Dr. Gregg pulled up his trap and hailed the man who was stalking along on the other side of the road.
"Are you going my way, Grierson? Can I give you a lift? Right. Whoa, mare, stand still. It's some time since I saw you, Grierson. Been away?"
Jimmy, who was already climbing into the dog-cart, did not answer until the question was repeated, then, "Yes," he said rather unwillingly. "I've been over to Paris for two or three days."
The doctor drew his ragged-looking grey eyebrows down until they formed almost a straight line. "The old game," he growled.
The young man was staring away over the hedge at the sweep of country beyond, and replied without looking round. "Yes, as you say, the old game—the inevitable game, if you like that better. The only difference being that it was liqueur brandy this time instead of whisky."
"Silly fool." The doctor was not noted for his gentle speech. "Silly fool, you know what I told you, that it means death in your case, withperhaps a spell of lunacy first—that is, if you're not really a lunatic already. You had better get some other medical man to attend you next time." He slashed at an overhanging bough with his frayed old whip, and apparently the action relieved him, for he went on in a very different voice, "How's the book getting on? Is it published yet?"
"It's coming out next week," Jimmy answered. "I got an advance copy to-day. They've bound it and made it up rather nicely."
The doctor nodded. "So they ought to. It's good stuff, but you would never have written it at all if it hadn't been for me." The thought seemed to bring back his grievances, for he went on querulously, "Why do you always go to Paris or Brussels or some place like that? Can't you find enough bad liquor and bad company in London, at far less cost?"
Jimmy flushed. "Look here, Gregg," he began angrily, then broke off with a bitter laugh. "I suppose I've no right to take offence at you, after all. I never go to London, haven't been there for a year, I loathe the place."
"Bad memories, eh?" The doctor jerked the words out as he guided his horse past a big dray.
"Bad memories," Jimmy assented wearily. "The worst of bad memories."
"That's the advantage of being a medical man." They had just passed the dray and were coming to the outskirts of the little country town. "We understand what it means, you see, and when a woman lets us down, we don't make it worse, as you are doing. Oh, I know you didn't say anything about a woman, but I know, too, that you meant one. It's a poor compliment to her if she's any good, and if she isn't, why worry?"
Jimmy did not answer, and the doctor changed the subject abruptly, as was his way. "Did they tell you that Drylands, the big house close to your cottage, was let at last? You'll have some society now. I hear they're people who entertain a lot."
"What is their name?" Jimmy demanded.
"Something not unlike your own—Grimston, I think."
Jimmy shrugged his shoulders. "Never heard of them, and, anyway, it probably wouldn't affect me. The neighbourhood as a whole hasn't exactly tumbled over itself in its anxiety to make my acquaintance."
"That's your own fault," the doctor retorted. "You haven't given the neighbourhood much encouragement to know you, although you would be welcome enough. You're a surly brute in many ways, Grierson."
"Thanks," Jimmy answered with a hard laugh."At least you're outspoken. And now this is my destination, the news agent's shop. I'll try to follow your professional advice—for as long as I can."
The doctor grunted something unintelligible and drove on. It was market day, and there were several farmers he wanted to interview before the excitement, or the local ale, or a combination of both, rendered their ideas a little more vague than at ordinary times.
* * * * *
It was a year since Jimmy had taken the cottage a mile outside the sleepy little town. He had gone there in the first place because it was far removed from everyone and everything he knew, and in some ways the experiment had proved a success. The deaf old woman who came in to do his cooking and housework worried him little, and apparently did not gossip about his actions or his habits; whilst the three rooms he had furnished were more than sufficient for his needs.
At first, on hearing of Joseph Fenton's legacy, he had thought of going abroad again, of seeking oblivion of the past few months in travel and excitement; but a chance remark of May's spoken at Joseph Fenton's funeral, the only occasion on which he had met any of the Griersons since the interview at Walter's office, had shown him thatthe family would welcome his departure, that it even regarded voluntary exile as the proper course for him to take under the circumstances, and, if only for that reason, he determined to stay. Probably he would have stayed in any case, for, though he had cut himself adrift from Lalage, had never seen her since she left London, and heard from her but seldom—brief, gentle little notes which invariably made him break his promise to her—all the old wild jealousy remained. It was torture whilst he was in England, but he felt it would mean madness if there were the ocean between them. His love for her was dead, or at least he told himself so, that part of love which comes from the joy of possession, which brings with it peace and courage, and a good comrade in the never-ending struggle against fate; but the other part, the fear and the hopelessness and the fever, remained with him always.
Once, and once only, he had had Lalage watched. He had lain awake night after night until his jealousy had culminated in his sending down a private detective. He had read the report—which was wholly in her favour, even the church working party of the village in which she was living being unable to rake up any charge against her—with an unutterable sense of shame and self-contempt, and then had thrust ithurriedly into the fire; but instead of bringing him peace it gave him another memory to brood over, and at times to try and drown.
Lalage's fears had only been too well founded. The locality was healthy enough, the doctor had said with almost brutal frankness the first time Jimmy had occasion to consult him; and then he had gone on to diagnose his patient's case without mincing his words.
"You don't show it outwardly, at least not to a layman, but any medical man would see what was the matter with you. What makes you drink?"
Jimmy had shrugged his shoulders, half-ashamed, half-irritated. "Habit, I suppose," he had answered, whereupon the other had growled.
