to you round here--Miss Meredyth of Starden!" He laughed. "And it is +going to pay Miss Meredyth of Starden to shut my mouth, ain't it? June, +nineteen eighteen, ain't so long ago, is it? Mr. Hugh Alston--hang +him!--you set him on to me, didn't you?" + +"So you have seen him?" + +"I saw him, curse him! He came and--and--' + +"Thrashed you?" Joan asked quietly "I thought he might!" + +"Stop it! Stop your infernal airs!" he almost shouted. "I am here for +money, and I want it, and mean to have it--five thousand this time!" + +"I shall not pay you!" + +"Oh, you won't--you won't! Then I go to Buddesby. I'll have a little +chat there. I'll tell them a few things about Marlbury and about a trip +to Australia that did not come off, and about a marriage that never took +place. I've got quite a lot to chat about at Buddesby, and I shan't be +done when I'm through there either. There's a nice little inn in +Starden, isn't there? If one talked much there it would soon get about +the place!" + +Under cover of the darkness her cheeks flamed, but her voice was still +as cold and as steady as before. + +"Have you ever considered," she asked quietly, "that what you think you +know, may not be true?" + +"It is true! And if it isn't true, it is good enough for me; but it is +true!" + +"It is not!" + +He laughed. "It is--at any rate I think so, and others'll think so. It'll +want a lot of explaining away, Joan, won't it? if even it isn't true. +But I know better. Well, what about it--about the money?" + +"I shall consider," she said quietly. "I paid you before, blackmail! If +I asked you if this was the final payment, and you said Yes. I know that +I need not believe you, so--so I shall consider. I shall take time to +think it over." + +"Oh, you will?" + +"Yes!" + +Down the road came a cart. It lumbered along slowly, the carter trudging +at the horse's head. Slotman looked at the slow-coming figure and cursed +under his breath. + +"When shall I hear?" + +"I shall think it over, decide how I shall act, whether I shall pay you +this money or not," she said. "In a few days, this day week, not +before." She turned away. + +"And--and if I go to Buddesby and get talking?" + +"Then of course I pay you nothing!" she said calmly. + +That was true. Slotman gritted his teeth. Two minutes later the carter +trudging on his way passed a solitary man smoking by a gate, and far +down the road a woman walked quickly towards Starden. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +"FOR HER SAKE" + + +Into Hugh Alston's life had come two women, women he had loved, both now +engaged to be married to other men, and Hugh Alston was a sorely worried +and perplexed man about both of them. + +"I'll go to Cornbridge to-morrow," said Hugh, and he went. + +"Where," asked Lady Linden, "the dickens have you been?" + +"In the country!" + +"Isn't your own country good enough for you?" She looked at him shrewdly. +She saw the worry in his face; it was too open and too honest to make +concealment of his feelings possible. + +Marjorie welcomed him with tearful gladness in her eyes. She said +nothing, she held his hand tightly. Not till afterwards did she thank +him for coming. + +"I felt you would," she said. "I knew you would!" + +And so he was glad he came. + +And was she? She wondered, better a thousand times for her and her +happiness if she never saw him again. So long as she lived she would not +forget those four words that had entered like a sword into her heart and +had slain for ever the last hope of happiness for her--"Better than my +life!" + +It was odd how women remembered Hugh Alston's words. How even on this +very day another woman was remembering, and was fighting a fight, pride +and obstinacy opposed to fear and loneliness and weariness of soul. + +Hugh noticed a change in Tom. + +"Hello, Alston," said Tom, and gripped him by the hand; but it was a +weary and dispirited voice and grip, unlike those of Tom Arundel of +yore. + +They walked about Lady Linden's model farm together, Tom acting as +showman with no little pride, and yet behind even the enthusiasm there +was a weariness that Hugh detected. + +"And the wedding, Tom?" Hugh asked him presently. "When is it to be?" + +Tom looked up. "I don't know, Alston, sometimes I think never. Alston, +you--you've seen her. You remember her as she was, the sweetest, dearest +girl in the world, her eyes and her heart filled with sunshine, and +now..." The lad's voice trailed off miserably. + +"Hugh, I can't make her out; it worries me and puzzles me and--and hurts +me. She is so different, she takes me up so sharply. I--I know I am a +fool, I know I am not fit to touch her little hand. I know that I am not +a man--like you, a man a girl could look up to and respect, but I've +always loved her, Hugh, and I've kept straight. There are things I might +have done and didn't do--for her sake. I just thought of her, Hugh, and +so--so I've lived a decent life!" + +Hugh's eyes kindled, for he knew that what the boy said was truth. + +Thursday afternoon saw Hugh back at Hurst Dormer. It was a week now +since he had left Starden. She had asked him to leave, and he had left, +yet not exactly for that reason. His coming here had done no good, had +only given him fresh worry and anxiety, and now he realised that all his +sympathy was for Tom and not for Marjorie. + +"Oh, my Lord! Uncertain, coy and hard to please is correct, and I +suppose some of them can be ministering angels--yes, God bless them! +I've seen them!" His face softened, his thoughts flew back to other +days, days of strife and bloodshed, of misery and death, days when men +lay helpless and in pain, and in memory Hugh saw the gentle, +soft-footed girls at their work of mercy. Ministering angels--God's own! + +"Mrs. Morrisey, I am going to London." + +"Very good, sir!" Mrs. Morrisey was giving up all hopes of this restless +young master of hers. "Very good, sir!" + +"I shall be back"--he paused--"eventually, if not sooner!" + +"Certainly, sir!" said Mrs. Morrisey, who had no sense of humour. + +"Meanwhile, send on any letters to the Northborough Hotel. I shall catch +the seven-thirty," said Hugh. + +"I'll order the car round, sir," said Mrs. Morrisey. + +And this very day at Starden pride broke down; the need was so great. It +was not the money that the man demanded, but the bonds that paying it +would forge about her, bind her for all time. + + "Please come to me here. I want your help. I am in great trouble, + and there is no one I can turn to but you. + + "JOAN." + +And not till after the letter was in the post did she remember that she +had signed it with her Christian name only. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +CONNIE DECLARES + + +"My dear Connie!" Helen Everard was amazed. "My dear Connie, why talk +such nonsense? This marriage between Joan and Johnny is the best, the +very best possible thing in the world for him. Joan is--" + +"I know all she is, Helen," said Connie; "no one knows better than I do. +I know she is lovely; she is good, she is rich, and she is cold--cold to +Johnny. She doesn't love him; and I love him, Helen, and I hate to think +that Johnny should give his life to a woman who does not care for him!" + +Helen shrugged her shoulders. "Sometimes, Connie with her queer +unworldly notions annoys me," she thought. + +"At any rate, dear child, it is all arranged, and whatever you and I +say will not matter in the least. But, all the same, I am sorry you are +opposed to the marriage." + +"I am!" said Connie briefly. + +She had declared herself, as she had known sooner or later she must, and +she had declared on the side of the girl who loved Johnny Everard better +than her life. + +At home Johnny wondered at the change that had come to the two women +whom he loved and believed in. It seemed to him that somehow they were +antagonistic to him, they seemed to cling together. + +Ellice deliberately avoided him. When he asked her to go out, as in the +old days, she refused, and when he felt hurt Connie sided with her. + +"Con, what does it mean?" he cried in perplexity. + +"Nothing. What should it mean?" + +"But it does. Ellice hardly speaks to me. When I speak to her she just +answers. You--you"--he paused--"and you are different even. What have +I done?" + +"You have done nothing--yet, Johnny. It is what you are going to +do--that troubles me and makes me anxious." + +He stared, open-eyed. + +"How?" + +"Your marriage!" + +"With Joan. You mean that you are against her?" + +"I am against any woman who would have you for a husband and give you +none of her heart," cried Connie. + +"Why--why?" he stammered. "Con, you couldn't expect that Joan would fall +in love with a chap like me?" + +"Then why is she going to marry you? Isn't marriage a union of love and +hearts? Oh, Johnny, I am anxious, very anxious. I hate it, this loveless +marriage--" + +"But I love her!" he said reverently. + +"Do you--can you go on loving her? Can you? Your own heart starved, can +you continue to love and give again and again? No, no, I know +better--the time will come when you will realise you have married a cold +and beautiful statue, and your heart will wither and shrivel within you, +Johnny." + +"Con, in time I will make her care for me a little." + +"She never will!" + +"Why?" + +Connie looked out of the window. "Johnny, dear, if I am saying something +that will hurt you, will you forgive me?--knowing that I love you so +dearly, that all I want to see is your happiness, that I hate to see you +imposed on, made a fool of, made a convenience of!" + +"Connie, what do you mean?" + +"I mean that I believe that Joan Meredyth will never love you, because +all the heart she has to give has been given to someone else." + +"You have no right to say that. What do you know? What can you know?" + +"I know nothing. I can only guess. I can only stumble and grope in the +dark. Think! That woman, lovely, sweet, brilliant, could she accept all +that you offer her and give nothing in return if she were heart-free? +Wouldn't your love for her appeal to her, touch her, force some +tenderness in response? Oh, I have watched her. I have seen, and I have +guessed what I know must--must be true. For she is all woman; she is no +cold icicle, but you have not touched her heart, Johnny, and you never +will, and so--so, my dear," Connie's voice choked with a sob, "you'll +hate me for this--Johnny!" + +He went to her, put his arm about her, and held her tightly and kissed +her. + +"To prove my hate, dear," he whispered, and then he went out with a very +thoughtful look on his face. + +In the yard he saw Ellice. + +"Gipsy girl," he said, "come with me. Let's go out--anywhere in the car +for a ride--it doesn't matter where. Come with me!" + +Her face flushed, then paled. + +"No thank you!" she said coldly. "I am busy doing something for Joan." + +Johnny sighed with disappointment, there was pain in his eyes too. In +the old days she would not have refused; she would have come gladly. + +"My little Gipsy girl is against me too!" He walked away slowly and +dejectedly, and the girl watched him. She lifted her hands and pressed +them hard against her breast, and then--then Johnny heard the light fall +of swift-moving feet. He felt a clutch on his arm, and turned. He saw a +flushed face, bright eyes were looking into his. + +"If--if you want me to, I'll come," she said. "I'll come with +you--anywhere!" + +He did not answer. His hands had dropped on to her shoulders; he stood +there holding her and looking into her face, glowing with a beauty that +he had never seen in it before, and in his eyes was still that puzzled +look, the look of a man who does not quite understand. + +"Why, Gipsy girl!" he said slowly, "you are a woman--you have grown up +all suddenly." + +"Yes, I am--I am a woman!" She laughed, but the laughter ended in a sob. +She bent her head, and Johnny, strangely puzzled, slipped his arm about +her and drew her a little closer to him. + +He had thought her a child; but she was a woman, and he had seen in her +eyes that which set his dull wits wondering. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +"HE HAS COME BACK" + + +It was exactly a week since his departure that Hugh returned to Starden, +and found Mrs. Bonner a little surprised, but by no means unready. + +"You said as you'd send me a message, sir," she said. + +"I did, and I haven't done it--I'll take the consequences." But there +were no consequences to take. She prepared him an ample meal at the +shortest notice, and was willing enough to stop and talk to him while he +ate it. + +"Anything new, anything fresh?" + +"Nothing!" + +"No strangers about Starden?" + +"No!" + +Had Slotman been? That was what Hugh wanted to know. Presently he asked +the question direct. + +"You don't happen to have seen that man I described to you some time +back, a stout man with a lean face, overdressed, thick red lips, small +eyes?" + +"Law bless us! yes. I see him two days ago, drove past he did in a +car--a shabby-looking car it was, but he didn't stop. He just stared at +the cottage as he drove past, and I got an idea he smiled, only I ain't +sure. I am sure of one thing, however; he did stare terribul hard at +this cottage!" + +"You are sure it is the man?" + +Mrs. Bonner described Mr. Slotman's appearance vividly, and Mr. Slotman, +had he been there, might not have been pleased to hear of the impression +he had made on the good woman. + +"A man," she concluded, "as I wouldn't trust, not a hinch!" + +"It's the man!" Hugh thought. "And he's come back, as I thought he +would. Funny he should look at the cottage! Good Lord! I wonder if he +has spies about here?" + +"Anyone else been? I suppose no one came here to ask about me, for +instance, Mrs. Bonner?" + +"No one, sir, not a soul, no--stay a moment. The day you left that there +nosey Parker of a gel Alice Betts came. I couldn't make out whatever she +came for. Me, I don't 'old with them Bettses, anyhow she came. It was +her brother that brought you that letter from Miss Joan Meredyth the day +you went, sir, and she said something about 'earing as I'd lost my +lodger." + +"I see. And who is Alice Betts?" + +"Her--she be a maid at Starden Hall." + +"I see," Hugh repeated. "I see! Mrs. Bonner," he said, "will you do +something for me?" + +"Anything, of course!" + +"Will