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diff --git a/15103-h/15103-h.htm b/15103-h/15103-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..95e4399 --- /dev/null +++ b/15103-h/15103-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15170 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Imaginary Marriage, by Henry St. John Cooper.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Imaginary Marriage, by Henry St. John Cooper</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <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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