"A confoundedly bad and stupid habit. The sooner you get some new ones the better. You write, don't you? How do you expect to make a success of it when you're sapping your brain power in this fool's way?"
He had added a few more things, pointed and true, but none the less they had parted good friends, and for a time Jimmy tried to fight his enemy, remembering his promise to Lalage; but it was always the same in the end. His black hour would come on him, and he would recall his great treason, and tell himself bitterly that she had beenthe first to set the example in the matter of broken faith.
Whatever fears May might have had on the point—and the matter certainly had worried her a good deal during the last twelve months—there had never been any question of Jimmy going back to Lalage. True, he had broken away from the Grierson tradition when he went to live at the flat, had thrown that tradition to the winds, but still he had never repudiated it openly, and in the end if he had not actually gone back to his own people, at least he had recognised that the standards of his own people were right. He was ashamed of himself, even more ashamed of Lalage. He saw his conduct—and hers—in its true light, its stupidity, and its immorality, and in the days following Joseph Fenton's death he had reached the nadir of contrition and misery, and would have made confession, and sought for absolution, had the family given him the chance. He was in the mood for it, being run-down and broken-hearted. But Joseph's death had altered the focus of things for the moment, making Jimmy's affairs a secondary consideration, and after the reading of the will, Joseph's legacy had effectually destroyed any hope of peace, at least as far as Ida was concerned. Fenton had left, it is true, nearly a hundred thousand to his wife, butthe odd thousand to Jimmy almost neutralised the generosity of his other bequests, at least in Ida's sight, and Ida's personality dominated the whole family for the time being.
Curiously enough, no one knew of Jimmy's last meeting with Joseph. At first Jimmy had held his peace about it, not wishing in any way to add to Ida's troubles; then, when he found that his own misdeeds were supposed to have preyed on his brother-in-law's mind and hastened his death, he continued to keep silence, in a kind of savage contempt. He, at least, knew what Joseph's feelings had been, and all his sympathy and all his regrets were for the dead man, and not for the saint, who, after the manner of her kind, had understood nothing and forgiven nothing.
Yet, none the less, he would gladly have made peace with the family, just as May and Walter would have made peace with him, had Ida's bitterness not rendered that so hard as to be almost impossible. She was too good a woman to overlook his sin, or to allow anyone else to overlook it. She believed in the punishment of the sinner, not in his pardon, and she did not think that Jimmy had suffered enough; possibly she believed that he had not suffered at all, for had he not in the end received a thousand pounds which should, by rights, have gone to her own children? So,though he had repudiated Lalage to pacify his people, and—it must be admitted also—to satisfy his own conscience, his only reward had been a ghastly sense of isolation, both from his own world, where the Grierson tradition rules, and from that other world into which he had strayed for a few short never-to-be-forgotten months.
Jimmy had turned a little grey during the last year, and the boyish charm had gone out of his face. Alas! he had grown careless as regarded his appearance, and he had ceased to trouble about a number of little things on the observance of which Lalage had once insisted. He never worried as to whether his boots were cleaned or no, and he only shaved when he was going into the little town. After all, what did it matter? He had no friends, and he wanted none; society, or at any rate women's society, had ceased to be a factor in his life.
On the other hand, success had come to him professionally, though it meant very little to him, or very little compared with what it would have meant in the London days, when half the income he was making now would have seemed wealth. Joseph's legacy had allowed him breathing space. He had quitted Fleet Street finally, abandoned all thought of journalism, and gone in for the writing of short stories. Some quality in the latter,possibly the cynical outlook on life which coloured them all, caught the fancy of editors accustomed to the milk-and-water optimism of the average writer, and in a few months his work was not only selling, but was actually in demand. Moreover, he had written a novel, and, his luck still holding good, had placed it with the second publisher to whom he offered it; but even that success had given him no sense of elation; and, when he had come to read the proofs, he had found himself wishing that he had put the manuscript into the fire. It was not the book he had dreamed of doing, the book he had so often discussed with Lalage. The doctor, who had also seen the proofs, thought highly of it; the publisher was urging him to get on with another; but he, himself, knew well that the book lacked something. He had been afraid to give it life by drawing on his own experience. He had been so anxious not to widen the breach with his family that he had ended by writing a novel for Griersons. As Jimmy walked homewards after his meeting with the doctor, he found himself wondering what Lalage would think of his novel, whether she would feel pride, or grief, or contempt. Somehow, although she had no part in his life now, he was more afraid of her judgment than of that of anyone else. "Lalage's author," she had called him in the olddays, and she had always believed in him. "I know you will write nice books for Lalage, by and by; because you're very, very clever"—she had said so more than once, when he had seemed to be losing heart over his work in theRecordoffice. And now he had written the book—in which Lalage had had no part. Unconsciously, he quickened his pace, as if to get away from the thought, and, perhaps for that reason, he did not notice a motor-car which was coming up behind him. When the horn was sounded, he merely drew into the hedge and did not look round. The car passed him, slowly on account of a flock of sheep which was coming out of a gate a little way ahead, and he noted, without the slightest sense of interest, that there were a couple of well-dressed women in the tonneau; consequently, he was greatly surprised when one of the women called to the driver to stop, then looked back, and beckoned excitedly to himself.