you take a letter for me to Miss Joan Meredyth?" + +Would she not? Mrs. Bonner caught her breath. Then there was something +between these two, even though Miss Joan Meredyth was engaged to marry +Mr. John Everard of Buddesby! + +"Mrs. Bonner," said Hugh a few minutes later, "I am going to trust you +absolutely. Miss Meredyth and I--are--old friends. It is urgent that I +see her. I want you to take this letter to her; tell no one at the Hall +that the letter is from me, tell no one that I am back. No one knows. I +did not meet a soul on the road from the station, and I don't want my +presence here known. I am trusting you!" + +"You can, sir!" + +"I am sure of it. Take that note to Miss Meredyth, ask to see her +personally. Don't mention my name. Give her that letter, and if, when +she has read it, she will come with you, bring her here, because I must +see her, and to-night." + +It was Alice Betts who opened the door to Mrs. Bonner. + +"Oh, good evening, Mrs. Bonner!" + +"I didn't come 'ere to bandy no words with you," said Mrs. Bonner. "I +never held with you, Alice Betts," she added severely. + +"I don't see what I've done!" + +"No pre-aps you don't. Anyhow, I'm here to see your mistress. You go and +tell her I am here." + +"If I say I've brought a letter that gel will guess who it is from," +Mrs. Bonner thought, so, wisely, she held her peace. + +A few minutes later Mrs. Bonner was shewn into the drawing-room. She +dropped a curtsey. + +"You want to see me?" + +"Yes, miss, but first--excuse me, miss!" + +Mrs. Bonner hurriedly opened the door. + +"I thought so," she said. "Didn't you best be getting off to your work?" + +Alice Betts went. + +"A spy! If I might make so bold, miss, I'd get rid of her. Them Bettses +never was no good, what with the drink and things. I got a letter for +you, miss, only I didn't want that gel to know it." + + +"Joan, I am back again. No one knows that I am, here except Mrs. Bonner +and now yourself. I have reasons for wishing my return to remain +unknown. But I must see you. You will believe that I would not ask you +to come to me here if there was not urgent need." + +There was urgent need, and she knew it, for had she not written that +appeal to him barely twenty-four hours ago? There had been no delay this +time in his coming. + +"And he, Mr. Alston, is at your cottage?" + +"Yes, miss, came back only about a hour ago, and he's waiting there. He +told me maybe you might come back with me, and he's trusting me not to +tell anyone he's here, miss." + +"Yes, I understand. And, Mrs. Bonner, you think that girl is a spy?" + +"I know it. Wasn't she starting to listen at the keyhole and me hardly +inside the room?" + +Joan was silent for a moment. "Go back! Tell him--I shall +come--presently. Tell him I am grateful to him for coming so quickly." + +"I'll tell him." + +Mrs. Bonner was gone, and Joan sat there hesitating. A trembling fit of +nervousness had come to her, a sense of fear, strangely mingled with +joy. + +"I must go, there is no one else, but--I do not wish to see him," and +yet she knew that she did. She wished to see him more than she wanted to +see anything on earth. So presently when Helen, who retired early, had +gone upstairs, Joan slipped a cloak over her shoulders and stole out of +the house as surreptitiously as any maid stealing to a love tryst. + +In Mrs. Bonner's tiny sitting-room Hugh was pacing restlessly in the +confined space, pausing now and again to listen. + +She was coming--coming. Presently she would be here, presently he would +see her, this girl of his dreams, standing before him with the lamplight +on her sweet face. + +But it was not to pour out the story of his love that he had sent for +her to-night. He must remember that she came unattended, unprotected, +relying on his chivalry. Hugh took a grip on himself, and now he heard +the familiar creaking of the little gate, and in a moment was at the +door. But the excitement, the enthusiasm of just now was passed. + +He looked at her standing before him. Looking at her, he pictured her as +he had seen her before, cold and haughty, her eyes hard and bright, her +lips curved with scorn for him, and now--he saw her with a flush in her +cheeks, and the brightness of her eyes was not cold, but soft and misty, +and her red-lipped mouth trembled. + +Once he had seen her as now, all sweetness and tenderness. And so in his +dreams of her had he pictured her, and now he saw her so again, and knew +that his love for her and need of her were greater even than he had +believed. + +"I sent for you, Hugh." She hesitated, and again the colour deepened in +her cheeks. + +"You sent for me, dear?" + +"Because I need you. I want your advice, perhaps your help. He--he came +back again." + +"When?" + +"Last Saturday." + +"And I left here Thursday," he smiled. "Joan, you have a spy in your +house who reports my movements and yours to Slotman. No sooner was I +gone from here than he was advised, and so he came. Now do you +understand why I am here. I knew that man would come. He needs money, +there is the magnet of your gold. He will never leave you in peace while +he thinks you alone and unprotected, but while I was here you were safe, +for he is a very coward." + +"And that was why you came, knowing that he--" + +She paused. "And I--I cut you in the street, Hugh." + +"And hurt yourself by doing it," he said softly. + +"Yes." She bowed her head, and then suddenly she thrust the softness and +the tenderness from her, for they must be dangerous things when she +loved this man as she did, and was promised to another. + +"I must not forget that--I am--" She paused. + +"Promised to another man? But you will never carry out that promise, +Joan--you cannot, my dear! You cannot, because you belong to me. But it +was not of that that you came to speak. Only remember what I have said. +It is true." + +"It cannot be true. I never break a promise! What am I to do? Tell me +and advise me. You know--what he--he says--what he thinks or--or +pretends to think." Again the burning flush was in her cheeks. + +"I know!" + +"And even though it is all a vile and cruel lie, yet I could not bear--" + +"You shall not suffer!" + +"Don't--don't you understand that if people should think--think of such +a thing and me--that they should speak of it and utter my name--Lies or +truth, it would be almost the same; the shame of it would be +horrible--horrible!" She was trembling. + +"Tell me, have you seen this man?" + +"Yes, last Saturday. He wrote ordering me to meet him. In every line of +the letter I read threats. I--I had to go; it was money, of course, five +thousand pounds." + +"And you didn't promise?" His voice was harsh and sharp, and looking at +him she saw a man changed, a man whose face was hard and stern, and +whose mouth had grown bitter. And, knowing it was for her, she knew that +she had never admired him before as she did now. + +"I promised nothing. I am to meet him again to-morrow night and--and +tell him what I have decided. It is not the money, but--but to pay would +seem as if I--I were afraid. And oh, I have paid before!" + +"I know! And to-morrow you will meet him?" + +"I--but--" + +"You will meet him, Joan, but I shall be there also. Tell me where!" + +She described the place, and he remembered it and knew it well enough. + +"I shall be there, remember that. Go without fear--answer as you decide, +but remember you pay nothing--nothing. And then I,"--he paused, and +smiled for the first time--"I will do the paying." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +THE DROPPING OF THE SCALES + + +It was like turning back the pages of a well-loved book, a breath out of +the past. For this afternoon it seemed to John Everard that his little +friend, almost sister, had come back to him. + +And yet it seemed to Johnny, who studied her quietly, that here was one +whom he had never known, never seen before. The child had been dear to +him as a younger sister, but the child was no more. + +And to-day, for these few brief hours, Ellice gave herself up to a +happiness that she knew could be but fleeting. To-day she would be the +butterfly, living and rejoicing in the sun. The darkness would come soon +enough, but to-day was hers and his. + +How far in his boldness John Everard drove that little car he did not +quite realise, but it was a slight shock to him to read on a sign-post +"Holsworth four miles," for Holsworth was more than forty miles from +Little Langbourne. + +"Gipsy, we must go back," he said. "We'll get some tea at the farmhouse +we passed a mile back, and then we will hurry on. Con will be worrying." + +They had tea at the little farmhouse, and sat facing one another, and +more than ever grew the wonder in Johnny's mind. Why--why had this girl +changed so? What was the meaning of it, the reason for it? It was not +the years, for a few days, a few short weeks had wrought the change. And +then he remembered with a sense of shame and wrongdoing that, strangely +enough, he had scarcely flung one thought to Joan all that long +afternoon. + +And now in the dusk of the evening they set off on the homeward journey. +And at Harlowe happened the inevitable, when one has only a small-sized +tank, and undertakes a journey longer than the average, the petrol ran +out. The car stopped after sundry spluttering explosions and +back-firings. + +"Nothing else for it, Gipsy. I must tramp back to Harlowe and get some +petrol--serves me right, I ought to have thought of it. Are you afraid +of being left there with the car?" + +"Afraid!" She laughed. "Afraid of what, Johnny?" + +"Nothing, dear!" + +He set off patiently with an empty petrol tin in each hand, and she +watched him till he was lost in the dusk. + +"Afraid!" she repeated. "Afraid only of one thing in this world--of +myself, of my love for him!" And then suddenly sobs shook her, and she +buried her face in her hands and cried as if her heart must break. + +It took Johnny a full hour to tramp to Harlowe and to tramp back with +the two heavy tins, and then something seemed to go wrong. The car would +not start up: another hour passed, and they had a considerable way to +go, and then suddenly, seemingly without rhyme or reason, the car +started and ran beautifully, and once more they were off and away. + +But they were very late when they came into Starden, and with still some +six and a half miles to go before they could reassure Connie. + +"Connie will be worrying, Gipsy," Johnny said. "You know what Connie is, +bless her! She'll think all sorts of tragedies--and--" He paused, his +voice faltered, shook, and became silent. + +They were running past Mrs. Bonner's cottage. The door of the cottage +stood open, and against the yellow light within they could see the +figure of a man and of a girl, and both knew the girl to be Joan +Meredyth, and the man to be Mrs. Bonner's lodger, the man that Joan had +cut that day in Starden. + +The car was a quarter of a mile further down the road before either +spoke, and then Johnny said, and his voice was jerky and uncertain: + +"Yes, Connie will be getting nervous. I shall be glad to have you +home--Gipsy." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +"HER CHAMPION" + + +Why should Joan have been at Mrs. Bonner's cottage at such an hour? Why +should she have been there talking to the very man whom she had a week +ago cut dead in the village? Why, if she had anything to say to him, +whoever he was, had she not sent for him rather than seek him at his +lodgings? + +Questions that puzzled and worried Johnny Everard sorely, questions that +he could not answer. Jealousy, doubt, and all the kindred feelings came +overwhelmingly. Honest as the day, he never doubted a soul's honesty. If +he found out that a man whom he had trusted was a thief, it shocked him; +he kicked the man out and was done with him, and nothing was left but an +unpleasant memory, but Joan was different. + +Trust Joan? Of course he did, utterly and entirely. + +"I should be unworthy of her if I didn't," he thought. "In any case, I +am not worthy of her. It is all right!" + +But was it all right? + +Connie had been naturally a little anxious. She, womanlike, had built up +a series of tragedies in her mind, the worst of which was Johnny and +Ellice lying injured and unconscious on some far distant roadway; the +least a smashed and disabled car, and Johnny and Ellice sitting +disconsolate on a roadside bank. + +But here they were, all safe and sound, and Connie bustled about, +hurrying up the long delayed dinner, making anxious enquiries, and +feeling a sense of relief and gratitude for their safe return, about +which she said nothing at all. + +And now Connie was gone to bed, and Ellice too; and Johnny smoked his +pipe and frowned over it, and asked himself questions to which he could +find no answer. + +"But I trust her, absolutely," he said aloud. "Still, if she knows the +man"--he paused--"why hasn't she spoken to me about him? I am to be her +husband soon, thank Heaven, but--" + +And then came more doubts and worries crowding into his mind, and his +pipe went out, and he sat there, frowning at thoughts, greatly worried. + +Johnny Everard looked up at the sound of the opening of the door. In the +doorway stood a little figure. He had never realised how little she was +till he saw her now, standing there with her bare feet and a thin white +dressing-gown over her nightdress, her hair hanging in great waving +tresses about her oval face and shoulders and far down her back. + +She looked such a child--and yet such a woman, her great eyes anxiously +on his face. + +"Johnny," she said softly, "you have been worrying." + +He nodded, speechless. + +"Why, Johnny?" + +"Because--because, Gipsy, I am a fool--a jealous fool, I suppose." + +"If you doubt her honour and her honesty, Johnny, then you are a fool," +she said bravely, "because Joan could not be mean and treacherous and +underhand. It would not be possible for her." + +"I thought you did not--like Joan?" + +"And does that make any difference? Even if I do not like her, must I be +unjust to her? I know she is fine and honourable and true and straight, +and you must know that too, so--so why should you worry, Johnny? Why +should you worry?" + +"Why has she never said one word to me about this man? Why did she +refuse to recognise him that day when she saw you and him together? Why +does she go to Mrs. Bonner's cottage to meet him late at night?" + +He hurled at her all those questions that he had been asking himself +vainly. + +"I do not know why," Ellice said gravely, "but I know that, whatever the +reason is, it is honourable and honest. Joan Meredyth," she paused a +little, with a catch of the breath, "Joan Meredyth could not be other +than honest and true and--and straight, Johnny. It would not be her +nature to be anything else." + +"Why do you come here? Why do you come to tell me this, Gipsy?" He had +risen, he stood looking at her--such a little thing, so graceful, so +lovely with the colour in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the light +of her fine generosity. "Gipsy--" He became silent; looking at her, +strange thoughts came--wild, impossible thoughts, thoughts that come +when dreams end and one is face to face with reality. So many years he +had known her, she had been part and parcel of his life, his everyday +companion, yet it seemed to him that he had never known her till +now--the fineness, the goodness of her, the beauty of her too, the +womanliness of this child. + +"I came here to tell you, Johnny, because you let yourself doubt," she +said. "I heard you moving about the room restlessly, and that is not +like you. Usually you sit here and smoke your pipe and think or read +your paper. You never rise and move about the room as to-night." + +"How do you know?" + +She laughed shortly. "I know--everything," she said. "I listen to you +night after night. I always have for years. I have heard you come up and +go to your room, always. I always wait for that!" + +"Gipsy, why--why should you?" + +"Because," she said--"because--" And then she said no more, and would +have turned away, her errand done, but that he hastened to her and +caught her by the hand. + +"Gipsy, wait. Don't go. Why did you come to tell me this of Joan +to-night?" + +"Because since you have asked her to be your wife, you belong to her, +and you should not doubt her. She is above doubt--she could not be as +some women, underhand and treacherous, deceitful. That would not be Joan +Meredyth." + +"And yet you do not like her, dear. Why not?" + +"I can't--tell you." She tried to wrench her hand free, yet he held it +strongly, and looked down into her eyes. + +What did he see there? What tale did they in their honesty tell him, +that hers lips must never utter? Was he less blind at this moment than +ever before in his life? Johnny Everard never rightly understood. + +"Good night," he said, "Gipsy, good night," and would have drawn her to +him to kiss her--as usual, but she resisted. + +"Please, please don't!" she said, and looked at him. + +Her lips were quivering, there was a glorious flush in her cheeks; and +in her eyes, a kind of fear. So he let her go, and opened the door for +her and stood listening to the soft swish of her draperies as she sped +up the dark stairs. + +Then very slowly Johnny Everard came back to his chair. He picked up his +pipe and stared at it, yet did not see it. He saw a pair of eyes that +seemed to burn into his, eyes that had betrayed to him at last the +secret of her heart. + +"I didn't know--I didn't know," Johnny Everard said brokenly. "I didn't +know, and oh, my God! I am not worthy of that! I am not worthy of +that!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +"THE PAYING" + + +Once again Mr. Philip Slotman was tainting the fragrant sweetness and +freshness of the night with the aroma of a large and expensive J.S. +Muria. + +Once again the big shabby old car stood waiting in the shadows, a +quarter of a mile down the road, while he who hired it leaned against +the gate under the shadow of the partly ruined barn. + +He had not the smallest doubt but that she would come. It was full early +yet; but she would come, though, being a woman, she would in all +probability be late. + +And she would pay, she dared not refuse him. Yet he needed more than the +money, he thought, as he leaned at his ease against the gate and smoked +his cigar. + +And now she was coming. He flung the half-smoked cigar away and waited +as the dark figure approached him in the night. + +"You are early to-night, Joan." He endeavoured to put softness and +tenderness into his voice. + +"I am here at the time I appointed." + +"To give me my answer--yes, but we won't discuss that now. I want to +speak to you about something else." + +"Something other than money?" + +"Yes, do you think I always put money first?" + +"I had thought so, Mr. Slotman." + +"You do me a wrong--a great wrong. There is something that I put far +ahead of money, of gold. It is you--Joan, listen! you must listen!" He +had gripped her arm and held tightly, and as before she did not struggle +nor try to win free of him. + +"You shall listen to me. I have told you before many times that I love +you." + +He tried to drag her closer to him. And now she wrenched herself free. + +"I came to discuss money with you, not--not impossibilities." + +"So--so that is it, is it? I am impossible, am I?" + +"To me--utterly. I have only one feeling for you, the deepest scorn. I +don't hate you, because you are too mean, too paltry, too low a thing to +hate. I have only contempt for you." + +He writhed under the cold and cutting scorn of her words and her voice, +the evil temper in him worked uppermost. + +"So--so that's the talk, is it?" he cried with a foul oath. "That's it, +is it? You--you two-penny ha'penny--" He choked foolishly over his +words. + +"You!" he gasped, "what are you? What have you been? What about you +and--" + +Again he was silent, writhing with rage. + +"Money--yes, it is money-talk, then, and by thunder I'll make you pay! +I'll bleed you white, you cursed--" Again more foolish oaths, the clumsy +cursing of a man in the grip of passion. + +"You shall pay! It's money-talk, yes--you shall pay! We will talk in +thousands, my girl. I said five thousand. It isn't enough--what is your +good name worth, eh? What is it worth to you? I could paint you a nice +colour, couldn't I? What will this fellow Everard say when I tell him +what I can tell him? How the village fools will talk it over in their +alehouse, eh? And in the cottages, how they will stare at Miss Meredyth +of Starden when she takes her walks abroad. They'll wink at one another, +won't they. They'll remember! Trust 'em, they'll never forget!" + +She felt sickened, faint, and horrified, yet she gave no sign. + +"Money you said!" he shouted, "and money it shall be! Ten thousand +pounds, or I'll give you away, so that every man and woman in Starden +will count 'emselves your betters! I'll give you away to the poor fool +you think you are going to marry! There won't be any wedding. I'll swear +a man couldn't marry a thing--with such a name as I shall give you! +Money, yes! you'll pay! I want ten thousand pounds! Not five, remember, +but ten, and perhaps more to follow. And if you don't pay, there won't +be many who will not have heard about your imaginary marriage to that +dog, Hugh Alston." + +The girl drew a deep shuddering sigh. She pressed her hands over her +breast. From the shadows about the old barn a deeper shadow moved, +something vaulted the gate lightly and came down with a thud on the +ground beside Mr. Philip Slotman. + +"Joan," said a voice, "you will go away and leave this man to me. I will +attend to the paying of him." + +Slotman turned, his rage gone, a cold sweat of fear bursting out on his +forehead; his loose jaw sagged. + +"A--a trap," he gasped. + +"To catch a rat! And the rat is caught! Joan, go. I will follow +presently." + +No word passed between the two men as they watched the girl's figure +down the road. She walked slowly; once she seemed to hesitate as though +about to turn back. And it was in her mind to turn back, to plead for +mercy for this man, this creature. Yet she did not. She flung her head +up. No, she would not ask for mercy for him: Hugh Alston was just. + +So in silence they watched her till the darkness had swallowed her. + +"So you refused to accept my warning, Slotman?" + +"I--I refuse to have anything to do with you. It is no business of +yours, kindly allow me--" + +Slotman would have gone. Hugh thrust out a strong arm and barred his +way. + +"Wait!" he said, "blackmailer!" + +"I--I was asking for a loan." + +"A gift of money with threats--lying, infamous threats. How shall I +deal with you?" Hugh frowned as in thought. "How can a man deal with a +dog like you? Dog--may all dogs forgive me the libel! Shall I thrash +you? Shall I tear the clothes from your body, and thrash you and fling +you, bleeding and tattered, into that field? Shall I hand you over to +the Police?" + +"You--you dare not," Slotman said; his teeth were chattering. "It will +mean her name being dragged in the mud, the whole thing coming out. +You--you dare not do it." + +"You are right. I dare not, for the sake of her name--the name of such +a woman must never be uttered in connection with such a thing as +yourself. How, then, shall I deal with you? It must be the thrashing, +yet it is not enough. It is a pity the duel has gone out, not that you +would have fought me with a sword or pistol, Slotman, still--Yes, it +must be the thrashing." + +"If you touch me--" + +Hugh laughed sharply. "If I touch you, what?" + +"I shall call for help. I shall summon you. I--" + +"Put your hands up." + +"Help! help! help!" + +Down the road the tired chauffeur slumbered peacefully on the seat of +the shabby car. He heard nothing, save some distant unintelligible +sounds and the cooing of a wood-pigeon in an adjacent thicket. + +And then presently there came down the road a flying figure, the figure +of a man who sobbed as he ran, a man from whom the clothes hung in +ribbons, a man with wild staring eyes, and panting, labouring chest. He +stumbled as he ran, and picked himself up again, to fall again. So, +running, stumbling, falling, he came at last to the car and shrieked at +the driver to awaken. + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +"IS IT THE END?" + + +Lady Linden, wearing a lilac printed cotton sunbonnet, her skirts pinned +up about her, was busy with a trowel, disordering certain flower-beds +that presently the gardeners would come and put right. + +"Idle women," said her ladyship, "are my abomination. How a woman can +moon about and do nothing is more than I can understand. Look at me, am +I not always busy? From early morning to dewy eve I--Curtis!" + +"Yes, my lady?" + +"Come here at once," said her ladyship. "I have dug up a worm. I dislike +worms. Carry the creature away; don't hurt it, Curtis. I dislike cruelty +even to worms. Ugh! How you can touch the thing!" + +Curtis, under-gardener, trudged away with a large healthy worm dangling +from thumb and forefinger, a sheepish grin on his face. + +"Those creatures have none of the finer feelings," thought her ladyship. +"Yet we are all brothers and sisters according to the Bible. I don't +agree with that at all. Curtis, come back; there is another worm." + +Marjorie stood at the window, watching her aunt's operations, yet seeing +none of them. Her face was set and white and resolute, the soft round +chin seemed to be jutting out more obstinately than usual. + +For Marjorie had made up her mind definitely, and she knew that she was +about to hurt herself and to hurt someone else. + +But it must be. It was only fair, it was only just. Silence, she +believed, would be wicked. + +The door behind her opened, and Tom Arundel came into the room. He was +fresh from the stable, and smelled of straw. + +"Why, darling, is there anything up? I got your note asking me to come +here at once. Joe gave it to me just as we were going to take out the +brute Lady Linden has bought. Of all the vicious beasts! I wish to +goodness she wouldn't buy a horse without a proper opinion, but it is +useless talking to her. She said she liked the white star on its +forehead--white star! black devil, I call it! But I'll break him in if I +break my neck--doing it. But--I am sorry. You want me?" + +"I want to speak to you." + +"Then you might turn and look at a chap, Marjorie." + +"I--I prefer to--to look out through the window," she said in a stifled +voice. + +Standing in the room he beheld her, slim and graceful, dark against the +light patch of the window, her back obstinately turned to him; looking +at her, there came a great and deep tenderness into his face, the light +of a very honest and intense love. + +"Tell me, sweetheart, then," he said--"tell me in your own way, what is +it? Nothing very serious, is it?" There was a suggestion of laughter in +his voice. + +"It is very serious, Tom." + +"Yes?" + +"It--it concerns you--me and you--our future." + +"Yes, dear, then it is serious." The laughter was gone; there came a +look of fear, of anxiety into his eyes. + +It could not be that she was going to discard him, turn him down, end it +all now? But she was. + +"Tom, it is only right and honest of me to tell you that--that"--her +voice shook--"that I have made a mistake." + +"That you do not love me?" he said, and his voice was strangely quiet. + +"Oh, Tom, I believed I did. It all seemed so different when we used to +meet, knowing that everyone was against us. It seemed so romantic, +so--so nice, and now ..." Her voice trailed off miserably. + +"And now, now, sweet," and his voice was filled with tenderness and +yearning, "now I fall far short of what you hoped for." + +"Oh, it isn't that. It is I--I--who am to blame, not you. I was a +senseless, romantic little fool, a child, and now I am a woman." + +"You don't love me, Marjorie?" + +Silence for a moment, then she answered in a low voice: "No!" + +"Nor ever will, your love can't come back again?" + +"I don't think it--it was ever there. I was wrong; I did not understand. +I was foolish and weak. I thought it fine to--to steal away and meet +you. I think I put a halo of romance about your head, and now--" + +"A halo of romance about my head," he repeated. He looked down at his +hands, grimed with the work he had been at; he smiled, but there was no +mirth in his smile. + +This was the end then! And he loved her, Heaven knew how he loved her! +He looked at the unyielding little figure against the light, and