"Mr. Grierson, Mr. Grierson—Jimmy!" she cried.
As he came up, she raised the heavy veil she was wearing, and he found himself looking into the laughing eyes of Ethel Grimmer.
Mrs. Grimmer shook hands very cordially. "This is an unexpected pleasure," she said. "Who would have dreamt of seeing you down here!" then, without waiting for his explanation, she turned to her companion. "Vera, you remember Mr. Grierson, don't you? May Marlow's brother. Jimmy, I hope you haven't been so rude as to forget Miss Farlow. You met her at our house, on that one visit you paid us, before you suddenly went away and lost yourself."
Jimmy flushed, and raised his hat again. He remembered the pretty, rather prim-looking girl as the daughter of May's favourite rector, and he remembered, too, Ethel's outspoken advice about his possible matrimonial plans.
Vera Farlow bowed, a little severely, but Ethel Grimmer gave neither of the others the chance to speak. "I've often asked May how you were getting on, but she always seemed vague as to where you were. She said you were living in the country in cottages, so as to be able to work quietly; but I never, never thought of finding you down here. Do you live in a cottage now; orhave you made so much money out of those nice, wicked stories of yours that you've bought a big house?"
Jimmy laughed. "No, I've still got a cottage, the only cottage I ever had. It's about half a mile from here."
"How jolly! Do jump in now and come along with us. Then you shall tell us all about the place and its people. We've just taken a furnished house—Drylands, I suppose you know it?—to see if we like the neighbourhood. If we do, Billy wants to build a nice place for ourselves. He's going to retire from business at the end of the year. I tell him it's better, for he can afford to, and if he stays in the City, he'll only get stodgy, and perhaps lose his money. And now do come up and have some tea with us, unless you're very busy, which I can't understand you being. Billy won't be down till Saturday, and I persuaded Vera to come with me, so that I shouldn't be too dull."
Jimmy went with them willingly, and, even if he had wished to raise an objection, Ethel Grimmer would have given him no hearing. She was obviously delighted at the meeting; and, in the end, Jimmy stayed, not only to tea, but to dinner as well.
"Never mind about dressing," Ethel said. "Vera and I won't change anyway—you see weonly got down this morning—and it's so nice to meet someone one knows."
It was the first time since he had left town that Jimmy had mixed socially with his own world, and he watched anxiously for anything which would show whether Ethel knew about Lalage; but before dinner was over he realised, with a sense of relief, amounting almost to gratitude, that May and Ida had kept the knowledge of the scandal to the circle of the family. Ethel was not even curious as to his reasons for avoiding the Marlow house; detesting May cordially, she found it quite natural that Jimmy should prefer to go his own way.
Vera Farlow thawed considerably before the evening was over. She was a well-read girl, and at home it was but seldom that she met any men who had interests outside their business or their sports. Jimmy was an entirely new type to her, and yet, as she was well aware, he belonged to a family whose standing was above question. Had a man of whom she knew nothing talked as Jimmy talked, she would probably have regarded him with a certain degree of suspicion; but there was no question of that in the case of Mrs. Marlow's brother. Jimmy, on his part, was distinctly attracted—Ethel saw that long before he got up to take a reluctant farewell; and being entirelyloyal to her own husband, she felt not the slightest jealousy of Vera Farlow; in fact, as she went upstairs that evening she was wondering whether it might not be possible to turn the scheme, which she had once propounded more or less in a spirit of banter, into an accomplished fact. It would be a good thing for Jimmy, a good thing for Vera, and, perhaps most important of all, it would annoy May Marlow and Mrs. Fenton intensely. Ethel went to bed to dream of a gorgeous wedding, in which she played the part of fairy godmother; and she awoke next morning more than ever determined to arrange the match. Vera had money, Jimmy had brains, and they both belonged to families of position. She felt she almost owed it to Jimmy to find him a wife, whilst Vera was her dearest girl friend. Billy would help, she knew that. Billy always did what she told him, and though he sometimes spoiled things by laughing at the wrong time, for which she scolded him duly and without mercy, she knew he meant to do his best. His impending retirement had been one of her greatest triumphs. She was sick to death of the circle of City people, of what she flippantly called "Square milers," and that had been the main reason she had given to her husband in urging him to give up business and go into the country.
"Let's go amongst people who don't have to catch trains, Billy," she had urged. "I'm sure you don't get half enough enjoyment out of life now, going up to town every day," and Billy had finally given way, on those grounds, never suspecting that at the back of her mind was always the fear of his being drawn into speculation and coming to grief. He was not very brilliant. Ethel knew that well, and she knew, too, what measure of sympathy the City has for those who fail.
The night he dined at Drylands, Jimmy barely thought of Lalage. He was excited, and yet, at the same time, conscious of a feeling of restfulness, somewhat akin to that he had experienced when he first saw the shores of England on his return from South America. Once again, it seemed as if he had been a long time in the wilderness, and was getting back to his own people at last. Vera Farlow was of those who stand above suspicion. It was impossible to picture her knowing anything about life in a flat; and, whilst the memory of the past gave him a momentary sense of shame, this was quickly put aside. It was all dead, done with; and, if any women had a part in his future, they would be those like Vera Farlow, women whom the Grierson family would accept and respect.
When he turned in, Jimmy helped himself toone whisky, and one only, instead of the usual three or four, or even more, which he took when a fit of sleeplessness was on him. After all, old Dr. Gregg had been right. He was playing a fool's game. He awoke in the morning feeling much fresher than usual, and fully determined to call at Drylands on some excuse or other. As a rule, he was not down till after the postman had called; but on this occasion he met that worthy at the front door.
"Fine morning, sir. Three for you to-day," the official said.
Jimmy took the letters and glanced at the addresses. One he crumpled up and tossed unopened into the waste paper basket, recognising the envelope of a press-cutting bureau, which circularised him regularly once a fortnight; but he looked at the others with a frown, for though the first was from Kelly, whose letters were always welcome, the remaining one had been addressed to his club in Lalage's unmistakable handwriting.
For a moment, Jimmy handled the letters with an air of hesitation; then, as though he feared some shock, and wanted to brace himself up to meet it, he went to the decanter and poured out some whisky, which he swallowed neat; yet, even then, he opened Kelly's letter first. There proved to be nothing special in it—congratulations on hisbook, some caustic comments on Fleet Street and its ways, and the always-repeated invitation to come to town, and stay with Kelly and his wife.
"My wife says she feels sure you must be in love with someone down there, otherwise you could never stand the dulness of the country after town; but I always say that your fate is to marry into a solid City family, now that you have missed going to the other extreme."
Jimmy frowned as he read the last sentence. He had never given Kelly a hint, and no one else could have told him. Possibly, it was the thought of that which worried him, and made him turn to the decanter again; at any rate, he had another whisky before he opened Lalage's letter. It had been very different in the early days of their acquaintance; then, he had torn the envelopes open eagerly, and almost learnt the contents by heart before he thought of his other correspondence.
Jimmy had never given Lalage his address. All her letters went to the club, whilst those he wrote to her he sent on under cover to one of the waiters, who posted them in town. He, himself, never understood his own reasons for this caution. It was not because he feared her blackmailing him—even in his most bitter moments he had never thought of that; and he knew her too well to be afraid she might pay him a visit unaskedin the hope of recapturing his affection; but probably it was due to some vague feeling that it kept them further apart in spirit, helped to preserve the barrier between them. Not that she had ever attempted to break that barrier down. On the other hand, she seemed to have accepted his decision as right, or at any rate as unalterable, and at times that was the most horrible part of all to him, for it suggested the possibility of someone succeeding him in her love, and, as she had long since declined to take any more money from him, he had no right to control her.
Lalage wrote from a little Yorkshire town, nearly two hundred miles distant from Jimmy. "You know I told you I had a post as nurse-companion to an old invalid lady. I am very grieved to say she died about three weeks ago. She was the sweetest, best woman I ever met; she took me without references, because she said she liked my face; and I really believe her greatest sorrow at dying was due to the thought that she could leave me nothing. All she had was a small annuity. Yet, in another way, I was fortunate; for almost at once I got a situation in a draper's shop, the only drapers here. It is not very much to boast of, I know; but still I am making my own living honestly, and it is the sort of place where one can stay all one's life. I am looking at thepapers every day to see if your book is out. I do wish you the best of success with it, Jimmy," and then, without any conventional phrase before it, came the simple signature, "Lalage."
Jimmy did not touch his breakfast that morning. Instead, he sat very still, staring out of the window, trying to picture Lalage—who had once been his Lalage—serving behind the counter in a stuffy little draper's shop. "The sort of place where you can stay all your life." Would she, could she, stand the idea of such a future? Would she go on alone always, whilst he would be getting on in the world, climbing the ladder to such fame as novelists get in these days of many novels, getting back into his own world, and possibly——?
There was a knock at the front door, and as if in confirmation of his thought, he found the Grimmer chauffeur standing on the step.
"Note for you, sir," he said.
Jimmy tore it open. "Vera and I are going for a run round the country," Ethel wrote. "Will you come with us?"
Jimmy turned round to the hat rack and took down his cap and overcoat.
"Have you brought the car down for me?" he asked.
Mr. Grimmer looked up with a grin. "I don't know what the old joker will say if you bring your scheme to a head," he remarked.
Ethel, who was standing in front of the fireplace, smoking daintily, tried hard to look shocked.
"My dear Billy," she drawled. "That is hardly the way to speak of an Honorary Canon who expects to become a bishop, if his father-in-law lives long enough to get into another Cabinet. Then, for one thing, Jimmy won't propose for some time yet, not until Vera has been away and come back again; and when they are engaged what can the old joker, as you call him, do to me?"
"He might preach about you," her husband suggested.
Ethel shrugged her shoulders. "I shouldn't be there to hear him; it would make May Marlow blush and send that hateful Ida Fenton white with passion. By the way, did I tell you that Ida had taken a house in town? They think she's going to be married again, to that horrid, clean-shaven man with the damp hands, who's alwayscollecting for some mission or other. You must know him, Billy. Surely you do; we used to call him the Additional Curate. Well, to go back to Jimmy. He wouldn't give Vera up, and her money is under her own control."
"He had to give you up," Grimmer said.
His wife laughed. "He never had me to give up, really. Besides, I hardly knew you then, Billy, so it didn't count, did it?... Billy, you must not behave in that ridiculous way; you have crushed my flowers, and the gong will go in a moment."