in his +eyes was a great longing and a subdued passion. + +"So it--it is the end, Marjorie?" + +"I want it to be." + +"Yes, I understand. I knew that I was not good enough, never good enough +for you--far, far beneath you, dear. Only I would have tried to make you +happy--that is what I meant, you understand that? I would have given my +life to making you happy, little girl. Perhaps I was a fool to think I +could. I know now that I could not." + +"Tom, I am sorry," she said. "I am sorry." + +He came to her, he put his hand on her arm. + +"Don't blame yourself, dear," he said, "don't blame yourself. You can't +help your heart; you--you only thought you cared for me for a time, but +it was just a fancy, and it--it passed, didn't it? And now it is gone, +and can never come back again. Of course it must end. Your +wishes--always--mean everything to me." He bent, he touched the white +hand with his lips, and then turned away. Once at the door he looked +back; but she did not move, the tears were streaming down her cheeks, +and she did not want him to see them. + +How well he had taken it! How well, and yet he loved her! She realised +now how much he loved her, how fine he was, and generous, even Hugh +could not have been more generous than he. + +And Marjorie stood there like one in a dream, watching, yet seeing +nothing, going over in her mind all that had passed, suffering the pain +of it. And she had loved him once! Those mystic moonlight meetings, his +young arms about her, his lips against hers--oh, she had loved him! And +then had come the commonplace, the everyday, sordid side of it, he the +accepted lover, high in Lady Linden's favour, which meant the gradual +awakening from a dream, her dream of love. + +"I am fickle, I am false. I do not know my own mind, and--and I have +hurt him. I am not worthy of hurting him. He is better, finer than I +ever thought." + +Still Lady Linden prodded and trowelled at the neat bed, still she +demanded occasional help from the patient Curtis; and now came a man, +breathless and coatless, rushing across the lawn. He had news for her, +something that must be told; gone was his accustomed terror of her +ladyship. He told her what he had to say, and she dropped the trowel and +ran--actually ran as Marjorie had never seen her run. + +She could have laughed, but for the pain at her heart. He had taken it +so well; he had risen to a height she had not suspected him capable of, +and the fault was hers, hers. + +What was that? What were they carrying? God help her! What was that +they were carrying across the lawn? Why did they walk so quietly, so +carefully? Why ask? + +She knew! Instinct told her. She knew! She flung out her hands and +gripped at the window-frame and watched. She saw her aunt, her usually +ruddy face drawn, haggard, and white. She saw something that lay +motionless on a part of the old barn-door, which four men were carrying +with such care. She saw a man on a bicycle dashing off down the drive. + +Why ask? She knew! And only just now, a few short minutes ago--no, no, +a lifetime ago--she had told him she did not love him. + +"An accident, Marjorie." Lady Linden's voice was harsh, unlike her usual +round tones. "An accident--that brute of a horse--girl, don't, don't +faint." + +"I am not going to. I want to help--him." + +They had brought Tom Arundel into the house, had laid him on a bed in an +upper room. The village doctor had come, and, finding something here +beyond his skill, had sent off, with Lady Linden's full approval, an +urgent message to a surgeon of repute, and now they were +waiting--waiting the issues of life and death. + +The servants looked at the white-faced, distraught girl pityingly. They +remembered that she was to have been the dying man's wife. The whole +thing had been so sudden, was so shocking and tragic. No wonder that she +looked like death herself; they could not guess at the self-reproach, +the self-denunciation, nor could Lady Linden. + +"No one," said her ladyship, "is to blame but me. It was my doing, my +own pig-headed folly. The boy told me that the horse was a brute, and +I--I said that he--if he hadn't the pluck to try and break him in--I +would find someone who would. I am his murderess!" her ladyship cried +tragically. "Yes, Marjorie, look at me--look at the murderess of the man +you love!" + +"Aunt!" + +"It is true. Revile me! I alone am guilty. I've robbed you of your +lover." Lady Linden was nearer to hysterics at this moment than ever in +her life. + +"How long? how long?" she demanded impatiently. "How long will it be +before that fool comes?" + +The fool was the celebrated surgeon wired for to London. He had wired +back that he was on his way; no man could do more. + +But the waiting, the horrible waiting; the ceaseless watching and +listening for the sound of wheels, the strange hush that had fallen upon +the house, the knowledge that there in an upper chamber death was +waiting, waiting to take a young life. + +Hours, every minute of which had seemed like hours themselves, hours had +passed. Lady Linden sat with her hands clenched and her eyes fixed on +nothingness. She blamed herself with all her honest hearty nature; she +blamed herself even more unsparingly than in the past she had blamed +others for their trifling faults. + +Her self-recriminations had got on Marjorie's nerves. She could not bear +to sit here and listen to her aunt when all the time she knew that it +was she--she alone who was to blame. She had told him that she did not +love him, that all his hopes must end, that the future they had planned +between them should never be, and so had sent him to his death. + +She waited outside in the big hall, her eyes on the stairs, her ears +tensioned to every sound from above, and at every sound she started. + +Voices at last, low and muffled, voices pitched in a low key, men +talking as in deep confidence. She heard and she watched. She saw the +two men, the doctor and the surgeon, descending the stairs; she rose and +went to meet them, yet said never a word. + +She watched their faces; she saw that they looked grave. She saw that +the face of the great man was worn and tired. She looked in vain for +something that would whisper the word "Hope" to her. + +"Miss Linden is engaged to Mr. Arundel," the local doctor said. + +The great man held out his hand to her. He knew so well, how many +thousands of times had he seen, that same look of questioning, pitiful +in its dumbness. + +He held her hand closely, "There is hope. That is all I care say to +you--just a hope, and that is all." + +It was all that he dared to say, the utmost to which he could go. He +knew that false hopes, raised only to be crushed, were cruelty. And he +had never done that, never would. "There is yet one ray of hope. He may +live; I can say no more than that, Miss Linden." + +And, little though it was, it was almost more than she had dared to hope +for. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +MR. RUNDLE TAKES A HAND + + +Battered and sorely bruised, Philip Slotman lay on his bed in the +Feathers Inn in Little Langbourne, and cursed his luck. Every time he +moved he swore to himself. + +He was hurt in mind, body, and estate; he was consumed by a great rage +and a sense of injury. He had suffered, and someone should pay--Joan +mainly, after Joan, Hugh Alston. But it would be safer to make Joan pay. +Not in money. Alston had insisted on it that he had nothing to expect in +the way of cash from Miss Meredyth. + +Slotman lay writhing, and cursing and planning vengeance. There were few +things that he would not have liked to do to Hugh Alston, but finally he +decided he could better hurt Hugh Alston through Joan, so thereafter he +devoted his thoughts to Joan. + +The church bells of Little Langbourne Church were ringing pleasantly +when Philip Slotman, with many a grunt and inward groan, rose from his +couch. + +Except for a slight discoloration about the left eye and a certain +stiffness of gait, there was nothing about Philip Slotman when he came +down to the coffee-room for his breakfast to suggest that he had seen so +much trouble the previous evening. But there were some who had seen +Slotman come in, and among them was the waiter. He put his hand over his +mouth, and smirked now at the sight of Slotman, and Slotman noticed it. + +The bells rang no message of peace and good-will to Mr. Slotman this +morning. + +Yes, Joan would be the one. He would make her pay; he would hurt Alston +through her, and hit her hard at the same time. He would stay here at +Little Langbourne. + +"Buddesby, sir?" said the waiter. "Yes, sir. Mister John Everard's place +about a quarter of a mile beyond the village. Very interesting old +'ouse, sir, one of the best farms hereabouts. Mr. Everard's a well-to-do +gentleman, sir, old family, not--" + +"Oh, go away!" + +The waiter withdrew. "Anyhow," he thought, "he got it all right last +night, and serve him right. Law! what a mess 'e were in when he came +in." + +A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Slotman nodded. He would go. He +remembered that Alston had said something last night about this man +Everard, had suggested all sorts of things might happen to him, Slotman, +if he communicated in any way with Everard. + +"Anyhow I shall tell him, and unless he is a born fool he will soon get +quit of her. By thunder! I'll make her name reek, as I told her I would. +I'll set this place and Starden and half the infernal country talking +about her! If she shews her face anywhere, she'll get stared at. I'll +let her and that beast Alston see what it means to get on the wrong side +of a chap like me." + +A quarter of a mile beyond the village. Thank Heaven it was no further. + +The church bells had ceased ringing, from the church itself came the +pleasant sounds of voices. The village street lay white in the sunlight +with the blue shadows of the houses, a world of peace and of beauty, of +sweet scenes and of sweet sounds; and now he had left the village behind +him. + +"Is this Buddesby, my man? Those gates, are they the gates of Buddesby?" + +"Aye, they be," said the man. He was a big, gipsy-looking fellow, who +slouched with hunched shoulders and a yellow mongrel dog at his heels. + +"The gates of Buddesby they be, and--" He paused; he stared hard into +Slotman's face. + +"Oh!" he said slowly, "oh, so 'tis 'ee, be it? I been watching out for +'ee." + +"What--what do you mean?" + +"I remember 'ee, I do. I remember your grinning face. I've carried it in +my memory all right. See that dawg?" The man pointed to the lurcher. +"See him: he's more'n a brother, more'n a son, more'n a wife to me. +That's the dawg you run over that day, and you grinned. I seen it--you +grinned!" The man's black eyes sparkled. He looked swiftly up the road +and down it, and Slotman saw the action and quivered. + +"I'll give you--" he began. "I am very sorry; it was an accident. I'll +pay you for--" + +But the man with the blazing eyes had leaped at him. + +"I been waiting for 'ee, and I've cotched 'ee at last!" he shouted. + + * * * * * + +Johnny Everard, hands in pockets, mooning about his stock and rickyard, +this calm Sunday morning, never guessed how near he had been to +receiving a visitor. + +He had not seen Joan since that night when, with Ellice beside him, he +had seen her and the man at the door of Mrs. Bonner's cottage. + +He had meant to go, but had not gone. He was due there to-day; this very +morning Helen would expect him. He had never missed spending a Sunday +with them since the engagement; and yet he felt loath to go, and did not +know why. + +He had seen Connie off to Church. Con never missed. Ellice had not gone. +Ellice was perhaps a little less constant than Con. He wondered where +the girl was now, and, thinking of her, the frown on his face was +smoothed away. + +Always there was wonder, a sense of unreality in his mind; a feeling +that somehow, in some way, he was wrong. He must be wrong. Strangely +enough, these last few days he had thought more constantly of Ellice +than of Joan. He had pictured her again and again to himself--a little, +white-clad, barefooted figure standing against the dusky background of +the hallway, framed by the open door. He remembered the colour in her +cheeks, and her brave championship of the other woman; but he +remembered most of all the look in her eyes when she had said to him, +"Please, please don't!" + +"I shall never kiss her again," he said, and said it to himself, and +knew as he said it that he was denying himself the thing for which now +he longed. + +He had kissed Joan's cold cheek, he had kissed her hand, but her lips +had not been for him. He had wondered once if they ever would be, and he +had cared a great deal; now he ceased to wonder. + +"I shall never kiss Gipsy again," he thought, and, turning, saw her. + +"So you--you didn't go to Church, Gipsy?" + +"I thought you had gone to Starden." + +They stood and looked at one another. + +"No. I don't think I shall go to Starden to-day." + +"But they expect you." + +"I--I don't think I shall go to-day, Gipsy. Shall we go for a walk +across the fields?" + +"You ought to go to Starden," she said. "She--she will expect you." + +But a spirit of reckless defiance had come to him. + +"She won't miss me if I don't go." + +"No, she won't miss you," the girl said softly, and her voice shook. + +"So--so come with me, Gipsy girl." + +"If you wish it." + +"You know I do." + +Yet when they went together across the fields, when they came to the +edge of the hop-garden and saw the neatly trailing vines, which this +year looked better and more promising than he could ever remember +before, they had nothing to say to one another, not a word. Once he took +her hand and held it for a moment, then let it go again; and at the +touch of her he thrilled, little dreaming how her heart responded. + +He scarcely looked at her. If he had, he might have seen a glow in her +cheeks, a brightness in her eyes, the brightness born of a new and +wonderful hope. + +"After all, after all," the girl was thinking. "I believe he cares for +me a little--not so much as he loves her, but a little, a little, and I +love him." + +Connie smiled on them as they came in together. It was as she liked to +see them. She noticed the deep colouring in the