It was a fortnight since Jimmy had met Ethel Grimmer again, and during that time he had not written a line. Every day, and often twice a day, he had been up at Drylands, at first, because Ethel had insisted on his attendance; and latterly, because it seemed the natural thing to do. His original feeling had been one of sincere relief at the break in the monotony of his exile, and he had been equally glad to see both Vera and Ethel; but after a while Ethel seemed to become almost uninteresting by comparison with the younger woman. He was not passionately in love, as he had been with Lalage. The thought of Vera gave him no sleepless nights. In fact, now he slept far better than he had done for many months past. He had a sense of restfulness to which hehad long been a stranger, as though he had taken some mental opiate to soothe the pain of remembrance. London, and the flat, and the grinding drudgery of Fleet Street, the miserable little creditors worrying at the door—all these seemed now to belong to some former existence, to be part of the life of a different Jimmy Grierson. Vera knew nothing of such things; and, in her society, he himself managed to forget them.
Lalage's letter was still unanswered. Day after day he meant to write; but, somehow, there was never time. He wanted to think it over carefully, he kept on telling himself, and then deliberately turned his mind to something else.
He had smartened himself up considerably so far as appearance went. True, once or twice, it gave him a twinge of remorse when he found that he was doing again the very things on which Lalage had insisted with gentle patience in those now-distant days, observing little conventions which he had dropped during his sojourn abroad, and had lately dropped anew. Then, too, he was drinking far less. He did not need the spirit now to bring him oblivion, and he did want to keep his hand steady and his eye clear. Vera had once spoken very strongly on the subject of intemperance, which she knew only in theory; and Jimmy had listened to her words with respectfulcontrition. She would never forgive a man who drank, she said, and he had gone a little cold at the thought. Yet, forgetting that Lalage had known of his failing, and had tried to help him fight his demon, he told himself that Vera's was the right view for a girl of her position. She was too good and pure to come into contact with the ugly things of life.
Already, he had made up his mind to ask her to marry him, later on, when she came back from a promised visit of indefinite duration. There was no hurry, Ethel had told him so frankly, no other suitor being in the running. At first, the thought of the past troubled him a little, in the abstract, as a kind of treason to Vera; but, after a while, he put that thought aside. She need never know, and Lalage had gone out of his life now.
His book had been published a week, and the one or two reviews which had appeared had been satisfactory, almost flattering, though one reviewer apparently voiced the general opinion when he said, "Mr. Grierson seems anxious to uphold the conventions of modern society, and yet he writes of them without conviction, as though he would like to believe in them, and could not manage to do so."
Vera had frowned over the notice. "What rubbish, Mr. Grierson. It is as much as to saythat you would write one of the nasty kind of book, if you dared. I think yours is very, very good and perfectly sincere." Whereupon Jimmy had gone home well pleased, feeling that, at last, he was receiving absolution, if not from his own family, at least from his own people.
When Vera went back to town, Ethel deputed Jimmy to see her off at the station, alleging that she herself had a headache.
"It's onlyau revoir," Jimmy said, as he shook hands at the railway carriage door.
Miss Farlow smiled brightly. "That's all. I am coming down again very soon. Father is going away for a couple of months' holiday; and, as he is taking my younger sister, Florence, Ethel has made me promise to come down here. She is awfully good-hearted, isn't she?"
Jimmy nodded emphatically. "She is indeed. One of the best I know."
As the train steamed out of the station, he stood a full minute deep in thought, staring at it until it disappeared round a slight curve; then he turned to find the doctor watching him with a grim smile.
"Hullo, Grierson," the old man said. "I've hardly seen you lately, only caught glimpses of you whizzing past in a motor, surrounded by millinery." Then he scanned the other's facecritically. "You're looking better. Found the cure for it, eh? I always thought that both the reason and the remedy would prove to wear skirts."
Jimmy flushed awkwardly. He did not altogether admire Dr. Gregg's frankness; and yet he was grateful for the implied testimony to his reformation, so he answered with a laugh, and, after a few minutes' conversation, willingly consented to go up to dinner at the doctor's that night. After all, it would be dull alone in the cottage, and he knew that Ethel would not want him, as she, too, was dining out.
The doctor was an old bachelor, or at least the town assumed him to be one. True, when he had first bought the practice, thirty years previously, he had made no definite statement on the matter; and, for a time, people had shaken their heads, and, on that purely negative evidence, had done what they called "drawing their own conclusions." His wife had run away from him, and they would hear of her one day, in connection with some scandal, and she would allege, and probably prove, that he had ill-used her. However, as months went by, and they did not hear—in fact they never heard anything—they admitted they had been wrong, and began to pity him as the husband of an incurable lunatic, who was confined in an asylum near London. But even that story haddied a lingering death from sheer want of nourishment, and long before Jimmy had appeared in the neighbourhood, even the mothers' meetings had ceased to discuss the doctor's private affairs. He was just the gruff and well-beloved friend of everyone in the place, a man of whom even the preacher in the Peculiar People's chapel spoke with respect.
"Old friends of yours at Drylands, after all?" the doctor asked abruptly, as they sat smoking in his study after dinner.
Jimmy nodded. "Yes, you got the name wrong, you see, and, naturally, I didn't recognise it. I've known the Grimmers, or at least Mrs. Grimmer, all my life."
"It's a bad thing to get out of touch with people you know," the other went on. "A very bad thing. Never have a family quarrel, if you can avoid it, Grierson, or, rather, never have another."