girl's cheeks, the new +brightness in her eyes, and Connie, who always acted on generous +impulses, kissed her. + +"What's that for?" Johnny cried. "Haven't you one for me too, Con?" + +"Always, always," she said. She put her arms about his neck and hugged +him. + +It seemed as if the clouds that had so long overcast this little house +had drifted away this calm Sabbath day, and the sun was shining down +gloriously on them. + +For some time Connie had been quietly watching the girl. There came back +into her memory a promise given long ago. "I will do nothing, nothing, +Con, unless I tell you first." + +She knew Ellice for the soul of honour; she had felt safe, and now she +was waiting. + +"Well, Ellice, have you anything to say to me?" Johnny was gone after +dinner to his tiny study to wrestle with letters and figures that he +abhorred. + +"Yes," Ellice said. + +"I thought you had--well?" + +"I am going to Starden," the girl said. "I am going to Starden this +afternoon, Con." + +"What for?" + +"To see--her?" + +"Why--why, darling, why?" + +"To ask her if she can be generous--and oh, I believe she can--to ask +her why she is taking him away from me when I love him so, and when--oh, +Con--Con, when I believe that he cares a little for me." + +Con held out her arms, she caught the girl tightly. + +"My love and my prayers and my wishes will go with you, darling." + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +"WALLS WE CANNOT BATTER DOWN" + + +"Why?" Helen asked. "Why isn't Johnny here to-day, Joan?" + +"I do not know," Joan said. She had scarcely given a thought to Johnny +Everard that morning. All her thoughts had been of two men, the men she +had left in the darkness by the roadside. She blamed herself bitterly +now that she had left them; she trembled to think what might have +happened. + +"Helen, if Johnny Everard does come, I wish to speak to him. I have a +good deal to say to him. I want to be alone with him for some time." + +"Of course, darling." But there was anxious enquiry in Helen's face. + +Surely, surely there had been no quarrel between them? Johnny was not +one to quarrel with anyone, yet it was strange that he had not been here +for so many days, and that this being Sunday still he was not here. + +"When he comes," Joan was thinking, "I shall tell him--everything." She +knew she would hate it; she knew that she would feel that in some way +she was lowering herself. It would be a horrible confession for one with +her stubborn pride to have to make. Not of guilt and wrongdoing, but +that such should be ascribed to her. + +Helen was watching from the window, her mind filled with worries and +doubts. + +A man had turned in by the gates, was walking slowly up the winding +drive. + +It was Johnny, of course. Helen saw it all. The car had gone wrong, but +Johnny, not to miss this Sunday, had walked. + +"Joan, Johnny is coming," she called out. "He is walking. He--" She +paused; it was not Johnny. She was silent; she stared for a moment. The +man looked familiar, then she knew who it was. + +"Joan, it is Mr. Alston," she said quietly. "What does he want here?" +And Helen's voice was filled with suspicion. + +"Thank Heaven," Joan thought, "thank Heaven that he is here." + +For the first time Hugh Alston knocked for admission on the Starden +door. A score of times he had asked himself, "Shall I go?" And he could +find no answer. He had come at last. + +"What can he want? I did not know he was here in Starden. I didn't even +know that he knew where Joan was. I don't understand this business at +all," Helen was thinking. + +A servant shewed him in. Joan shook hands with him. Helen did so, under +an air of graciousness which hid a cold hostility. What was this man +doing here? If he was nothing to Joan, and Joan was nothing to him, why +did he come? And how could he be anything to Joan when she was to marry +Johnny? + +So this was her home! A fit setting for her loveliness, and yet he knew +of a fitter, of another home where she could shine to even greater +advantage. They talked of commonplace things, hiding their feelings +behind words, waiting, Joan and Hugh, till Helen should leave them. But +Helen lingered with less than her usual tact, lingered with a mind +filled with vague suspicions, wondering why Johnny had not come. + +Sitting near the window she could see the drive, and presently a young +girl on an old bicycle coming up it. Helen stared. + +"Why, here is Ellice Brand," she said, and fears took possession of her. +There was something wrong! Johnny was ill, or had met with an accident. +Ellice had ridden over to tell them. + +"I'll go and see her, Joan," she said, and so at last was gone. + +Hugh closed the door after her. + +"You've been anxious?" he said briefly. + +"Naturally!" + +"There was no need. I had to give him what I had promised him, one must +always keep one's word. It was rather a brutal business, Joan, but I had +to go through with it. I'd sooner not tell you anything more. I am not +proud of it." + +"I--I understand, and you can understand that I was anxious." + +"For him?" + +"For--for you." + +"For me?" He took two long strides to her. "Joan, are you going to let +your pride rear impassable walls between us for ever? Can't you be fair, +generous, natural, true to yourself? Can't you see how great, how +overwhelming my love for you is?" + +"There is--is something more than pride between us, Hugh." + +"There is nothing--nothing that cannot be broken; that cannot be forced +and broken down," he said eagerly. "You are to marry a man you do not +love. Why should you? Would it be fair to yourself? Would it be fair to +me? Would it be fair to your future? Think while there is time." + +"I cannot," she said. "I have given him my promise--and I shall stand by +it." She drew her hands away. "It is useless, Hugh. Useless now--if I +did rear walls of pride between you and myself. I confess it now, I did; +but they are so strong that we may not break them down." + +"They shall be broken down!" he said. "Answer me this--this question +truthfully, and from your soul. Look into my eyes, and answer me in one +word, yes or no?" He held her hands again; he held her so that she must +face him, and so holding her, looking into her eyes, he asked her: "Do +you love me? Have you given to me some of your heart, knowing that I +have given all of mine to you, knowing that I love you so, and need you +and long for you? Do you love me a little in return, Joan?" + +She was silent; her eyes met his bravely enough, yet it seemed as if she +had no control upon her lips, the word would not come. Once before she +had lied to him, and knew that she could not lie again, not with his +eyes looking deep into hers, probing the very secrets of her soul. + +"Joan, do you love me? My Joan, do you love me?" And then the answer +came at last--"Yes." + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +"NOT TILL THEN WILL I GIVE UP HOPE" + + +"There is nothing wrong, nothing the matter with Johnny or Connie?" + +"Nothing." + +"Then why--why did not Johnny come?" + +"He is busy." + +"But you--" + +"I came to see Joan Meredyth," said Ellice quietly. She and Helen did +not like one another; they were both frank in their dislike. Helen +looked down on Ellice as a person of no importance, who was entirely +unwanted, a mere nuisance, someone for ever in the way. + +Ellice looked on Helen as the promoter of this engagement and marriage, +as the woman who was responsible for everything. She did not like her. +She resented her; but for Helen, there would never have been any break +in the old happy life at Buddesby. + +"So you wish to see Joan, why?" + +"Privately." + +"My dear child, surely--" + +"I am not a child, and I wish to see Joan Meredyth privately, and surely +I have the right, Mrs. Everard?" + +Helen frowned. "Well, at any rate you cannot see her now. She is +engaged, a friend is with her." + +"I can wait." + +"Very well," Helen said. "If you insist. Does Johnny know that you are +here?" she asked with sudden suspicion. + +"No; Connie knows. I told her, and I am willing to wait." + +Helen looked at her. Helen was honest. "I thought the child pretty," she +reflected, "and I was wrong; she is beautiful. I don't understand it. In +some extraordinary way she seems to have changed." But her manner +towards Ellice was as unfriendly as before. + +"I do not in the least know how long Joan will be. You may have to wait +a considerable time." + +"I shall not mind." + +In the room these two stood, Joan had made her confession frankly, +truthfully. She had admitted her love for him, but of hope for the +future she had none. That she loved him now, in spite of all the past, +in spite of the troubles and shame he had brought on her, was something +that had happened in spite of herself, against her will, against her +desire; but because it was so, she admitted it frankly. + +"But my love for you, Hugh, matters nothing," she said. "Because I love +you I shall suffer more--but I shall never break my word to the man I +have given it to." + +"When you stand before the altar with that man's ring on your finger, +when you have promised before God to be his wife, then and not till then +will I give up hope. And that will be never. It is your pride, dear, +your pride that ever fights against your happiness and mine; but I shall +beat it down and humble it, Joan, and win you in the end. Your own true, +sweet self." + +"I don't think I have any pride left," she said. "I was prouder when I +was poor than I am now. My pride was then all I had; it kept me above +the sordid life about me. I cultivated it, I was glad of it, but since +then--Oh, Hugh, I am not proud any more, only very humble, and very +unhappy." + +And because she was still promised to another man, he could not, as he +would, hold out his arms to her and take her to his breast and comfort +her. Instead, he took her hand and held it tightly for a time, then +lifted it to his lips and went, leaving her; yet went with a full hope +for the future in his heart, for he had wrung from her the confession +that she loved him. + +In the hall a girl, sitting there waiting patiently, looked at him with +great dark eyes, yet he never saw her. A servant let him out, and then +the servant came back to her. "Tell Miss Meredyth that I am here waiting +to see her," Ellice said. + +And as the man went away she wondered what had brought Hugh Alston here +to-day, why he should be here so long with Joan when she could so +distinctly remember Joan's lack of recognition of him in the village. +She could also remember the sight of them that night, their dark shapes +against the yellow glow of the lamplight in Mrs. Bonner's cottage. + +How would she find Joan? she wondered. Softened, perhaps even confused, +some of her coldness shaken, some of her self-possession gone? But no, +Joan held out a hand in greeting to her. + +"I did not know that you were here, Miss Brand," she said. "Have you not +seen Mrs. Everard?" + +"I have seen her," Ellice said, "but I didn't come here to-day to see +her. I came to see you." + +"To see me?" Joan smiled--a conventional smile. "You will sit down, +won't you? Is it anything that I can do? It is not, I hope, that Mr. +Everard is ill?" + +"And--and if he were," the girl cried, "would you care?" + +Joan started, her face grew colder. + +"I do not understand." + +"Yes, you--you do. Why are you marrying him? Why are you taking him from +me when--" + +"Taking him from--you?" Joan's voice was like ice water on flames of +fire. Ellice was silent. + +"Miss Meredyth, I came here to-day to see you, to speak to you, to--to +open my heart to you." Her lips trembled. "Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps I +have no right to be here to say what I am going to say. I told Connie; +she--she knows that I have come here, and she knows why." + +"Yes; go on." + +"If--if you loved him it would be different. I would not dare think of +saying anything then. I think I would be glad. I could, at any rate, be +reconciled to it, because it would be for his happiness. If you loved +him--but you don't--you don't! He is a man who could not live without +love. It is part of his life. He might think, might believe that he +would be content to take you because you are lovely and--and good and +clever, and all those things that I am not, even though you do not love +him, but the time would come when his heart would ache for the love you +withheld. Oh, Joan--Joan, forgive me--forgive me, but I must speak. I +think you would if you were in my place!" + +The cold bitterness was passing slowly from Joan's face. There came a +tinge of colour into her cheeks; her eyes that watched the girl grew +softer and more tender. + +"Go on," she said; "go on, tell me!" + +"I have nothing more to say." + +"Yes, you have--you have much more. You have this to say--you love him +and want him, you wish to take him from me. Is that it, Ellice?" + +"If you loved him I would not have dared to come. I would have told +myself that I was content. But you don't. I have watched you--yes, spied +on you--looking for some sign of tenderness that would prove to me that +you loved him; but it never came. And so I know that you are marrying +Johnny Everard with no love, accepting all the great love that he is +offering to you and giving him nothing in exchange. Oh, it is not fair!" + +"It is not fair," Joan said; "it is not fair, and yet I thought of that. +I told him just what you have told me, and still he seemed to be +content." + +"Because he loves you so, and because he has hope in the future, because +in spite of everything he still hopes that he might win your heart, and +I know that he never can." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because I--I think you have already given your heart away." + +And now Joan's eyes flamed, the anger came back. "By what right do you +say that? How dared you say that?" + +"It is only what I believed. I believed that a woman so sweet, so +beautiful, so good as you, must love. You could not live your life +without love. If it has not come yet, then it will come some day, and +then if you are his--his wife, it will come too late. You are made for +love, Joan, just as he is. You could not live your life without it--you +would feel need for it. Oh yes, you think I am a child, a foolish, +romantic schoolgirl, a stupid little thing, talking, talking, but in +your heart you know that I am right." + +"But if he--loves me," Joan said softly, "if he loves me, little Ellice, +then how can I break my word to him?" + +"I do not ask you to break your word to him, only tell him, tell him the +truth again. Tell him what I have told you, tell him--if there is +someone else, if you have already met someone you care for--tell him +that too, so that he will know how impossible it must ever be that you +will give him the love he hoped to win. Tell him that, be frank and +truthful. Remember, it is for all your lives--all his life and all +yours. When he realises that your heart can never be his, do you think +he will not surfer more, will not his sufferings be longer drawn out +than if you told him so frankly now? If the break was to come now, to +come and be ended for ever--but to live together, to live a mock life, +to live beneath the same roof, to share one another's lives, and yet +know one another's souls to be miles and miles apart--oh, Joan, you +would suffer, and he too, he perhaps even more than you." + +"And you love him?" Joan said softly. "You love him, Ellice?" + +"With all my heart and soul. I would die for him. It--it sounds foolish, +this sort of thing is foolish, the kind of words a silly girl would say, +yet it is the truth." + +"I think it is," Joan said. "But then, dear, if he loves me, he could +not love you?" + +"I think he might," Ellice said softly. + +She was thinking of the morning, of the look she had seen in his eyes, +the awakening look of a man who sees things he has been blind to. + +"I think he might," her heart echoed. "I think he might, in time, in a +little time." And did not know, could not guess, that even at this +moment Johnny Everard, sitting alone in his little study with untended +papers strewn about him, was thinking of her--thinking of the look he +had seen in her eyes that very day, out in the sunshine of the fields. + +"So you came to me to tell me. It was brave of you?" + +"I had to come. I could not have come if you had been different from +what you are." + +"Then, even though I am taking away the man you love from you, you do +not hate me?" + +"Hate you? Sometimes I think I wished I could--but I could not. If I had +hated you, if I had thought you cold and hard to all the world, I would +not be here. I have come to plead to you because you are generous and +honest, true and good. I could not have come otherwise." + +"What must I do, little Ellice?" + +"Tell him the truth, if there is--" + +"There is--yet that could never come to anything." + +"Why not?" + +"Because--ah, you can't understand." + +"Still, your heart is not your own; you could never give it to Johnny +Everard." + +"And I must tell him so, and then--" + +"And then you will ask him if he would be content to live all his life +without love, knowing that he will never, never win your heart, because +it would be impossible." + +"But I have given him my promise, Ellice." + +"I know, I know; and you will not break it, because you could not break +a promise. But you will tell him this, and offer him his freedom; it +will be for him to decide." + +Joan stood for many moments in silence, her hand still resting on the +girl's shoulder. Then she drew Ellice to her; she thrust back the +shining hair, and kissed the girl's forehead. "I think--yes, I think I +shall do all this, Ellice," she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +POISON + + +"Johnny! Johnny! Have you gone to sleep, dear? There is someone here to +see you." + +"Eh?" Johnny started into wakefulness, he huddled his untidy papers +together. "I must have been dozing off. I was thinking. Con, is Gipsy +back yet?" + +"Not yet, and I am getting a little anxious about her; it is almost +dusk. But there is someone here asking for you." + +"Who?" + +"A man, a--a--gentleman, I suppose. He looks as if he has been drinking, +though." + +"A nice sort of visitor for a Sunday evening. What is his name, Con?" + +"Slotman." + +"Don't know it. I suppose I'd better see him. Wait, I'll light the lamp. +If Ellice isn't back soon I shall go and hunt for her. Do you know which +direction she went in?" + +"I--I think--" Connie hesitated; she was never any good at concealment. +"I think she went towards Starden." + +"Then when we've got rid of this fellow I'll get out the car and go and +find her. Show him in, Con." + +Mr. Philip Slotman, looking shaken, bearing on his face several patches +of court plaster, which were visible, and in his breast a black fury +that was invisible, came in. + +"Mr. Slotman?" + +"Yes, you are Mr. Everard?" + +Johnny nodded pleasantly. "If it is business, Sunday evening is hardly +the time--" + +"It is personal and private business, Mr. Everard." + +The man, Johnny decided, was not, as Con had supposed, drunk, but he had +evidently been in the wars. It was surprising the number of places in +which he seemed to be wounded. He walked stiffly, he carried his right +arm stiffly. His face was decorated with plaster, and his obviously very +good clothes were torn; for what Hugh Alston had commenced so ably last +night, Rundle had completed this morning. + +"It is private and personal, my business with you. I understand you are +engaged to be married to a lady in whom I have felt some interest." + +Johnny looked up and stiffened. + +"Well?" + +"I allude to Miss Joan Meredyth, for some time engaged by me as a typist +in my city office." + +"Well?" + +"Miss Meredyth did not always hold the position in society that she does +now." + +"I am aware of that." + +"There may be a great deal that you are not aware of," said Slotman; and +Slotman was quivering with rage at the indignities he had been subjected +to. + +"You will forgive me," said Johnny, "but I do not propose to discuss my +future wife with a stranger--with anyone at all, in fact, and certainly +not with a stranger." + +"And you will forgive me," said Slotman, "but when you have heard what I +have to say, I very much doubt if you will regard Miss Joan Meredyth in +the light of your future wife." + +Johnny moved towards the door and opened it. + +"I think it will be better if you go," he said quietly. + +"If you do, you will be sorry when it is too late. I come here as a +friend--" + +"You will go!" + +"In June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, when Joan Meredyth was a girl +at school--" + +"I have told you that I will not listen." + +"She gave it out that she was leaving England for Australia. She never +went in reality, she-- + +"Once more I order you to go before I--" + +"In reality she was living with Mr. Hugh Alston as his wife--" + +Philip Slotman laughed nervously. + +"Liar!" + +"I had to tell you in spite of yourself, and it is true. It is true. Ask +Lady Linden of Cornbridge; she knows. She believes to this day that Joan +Meredyth and Alston were married, and they never were. I have searched +the registers at Marlbury and--" + +"Will you go? You seem to have been hurt. You have probably carried this +lying story elsewhere and have received what you merited. I hardly like +to touch you now, but unless you go--" + +"I am going." Slotman moved stiffly towards the door. "Ask Lady Linden +of Cornbridge. She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth is Hugh +Alston's wife." + +"By heavens! If you don't go--" + +Slotman glanced at him; he saw that he was over-stepping the +danger-line. Yes, he must go, and quickly, so he went. But he had +planted the venom; he had left it behind him. He had forced this man to +hear, even though he would not listen. + +"First blow," Slotman thought, "the first blow at her! And I ain't done +yet! no, I ain't done yet. I'll make her writhe--" + +He paused. He had not carried out his intention in full, this man had +not given him time. Of course, if it was only Joan's money that this +fellow Everard was after, the story would make little or no difference. +The marriage would go on all the same, if it was a matter of money, +but-- + +Philip Slotman retraced his painful steps. Once again he tapped on the +door of Buddesby. + +"There was something that I wished to say to Mr. Everard that I entirely +forgot--a small matter," he said to the servant. "Don't trouble, I know +the way." + +He pushed past the girl into the house. Johnny, staring before him into +vacancy, trying to realise this incredible, impossible thing that the +man had told him, started. He looked up. In the doorway stood Mr. +Slotman. + +"By Heaven!" said Johnny, and sprang up. "If you don't go--" + +"Wait! You don't think I should be such a fool as to come to you with a +lying story, a story that could not be substantiated? What I have told +you is the truth. You may not believe it, because you don't want to. You +are marrying a young lady with ample possessions; that may weigh with +you. Now, rightly or wrongly, I hold that Miss Meredyth owes me a +certain sum of money. I want that money. It doesn't matter to me whether +I get it from her or from you. If you like to pay her debt, I will +guarantee silence. I shall carry this true story no further if you will +undertake to pay me immediately following your marriage with her the sum +of ten thousand--" + +In spite of his stiffness and his sores, Mr. Slotman turned; he fled, he +ran blindly down the hall, undid the hall door, and let himself out, and +then without a glance behind, he fled across the wide garden till he +reached the road, panting and shaking. And now for the first time he +looked back, and as he did so a blinding white glare seemed to strike +his eyes; he staggered, and tried to spring aside. Then something struck +him, and the black world about him seemed to vomit tongues of red and +yellow flame. + +The occupants of the fast-travelling touring car felt the horrible jolt +the car gave. A woman shrieked. The chauffeur shouted an oath born of +fear and horror as he applied his brakes. He stood up, yet for a moment +scarcely dared to look back. The woman in the car was moaning with the +shock of it; and when he looked he saw something lying motionless, a +dark patch against the dim light on the road. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +THE GUIDING HAND + + +Tom Arundel opened his eyes to the sunshine. He had left behind him a +world of darkness and of pain, a curiously jumbled unreal world, in +which it seemed to him that he had played the part of a thing that was +being dragged by unseen hands in a direction that he knew he must not +go, a direction against which he fought with all his strength. And yet, +in spite of all his efforts, he knew himself to be slipping, slowly but +surely slipping. + +Then out of the blackness and chaos grew something real and tangible, a +pair of small white hands, and on the finger of one of these hands was a +ring that he remembered well, for it was a ring that he himself had +placed on that finger, and the hands were held out to him, and he +clutched at them. + +Yet still the fight was not over, still the unseen force dragged and +tugged at him, yet he knew that he was winning, because of the little +white hands that yet possessed such wonderful strength. + +And now he lay, wide-eyed in the sunshine, and the blackness and chaos +were gone, but he could still see the hands, for one of them was clasped +in his own, and lifting his eyes he saw the face that he knew must be +there--a pale face, thinner than when he had seen it last, a face that +had lost some of its childish prettiness. Yet the eyes had lost nothing, +but had gained much. There was tenderness and pity and joy too in them. + +"Marjorie," he said, and the weakness of his own voice surprised him, +and he lay wondering if it were he who had spoken. "Thank you," he said. +He was thanking her for the help those little hands had given him, yet +she was not to know that. So for a long time he lay, his breath gentle +and regular, the small hand clasped in his own. And now he was away in +dreams, not the black and terrifying dreams of just now, but dreams of +peace and of a happiness that might never be. And in those dreams she +whom he loved bent over him and kissed him on the lips, and said +something to him that set the thin blood leaping in his veins. + +Tom Arundel opened his eyes again, and knew that it had been no dream. +Her lips were still on his; her face, rosy now, almost as of old, was +touching his. + +"Marjorie," he whispered, "you told me--" + +"I told you what was not true, but I thought it was--oh, I believed it +was, dear. I believed it was the truth--but I knew afterwards it was +not." + +"I--I got hurt, didn't I? I can't remember--I remember but dimly--a +horse, Marjorie. You don't think--you don't think I did that on purpose +after what you said?" + +"No, no!" she said. "I know better. Perhaps I did think it, but oh, Tom, +I was not worth it! I was not worth it!" + +"You are worth all the world to me," he said, "all the world and more." + +Lady Linden opened the door. She came in, treading softly; she came to +the bedside and looked at him and then at the girl. + +"You were talking. I heard your voice. Was he conscious?" + +"Yes." + +"Thank God!" Lady Linden looked at the girl severely. "I suppose you +will be the next invalid--women of your type always overdo it. How many +nights is it since you had your clothes off?" + +"That does not matter now." + +"By rights you should go to bed at once." + +"Aunt, I shall not leave him." + +Lady Linden sniffed. "Very well; I can do nothing with you." + +"Defiant!" she thought to herself. "She is getting character, that girl, +after all, and about time. Well, it doesn't matter, now that Tom will +live." + +Lady Linden went downstairs. "Obstinate and defiant, new role--very +well, I am content. She is developing character, and that is a great +thing." + +He was going to live. It was more than hope now, it was certainty, after +days, even weeks of anxiety, of watching and waiting; and this bright +morning Lady Linden felt and looked ten years younger as she stepped out +into the garden to bully her hirelings. + +Jordan, her ladyship's coachman, was sunning himself at the stable door. +He took his pipe out hurriedly and hid it behind his back. + +"Jordan," said Lady Linden, "you are an old man." + +"Not so wonderful