"How do you know I have had one?" Jimmy demanded.
The old man smiled. "You've as good as told me so, a score of times. Bad things family quarrels. After all, your relations are your own flesh and blood."
Jimmy did not answer; latterly, he had begun to realise the truth of what the other was saying; and he knew more than ever the value of peace.
For a little while they smoked in silence, then,"How did you happen to light on this town in the first instance?" the doctor asked.
"I hardly know myself," Jimmy answered. "I wanted some quiet place, and someone—I have never been able to remember who it was—had once mentioned it to me as the ideal spot. The name had stuck in my memory, so I came down here on chance and liked it from the first. I must say, though, I've found it dull at times."
"No place is dull when you know it well enough," the old man retorted. "Yes, I mean it. You, as a writer, ought to understand that. It's only dull if you make it so for yourself by being out of sympathy with its people.... How's the book getting on?"
"Pretty well, I believe. The publishers say they're quite satisfied with it for a first novel. One doesn't expect to make a big splash at the start."
"Some never make a splash at all, even though they do good work. I knew one." The doctor shook his head sadly. "He lived in this town, only a few doors from here. He used to write scientific books, and was admitted to be the best man in England on his own subject; yet he got more and more hard up all the time. I don't know what he and his daughter really did live on for the last year or two. It ended in something verylike a tragedy. Ah, it was a bad business, a terrible business," and he sighed heavily.
Jimmy's lips seemed suddenly to have become dry and hard; but his voice was almost normal as he asked, "What was it, doctor?"
The old man began to fill a pipe with rather exaggerated care. "It was the daughter," he answered, without looking up. "She was a sweet girl, the best, most unselfish girl I ever knew; but curiously young in many ways, dangerously young—you understand? She had been brought up alone with him—no woman to tell her things. That's bad. Confound it all, sir,"—he raised his voice in a sudden explosion of wrath,—"parents have no right to keep their girls in ignorance. It's criminal negligence; at least it was in this case. They were desperately poor, and he was dying; wanted all sorts of things." He paused again and made a show of lighting his pipe, but the match burnt out ineffectually, then he went on. "They hadn't a shilling, and none of the tradesmen would trust them. And a man, a young scoundrel belonging to this very town, offered her ten pounds to go away with him for a couple of days, showed her the gold.... What was that?" he demanded quickly as Jimmy's pipe stem snapped suddenly in his hands.
Jimmy himself had shifted slightly, so that thelamplight did not fall on his face; but the old man was not looking at him as he resumed his story.
"She said she was going to town, to beg his publishers for money, and he, luckily, died believing it. But someone else had seen her; and the women hunted her out. She fled to London, no money, no friends, and you can guess what must have happened. Poor child!"
"What happened to the man?" Jimmy asked in a voice which made the doctor give a grim little nod of approval as he answered:
"I felt that way myself. He abandoned her like a skunk, and his people threw the blame on her for tempting him. Tempting him! He had a motor smash soon after, and I tried my utmost to pull him through, because he would have been a hideously disfigured cripple; but he died, and I never regretted a patient more."
Jimmy got up abruptly. He knew now who it was who had mentioned that town to him, and unconsciously sent him to live there. He had not the slightest doubt in his own mind what the answer would be when he asked:
"What was their name?"
"Penrose," the doctor answered. "She was Lalage Penrose."
Jimmy's mind was in a fever as he walked home that night; in fact, he felt it would be useless to try to sleep, so he went on, past the cottage, past Drylands, where the lights were all out, right to the next village, three miles away. But whilst he stalked along he gradually grew calmer. Things seemed to become simpler, more easy to bear, and to understand. He saw Lalage now in a different light, and he felt that, as her character was partially cleared, so, in some subtle way, his own sin became less, and he need no longer have any compunction about asking Vera Farlow to be his wife.
True, for one wild moment, his old love for Lalage seemed to surge up within him; but he was passing Drylands on his way back at the time, and, as he glanced at the windows, the Grierson strain in him asserted itself triumphantly. He might pity and forgive Lalage; but his wife must be one whom he could take anywhere, introduce anywhere; there must be no horrible fear of the past coming to light again, and, possibly ruining, not only his own career, but that of his childrenas well. He thought of Lalage tenderly, but almost with condescension; and, when he turned in finally, Vera Farlow—who belonged to the Grierson world—was uppermost in his mind. Consequently, he slept well and awoke, not to brood over what Dr. Gregg had told him, but to speculate on a future in which Vera should play the main part.
Vera had money of her own, Jimmy knew that, and, unquestionably, the fact weighed with him, not from a sordid point of view, but because it made the risks of marriage so much smaller. There would be no fear of his wife being left penniless, dependent on the charity of relatives. As for his own prospects, he was inclined to take a rosy view of them. He had made a good start, and that, as he was well aware, was more than half the battle. Another year, and he ought to be earning enough to justify him in marrying.
It would be very pleasant to have his own house, a permanent home. Vera had plenty of friends, and he knew that there were many others who would be glad enough to meet the rising author. They would soon have a position, especially if, as seemed probable, Canon Farlow did get the first vacant bishopric.