old, my lady." + +"You have lived all your life with horses." + +"With 'osses mainly, my lady." + +"How long would it take you, Jordan, to learn to drive a motor car?" + +"Me?" He gasped at her in sheer astonishment. + +"Jordan, we are both old, but we must move with the times. Horses are +dangerous brutes. I have taken a dislike to them. I shall never sit +behind another unless it is in a hearse--and then I shan't sit. Jordan, +you shall learn to drive a car." + +"Shall I?" thought Jordan as her ladyship turned away. "We'll see about +that." + +Again Tom opened his eyes, and he saw that face above him, and even as +he looked the head was bent lower and lower till once again the red lips +touched his own. + +"Marjorie, is it only pity?" he whispered. + +But she shook her head. "It is love, all my love--I know now. It is all +ended. I know the truth. Oh, Tom, it--it was you all the time, and after +all it was only you!" + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +"--SHE HAS GIVEN!" + + +Never so slowly as to-day had John Everard driven the six and a half +miles that divided Buddesby and Little Langbourne from Starden. Never +had his frank and open and cheerful face been so clouded and overcast. +Many worries, many doubts and fears and uncertainties, were at work in +John Everard's mind. + +No doubts and uncertainties of anyone but of himself. It was +himself--his own feelings, his own belief in himself, his own belief in +his love that he was doubting. So he drove very slowly the six and a +half miles to Starden, because he had many questions to ask of himself, +questions to which answers did not come readily. + +"Gipsy is right, she always is," he thought. "She is finer-minded, +better, more generous than I am. Her mind could not harbour one doubt of +anyone she loved, and I--" He frowned. + +Helen Everard, from an upper window, saw his arrival, and watching him +as he drove up the approach to the house, marked the frown on his brow, +the lack of his usual cheerfulness. + +"There is something wrong; there seems to be nothing, but something +wrong all the time," she thought with a sigh. + +"If, after all the trouble I have taken, my plans should come to +nothing, I shall be bitterly disappointed. I blame Connie. Con's +unworldliness is simply silly. Oh, these people!" + +"It is a long time since I saw you, Johnny--four or five days, isn't +it?" Joan said. She held out her hand to him, and he took it. He seemed +to hesitate, and then drew a little closer and kissed her cheek. + +Something wrong. She too saw it, but it did not disturb her as it did +Helen. + +"Yes, four days--five--I forget," he said, scarcely realising what an +admission was this from him, who awhile ago had counted every hour +jealously that had kept them apart. + +For a few minutes they talked of indifferent things, each knowing it for +a preliminary of something to follow. + +He had come to tell her something, Joan felt. + +"She has something to say to me," Johnny knew. So for a few minutes they +fenced, and then it was he who broke away. + +He rose, and began to move about the room, as a man disturbed in his +mind usually does. She sat calm and expectant, watching him, a faint +smile on her lips, a kindness and a gentleness in her face that made it +inexpressibly sweet. + +"I think, Johnny, you have something to say to me." + +"Something that I hate saying. Joan, last night a man--a man I have +never seen before--came to see me." + +She stiffened. The faint smile was gone; her face had become as a mask, +hard and cold, icy. + +"Yes?" + +"A man who had something to tell me--you will do me the justice to +believe that I did not wish to hear him, that I tried to silence him, +but he would not be silenced. He told me lies! foul lies about you! +lies!" Johnny said passionately, "things which I, knowing you, know to +be untrue. Yet he told them. I drove him out of the place. Then he came +back. He had remembered what his errand was--blackmail. He came to me +for money. But--but he did not stay, and then--" Johnny paused. He had +reached the window, and stood staring out into the garden, yet seeing +nothing of its beauty. + +"You know," he went on, "that I do not ask you nor expect you to +deny--there is no need. What he said I know to be untrue. The man was a +villain, one of the lowest, but he has been paid." + +"Paid?" she said. She stared. + +"Not in money," Johnny said shortly, "in another way." + +"You--you struck him?" + +"No. I would have; but he saw the danger and fled from it--fled from the +punishment that I would have meted out to him to a harder that Fate had +in store for him." + +"I don't understand." + +"Just outside my gate he was knocked down by a car and very badly +injured; it is hardly probable that he will live. The people who knocked +him down came hammering on my door. We got him to the Cottage Hospital. +In spite of everything I felt sorry for the poor wretch--but that has +nothing to do with it now. I came to tell you what happened." + +"And yet do not ask me to explain?" + +"Of course not!" He swung round and faced her for a moment. "Do you +think I would put that indignity on you, Joan?" + +"You are very generous, Johnny--why?" + +She waited, listening expectantly for his answer. It was some time in +coming. + +"I am not generous. I simply know that for you to be other than +honourable and innocent, pure and good, would be an impossibility." + +"Why do you know that?" + +"Because I know you." + +She smiled. The answer she had almost dreaded to hear had not come. Yet +it should have been so simple, so ample an answer to her question. Had +he said, "Because I love you," it would have been enough; but he had +said, "Because I know you"; and so she smiled. + +"Johnny, I have something to say to you. Do you remember the day when +you asked me to be your wife? I was frank and open to you then, was I +not?" + +"You always are." + +"I told you that if you wished it I would agree, but that I did not love +you as a woman should love the man to whom she gives her life." + +"I do not forget that." + +"Perhaps in your heart you harboured a hope that one day the love that I +denied you then might come?" + +"I think I did." + +"You were giving so much and asking for so little in return. That was +not fair, and it would not be fair for me to allow you to harbour a hope +that can never come true." + +He turned slowly and looked at her. + +"A woman cannot love--twice," she said slowly. + +Johnny Everard flushed, then paled. + +"Why do you say that?" + +"Because it is true." She paused; the red dyed her cheeks. "What you +were told last night were lies--poor lies. You do not ask me to deny +them, dear, and so I won't. Yet, behind those lies, there was a little +truth. There is a man, and I cared for him--care for him now and always +shall care for him. He has been nothing to me, and never will be; but +because he lived, because he and I have met, the hope that you had in +your heart that day, can come to nothing. And now--now I have something +more to tell you. It is this. You, who can love so finely, must ask for +and have love in return. You think you love me, yet because I do not +respond you will tire in time of that love. You will realise how bad a +bargain you have made, and then you will regret it. Is there not +someone"--her voice had grown low and soft--"someone who can and does +give you all the love your heart craves for, someone who will be +grateful to you for your love, and who will repay a thousandfold? Would +not that be better than a long hopeless fight against lovelessness, +even--even if you loved her a little less than you believe you love--me? +Remember that it would rest with you and not with another, you who are +generous, who could not refuse to give when so much is given to you." +Joan's voice faltered for a moment. "It would be your own heart on which +you would have to make the call, Johnny, not on the heart of another. +You would have more command over your own heart than you ever could +over the heart of another." + +"Joan, what do you mean? What does this mean?" + +"I am trying so hard to be plain," she said almost pitifully. + +"Who is this other you are talking about, this other--who loves me?" + +She was silent. + +"What do you know of her, Joan, this other?" + +And still she was silent, for how could she betray Ellice's secret? + +"Tell me," he said. + +"Don't you know? Can't you guess?" + +His face flushed. A week ago he might have answered, "I cannot guess!" +To-day he knew the answer, yet how did Joan know? + +"I gave you my promise," she said, "and I will abide by that promise. It +is for you to decide, and no one else. My life, your own and--and the +life of another is in your hands--three futures, Johnny, decide--" + +"You want to--to give me up?" + +"Is that generous?" + +"No, it isn't," he admitted. He took a turn up and down the room. "And +you say this other--this girl--cares for me?" + +"I know she does?" + +"Did she tell you?" + +"Must I answer?" + +"Why not?" + +"Why not?" Joan repeated. "Yes, she did. She came to me, openly and +frankly, straightforward child that she is, and she said to me, 'Why are +you marrying him, not loving him? If you loved him, and he loved you, I +would not come to you; but you do not love him, and it is not fair. You +are taking all and giving nothing!' And, she was right!" + +"And she--she--" he said in a low voice, "would give--" + +"Has given." + +A silence fell between them. Then he turned to her, and it seemed as if +the cloud had lifted from him. He held out his hands and smiled at her. + +"I understand. You and she are right. A starved love could not live for +ever; it must die. Better it should be strangled almost at birth, Joan. +So--so this is good-bye?" + +She shook her head. "Friends, always, Johnny," she said. + +"Friends always, then." + +She came close to him. She lifted her hand suddenly, and thrust back the +hair from his forehead, she looked him in the eyes and, smiling, kissed +him on the brow. + +"Go and find your happiness--a far, far better than I could ever offer +you." + +"And you?" + +She shook her head, and her eyes, looking beyond him into the garden, +were dreamy and strangely soft. + +"Tell me about that man, Johnny," she said. "Will you take me back to +Little Langbourne with you?" + +"Why?" + +"To see him." + +"But he maligned, he lied--" + +"He is hurt, and why should I hate him? You did not believe. Will you +take me back with you?" + +"You know I will." + +Helen, watching from the upper window, saw them drive away together, +never had they seemed better friends. The cloud had passed completely +away, and so too had all Helen's plans; yet she did not know it. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +"AS WE FORGIVE--" + + +Slotman opened dazed eyes and looked up into a face that might well have +been the face of an angel, so soft, so pitying, so tender was its +expression. + +"Joan!" he whispered. + +She nodded and smiled. + +"But," he said--"but--" and hesitated. "Joan, I went to Buddesby to +see--" + +"I know." + +"And yet you come here?" + +"Of course. Hush! you must not talk. You are going to get well and +strong again. The Matron says I am allowed to come sometimes and see +you, and sit beside you, but you must not talk yet. Later on we are +going to talk about the future." + +He lay staring at her. He could not understand. How could such a mind as +his understand the workings of such a mind as hers? But she was here, +she knew and she forgave, and there was comfort in her presence. + +God knew he had suffered. God knew it. + +"When you are better, stronger, you and I are going to talk, not till +then; but I want to tell you this now. I want to help you, all the past +is past. I knew about that night, about your visit. It does not matter; +it is all gone by. It is only the future that matters, and in the future +you may find that I will give and help willingly what I would not have +given under compulsion. Now, hush for the Matron is coming." She smiled +down at him. + +"I don't understand," Slotman said; "I'll try and understand." He +turned his face away, realising a sense of shame such as he had never +felt before. + +He had been her enemy, and yet perhaps in his way, a bad and vile way, +selfish and dishonourable, he had loved her; but as she had said, all +that was of the past. Now she sat beside the man, broken in limb and in +fortune, a wreck of what he had been; and for him her only feeling was +of pity, and already in her mind she was forming plans for his future. +For she had said truly she could give of her own free will and in +charity and sympathy that which could never be forced from her. + +Connie looked at her brother curiously. + + * * * * * + +"I saw you just now. You drove past the gate with Joan. You took her to +Langbourne, didn't you?" + +"To the hospital. She went to see that fellow, Con." + +"He told you something about Joan last night, Johnny?" + +"He lied about the truest, purest woman who walks this earth." + +"She is incapable of evil," Con said quietly. + +"Utterly. Con, I have something to tell you." + +She turned eagerly. + +"It is ended," he said quietly--"our engagement. Joan and I ended it +to-day--not in anger, not in doubt, dear, but liking and admiring each +other I think more than ever before, and--and, Con--" He paused. + +"Oh, I am glad, glad," she said, "glad! Have you told--her?" + +He shook his head. + +"Will you wait here, John? I will send her to you." + +John Everard's face coloured. "I will wait here for her, for Gipsy," he +said. "Send her here to me, and I will tell her, Con." + +And a few moments later she came. She stood here in the doorway looking +at him, just as she had looked at him from that same place that night, +that night when a light had dawned upon his darkness. + +And now, because his eyes were widely opened at last, he could see the +tell-tale flush in her cheeks, the suspicious brightness in her eyes, +and it seemed to him that her love for him was as a magnet that drew his +heart towards her. + +"Con has told you?" + +She nodded silently. + +Then suddenly he stretched out his arms to her, a moment more and she +was in them, her face against his breast. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +HER PRIDE'S LAST FIGHT + + + "... I came to Starden because I believed you might need me. You + did, and the help that you wanted I gave gladly and willingly. Now + your enemy is removed; he can do you no more harm. You will hear, + or perhaps have heard why, and so I am no longer necessary to you, + Joan, and because I seem to be wanted in my own place I am going + back. Yet should you need me, you have but to call, and I will + come. You know that. You know that I who love you am ever at your + service. From now onward your own heart shall be your counsellor. + You will act as it dictates, if you are true to yourself. Yet, + perhaps in the future as in the past, your pride may prove the + stronger. It is for you and only you to decide. Good-bye, + + "HUGH." + +She had found this letter on her return from Little Langbourne. She had +gone hurrying, as a young girl in her eagerness might, down to Mrs. +Bonner's little cottage, to learn that she was too late. He had gone. + +Mrs. Bonner, with almost tears in her eyes, told her. + +"Yes, miss. He hev gone, and rare sorry I be, a better gentleman I never +had in these rooms." + +Gone! With only this letter, no parting word, without seeking to see +her, to say good-bye. The chill of her cold pride fell on Joan. Send for +him! Never! never! He had gone when he might have stayed--when, had he +been here now, she would have told him that she was free. + +Very slowly she walked back to the house, to meet Helen's questioning +eyes. + +"I am glad, dear, that there seems to be a better understanding between +you and Johnny," Helen said. + +"There is a perfect understanding between us. Johnny is not going to +marry me. He is choosing someone who will love him more and understand +him better than I could." + +"Then--then, after all, it is over? You and he are to part?" + +"Have parted--as lovers, but not as friends." + +"And after all I have done," Helen said miserably. + +Hugh had gone home. He had had a letter from Lady Linden telling about +the accident to Tom Arundel, about his serious illness, and Marjorie's +devoted nursing. And now he was shaping his course for Hurst Dormer. He +had debated in his mind whether he should wait and see her, and then had +decided against it. + +"She knows that I love her, and she loves me. She is letting her pride +stand between us. Everard is too good and too fine a fellow to keep her +bound by a promise if he thought it would hurt her to keep it. Her +future and Everard's and mine must lay in her own hands." And so, doing +violence to his feelings and his desires, he had left Starden, and now +was back in Hurst Dormer, wandering about, looking at the progress the +workmen had made during his absence. He had come home, and though he +loved the place, its loneliness weighed heavily on him. The rooms seemed +empty. He wanted someone to talk things over with, to discuss this and +that. He was not built to be self-centred. + +For two days and two nights he bore with Hurst Dormer and its shadows +and its solitude, and then he called out the car and motored over to +Cornbridge. + +"Oh, it's you," said her ladyship. "I suppose you got my letter?" + +"Yes; I had it sent on to me." + +"It's a pity you don't stay at home now and again." + +"Perhaps I shall in future." + +She looked at him. He was unlike himself, careworn and weary, and a +little ill. + +"Tom is mending rapidly, a wonderful constitution; but it was touch and +go. Marjorie was simply wonderful, I'll do her that credit. Between +ourselves, Hugh, I always regarded Marjorie as rather weak, namby-pamby, +early Victorian--you know what I mean; but she's a woman, and it has +touched her. She wouldn't leave him. Honestly, I believe she did more +for him than all the doctors." + +"I am sure she did." + +Marjorie was changed; her face was thinner, some of its colour gone. Yet +the little she had lost was more than atoned for in the much that she +had gained. She held his hand, she looked him frankly in the eyes. + +"So it is all right, little girl, all right now?" + +She nodded. "It is all right. I am happier than I deserve to be. Oh, +Hugh, I have been weak and foolish, wavering and uncertain. I can see it +all now, but now at last I know--I do know my own mind." + +"And your own heart?" + +"And my own heart." + +She wondered as she looked at him if ever he could have guessed what had +been in her mind that day when she had gone to Hurst Dormer to see him. +How full of love for him her heart had been then! And then she +remembered what he had said, those four words that had ended her dream +for ever--"Better than my life." So he loved Joan, and now she knew that +she too loved with her whole heart. + +Death had been very close, and perhaps it had been pity for that fine +young life that seemed to be so near its end that had awakened love. +Yet, whatever the cause, she knew now that her love for Tom had come to +stay. + +"And Joan?" Marjorie asked. + +"Joan?" he said. "Joan, she is in her own home." + +"And her heart is still hard against you, Hugh?" + +"Her pride is still between us, Marjorie," he said, and quickly turned +the conversation, and a few minutes later was up in the bedroom talking +cheerily enough to Tom. + +"It's all right, Alston, everything is all right. Lady Linden wanted to +shoot the horse; but I wouldn't have it. I owe him too much--you +understand, Alston, don't you? Everything is all right between Marjorie +and me." + +And then Hugh went back to Hurst Dormer--thank, Heaven there was some +happiness in this world! There was happiness at Cornbridge, and after +Cornbridge Hurst Dormer seemed darker and more solitary than ever. + +It was while she had been talking to Hugh that Marjorie had made up her +mind. + +"I am going to tell Joan the whole truth, the whole truth," she thought. +And Hugh was scarcely out of the house before Marjorie sat down to write +her letter to Joan. + + "... I know that you have always blamed him for what was never + his fault. He did it because he is generous and unselfish. He + loved me in those days. I know that it could not have been the + great abiding love; it was only liking that turned to fondness. + Yet he wanted to marry me, Joan, and when he knew that there was + someone else, and that he stood in the way of our happiness, the + whole plan was arranged, and we had to find a name, you + understand. And he asked me to suggest one, and I thought of + yours, because it is the prettiest name I know; and he, Hugh, + never dreamed that it belonged to a living woman. And so it was + used, dear, and all this trouble and all this misunderstanding + came about. I always wanted to tell you the truth, but he wouldn't + let me, because he was afraid that if Aunt got to hear of it, she + might be angry and send Tom away. But now I know she would not, + and so I am telling you everything. The fault was mine. And yet, + you know, dear, I had no thought of angering or of offending you. + Write to me and tell me you forgive me. And oh, Joan, don't let + pride come between you and the man you love, for I think he is one + of the finest men I know, the best and straightest. + + "MARJORIE." + +Marjorie felt that she had lifted a weight from her mind when she put +this letter in the post. + +Long, long ago Joan had acquitted Hugh of any intention to offend or +annoy her by the use of her name. Yet why had he never told her the +truth, told her that it had never been his doing at all? She read +Marjorie's letter, and then thrust it away from her. Why had he not +written this? Did he care less now than he had? Had she tired him out +with her coldness and her pride? Perhaps that was it. + +Yesterday Ellice had come over on the old bicycle--Ellice with shining +eyes and pink cheeks, glowing with happiness and joy, and Ellice had +hugged her tightly, and tried to whisper thanks that would not come. + +She was happy now. Marjorie was happy. Only she seemed to be cut off +from happiness. Why had he gone without a word, just those few written +lines? He had not cared so much, after all. + +And so the days went by. Joan wrote a loving, sympathetic letter to +Marjorie. She quite understood, and she did not blame Hugh; she blamed +no one. + +It was a long letter, dealing mainly with her life, with the village, +with the things she was doing and going to do. But of the +future--nothing; of the past, in so far as Hugh Alston was +concerned--nothing. + +And when Marjorie read the letter she read of an unsatisfied, unhappy +spirit, of a girl whose whole heart yearned and longed for love, and +whose pride held her in check and condemned her to unhappiness. + +Scarcely a day passed but Joan drove over to Little Langbourne. Philip +Slotman came to look for her, and counted it a long unhappy day if she +failed him; but it was not often. + +She had discovered that he was well-nigh penniless, and that it would be +months before he would be fit to work again. And so she had quietly +supplied all his needs. + +"When you are well and strong again, you shall go back. You shall have +the capital you want, and you will do well. I know that. I shall lend +you the money to start afresh, and you will pay me back when you can." + +"Joan, I wonder if there are many women like you?" + +"Many better than I," she said--"many happier." + +At Buddesby she was welcomed by a radiant girl with happy eyes, a girl +who could not make enough of her, and there Joan saw a home life and +happiness she had never known--a happiness that set her hungry heart +yearning and longing with a longing that was intolerable and unbearable. + +"Send for me, and I will come," he had written; and she had not sent. +She would not, pride forbade it, and yet--yet to be happy as Ellice was +happy, to feel his arms about her, to rest her head against his breast, +to know that during all the years to come he would be here by her side, +that loneliness would never touch her again. + +"I won't!" she said. "I won't! If he needs me, it is he who must come to +me. I will not send for him." + +It was her pride's last fight, a fine fight it made. For days she +struggled against the yearning of her heart, against the wealth of love, +pent-up and stored within; valiantly and bravely pride fought. + +To-day she had been to the hospital. She had stopped, as she often did, +at Buddesby. There was talk of a marriage there. Many catalogues and +price-lists had come through the post, and Con and Ellice were busy with +them. For they were not very rich, and money must be made to go a long +way; and into their conclave they drew Joan, who for a time forgot +everything in this new interest. + +They had all been very busy when the door had opened and Johnny Everard +had come in, and, looking up, Joan caught a look that passed between +Johnny and Ellice--just a look, yet it spoke volumes. It laid bare the +secret of both hearts. + +Later, when she said good-bye, he walked to the gate where her car was +waiting. They had said but little, for Johnny seemed shy and +constrained in her presence. + +"Joan, I have much to be very, very grateful to you for," he said, as he +held her hand. "You were right. Life without love would be impossible, +and you have made life very possible for me." + +She was thinking of this during the lonely drive back to Starden; always +his words came back to her. Life without love would be impossible, and +then it was that the battle ended, that pride retired vanquished from +the field. + + "I want you to come back to me because I am so lonely. Please come + back and forgive. + + "JOAN." + +The message that, in the end, she must write was written and sent. + +And now that pride had broken down, was gone for ever, so far as this +man was concerned, it was a very loving anxious-eyed, trembling woman +who watched for the coming of the man that she loved and needed, the man +who meant all the happiness this world could give her. + + * * * * * + +She had called to him, and this must be his answer. No slow-going +trains, no tedious broken journeys, no wasted hours of delay--the +fastest car, driven at reckless speed, yet with all due care that none +should suffer because of his eagerness and his happiness. + +It seemed to him such a very pitiful, humble little appeal, an appeal +that went straight to his heart--so short an appeal that he could +remember every word of it, and found himself repeating it as his car +swallowed the miles that lay between them. + +He asked no questions of himself. She would not have sent for him had +she not been free to do so. He knew that. + +And now the landscape was growing familiar, a little while, and they +were running through Starden village. Villagers who had come to know him +touched their hats. They passed Mrs. Bonner's little cottage, and now +through the gateway, the gates standing wide as in welcome and +expectation of his coming. + +And she, watching for him, saw his coming, and her heart leaped with the +joy of it. Helen Everard saw, too, and guessed what it meant. + +"Go into the morning-room, Joan. I will send him to you there." + +And so it was in the morning-room he found her. Flushed and bright-eyed, +trembling with happiness and the joy of seeing him, gone for ever the +pride and the scorn, she was only a girl who loved him dearly, who +needed him much. She had fought the giant pride, and had beaten it for +ever for his sake, and now he was here smiling at her, his arms +stretched out to her. + +"You wanted me at last, Joan," he said. "You called me, darling, and I +have come." + +"I want you. I always want you. Never, never leave me again, Hugh--never +leave me again. I love you so, and need you so." + +And then his arms were about her and hers about his neck, and she who +had been so cold, so proud, so scornful, was remembering Johnny +Everard's words, "Life without love would be impossible." + +And now life was very, very possible to her. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Imaginary Marriage, by Henry St. John Cooper + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMAGINARY MARRIAGE *** + +***** This file should be named 15103.txt or 15103.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/1/0/15103/ + +Produced by Michael Ciesielski, Beginners Projects, Martin Barber +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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