Jimmy had not much fear as to what Vera's answer would be. They had got to know oneanother very well in that fortnight at Drylands, and much of her almost prim reserve had already disappeared. She was twenty-five, or thereabouts, quite old enough to know her own mind, and it was not likely that her father, having three other unmarried daughters on his hands, would offer any serious objection. May, too, would probably be pleased when she came to look at the matter in the right light, because, as he told himself with a cynical little smile, it would prove that the Lalage episode was definitely at an end. And then, for a moment, he thought of Lalage again, the Lalage of whom the doctor had told him, young, almost childish in her inexperience, sacrificing her innocence for the sake of her dying father. Suddenly he got up, feeling half choked. If only that man had not died after the motor smash, if only he had lived to suffer.
He walked up and down the little room several times, trying to regain his self-control, trying to put Lalage out of his mind, and to think only of Vera. But it was impossible. Phrases the doctor had used seemed to be engraved on his memory. Almost against his will, he found himself repeating them, and with them came a mental picture of Lalage's pitiful shame and grief when the real meaning of what she had done came home to her. And then the horror of it, the crowning tragedyof it all—her father had died in the end, and she had been driven to the streets of London.
He had thought he had forgotten, and now he found he remembered everything. He could see her with the mud squelching through her shoes, friendless, penniless, homeless, without either references or experience, tramping hour after hour in the rain, standing outside the shop window where the big kitchen stoves were on exhibition, trying to imagine that some of the heat from the fires was reaching her numbed body; and then someone spoke to her—oh, it was all too hideous.
He had intended putting in a hard day's work, starting a new novel, but there could be no question of that now. He picked up the morning paper and tried to read that, but, somehow, the pages seemed to be one huge blurr, and, when the letters did come into line, they always formed the word "Lalage." At last, in sheer desperation, he took his hat, shut up the cottage, and went into the town. In the smoking-room of the principal hotel, he met several men he knew slightly. As a rule, he would merely have nodded to them, but now the old craving for companionship was on him again, and he greeted them cordially, whilst, instead of the one drink he had intended to take, he had so many that he lost count. When,at last, he did come out, he was still sober so far as external appearance went; and yet perhaps because the sunlight was bright whilst the smoking-room had been dark, he failed to notice a carriage containing a couple of ladies whom he had met at Drylands. They bowed to him, and then, when he did not raise his hat, exchanged meaning glances.
The elder, Mrs. Richards, wife of a local magnate, put their thoughts into words. "We caught sight of him going in there two hours ago, and now he cannot see us. I had heard a rumour that there was that especial failing, but I had hoped it wasn't true. Now, however——" She was a kindly-natured woman, and she broke off with a sigh.
Her companion nodded. "I wonder if that nice Miss Farlow knows. Mrs. Grimmer hinted that an engagement was quite possible, and I think someone ought to warn the girl. It would be a dreadful thing if she found out too late."
Jimmy's outbreak was, however, of very short duration. Even as he walked back to the cottage Vera's influence, or rather, the thought of all that marriage with Vera would mean, reasserted itself, and the memory of Lalage began to grow dim again. After all, what was the good of making himself miserable about the dead past? It couldnot be changed, and so the best thing to do was to try and forget it, as far as possible. It was but a very poor compliment to Vera if, only the day after her departure, his mind was full of another woman.
He might pity Lalage, but he was not going to let the remembrance of her ruin his future. He had a prospect now of regaining what he had lost when he first met her, and he would be a fool to imperil that prospect by mere foolish sentiment. Moreover, he would leave that wretched whisky alone; it was a weak and idiotic habit to drink as he had been drinking, and the knowledge of it would shock Vera terribly. Men in her world, which was, after all, his own world too, did not do those things. He saw it now. Before the Grimmers came down it had been different. For a time, he had lost all ambition, all sense of self-respect; but contact with Ethel and Vera had changed all that, had brought out the dormant Grierson instincts, the passion for order and respectability, and the comforts of life, and he had grown to detest the old mode of existence.
One thing was certain; before he proposed to Vera he must break off all correspondence with Lalage. He told himself so, several times, and tried to think out the letter he would write. He would send her a cheque for a fair amount, sothat she would have a reserve fund, and then—he would never hear of her again, never know if she were alive or dead, if she had enough food, or even if she were married. Suddenly, that same queer, choking sensation came back, and he got up quickly as if wanting air. He seemed to hear Lalage's cry on that most ghastly day of his life: "I did it all for you, Jimmy. I did it all for you."
And so, in the end, he compromised with his conscience, and wrote her a briefer letter than usual. Possibly, he might have been surprised had he known that Lalage cried herself to sleep over that same letter, though next day, and for many days after, until she heard again, she carried it in her dress through the long hours of drudgery in the little shop, and slept with it under her pillow at night. Jimmy's hand had touched that precious slip of paper.
Jimmy's engagement to Vera Farlow was an accomplished fact.
"You have got to thank me for it all, Jimmy," Ethel said, when he came to her for congratulations. "You would certainly never have done it alone. In fact, once or twice lately I have been afraid that my suggestions and advice were going to be wasted after all. Yet, I don't quite know what to think of you, even now." She put her head on one side and surveyed him critically.
"What do you mean?" he asked, smiling.
Ethel laughed. "I've known you to make love more ardently. Oh, yes. I have a very good memory. Still, I won't tell Vera. And now I'm going to write to your sister May and gloat over her. Of course I shall gloat, because I suggested getting you married off when we first heard you were coming home, and May got furious with me. Will you write too?"
Jimmy shook his head. "No, yours will do, at least for a start. I've got to write to Canon Farlow. Vera says he won't be home from Switzerland for another week. Otherwise, I would have gone to see him."
"He's rather an old stick, if I may say that of your beloved's father," Ethel went on. "You will find that out, and his sermons are very long, so don't live in his parish if you can help it. You'll have plenty of church in any case, you poor Jimmy."
"Why 'poor Jimmy,' when you've just been congratulating me?"
Ethel gave an impatient little sigh. "I don't know, I'm sure. Now I've done it I'm wondering if I was right. It's a big responsibility, and you may both end by hating me ever after. Promise me you won't, Jimmy, do promise that." Her voice had grown unusually earnest, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.
"Of course I promise, Ethel," he said gravely. "But I don't think there is much fear of my feeling anything except gratitude."
But Mrs. Grimmer was not satisfied. "I wish I had left it alone. I don't know how it is, but you're not the old Jimmy any longer, and I can't understand you. You're not half as happy as you ought to be under the circumstances. Now, are you?"
He protested vigorously against the idea, and yet he left her so entirely unconvinced that, instead of going to Vera, she sought out her husband and had a good cry on his shoulder.
"I ought not to have done it, Billy," she sobbed. "If anything goes wrong when it's too late, Jimmy will take it to heart so terribly. I wish I wasn't responsible, but I am, and I can't deny it."
Billy tried to comfort her. "My dear, they seem happy enough over it. I know Vera is very grateful to you."
Ethel shrugged her shoulders. "Vera! Oh, she would be happy, because she doesn't feel very deeply. She never did about anything. It was always the same with her when she was a child. But Jimmy is different. He's not in love."
"Then why did he propose?" Billy retorted. "Was it her money?"
"No, no," Ethel repudiated the idea emphatically. "Jimmy is not that sort. I think he proposed because he's been very miserable over something, and Vera took his thoughts off his other troubles. But he won't be happy."
There was no mistaking the conviction in her voice, and, for a moment, even her husband was moved out of his usual good-humoured complacency; but he soon recovered and tried to laugh away her fears, without, however, achieving much success. She was not in a mood to be reassured, although she contrived to put on a smiling face when she met the newly engaged pair at dinner.
Vera was a little inclined to blush, but obviously happy. Jimmy, on the other hand, was by turns silent, almost moody, and then feverishly talkative. Vera seemed to notice nothing amiss—possibly she put it down to natural excitement—but Ethel watched him with anxiety, which she tried hard to conceal. As she said, the whole thing was her doing. She had engineered it carefully, and she was, at least in matters like these, a clever woman. True, once or twice, she felt a slight misgiving, but she had made up her mind to succeed, and had brushed her fears aside. Only when Jimmy came with the news that her scheme had become an accomplished fact did she realise that match-making is a dangerous occupation. He neither looked nor spoke like a lover who had just been accepted, but rather like a man who sees the crisis of his life a little way ahead of him, and is fearful of his own capacity to pass through it.
Vera was quite satisfied with Jimmy's farewell kiss. Had there been passion in it she might have been frightened; but, as it was, the caress he gave her seemed very sweet. She was very proud of this lover of hers, of his undoubted cleverness, his good looks, and his powers of conversation. It would be very pleasant to see his name on all the bookstalls, to know that almost every other girl of her acquaintance would envy her thepossession of her author. So far, she had hardly thought of marriage and its responsibilities; all that part seemed a long way off, in the distant future, and, for the moment, she thought only of the engagement. But as Jimmy walked home in the moonlight, Vera Farlow was hardly in his mind at all; he was thinking of other kisses he had given and received, and, try as he would, he could not drive out a horrible feeling that, every time his lips touched Vera's, he was being unfaithful to Lalage. It was absurd, wholly ridiculous, he told himself so savagely; but still a sense of shame and ingratitude remained. Lalage, who had suffered so much, and, as he realised now, had suffered, too, for him, was in that shop, the sort of place where one could spend one's whole life, and he was going to marry Vera Farlow, and cut the last slender link between himself and the girl he had once loved, was going to make her a last present, of money, and ask her not to write again.
Jimmy let himself into the cottage, fully determined to go through with the task there and then, to write the letter almost before he had time to think, and to post it immediately. Yet dawn found him still sitting at his desk with a pile of cigarette ends and an empty decanter on the tray, and a blank sheet of paper in front ofhim. At last, he got up with a sigh, extinguished the lamp, and stumbled wearily to bed. It was not that the spirit had affected him—he felt he would have given anything to have it do so—but he was utterly exhausted mentally, and, the moment he lay down, he went into a heavy, dreamless sleep, which lasted until ten o'clock.
When Jimmy awakened in the morning the first thing he remembered was that he had promised to meet Vera at eleven. He would have no time for breakfast, but that did not trouble him, as he would have eaten nothing in any case. His meal, however, was not the only matter which would have to be left over. He would only have just sufficient time to shave and dress and walk up to Drylands; consequently, as he told himself with an undeniable sense of relief, his letter to Lalage must be put off until the evening, if not until the following day.
Vera did not seem to notice anything unusual in his appearance, or, if she did, she made no remark on it; but when they met Ethel a little later, that lady scanned his face anxiously, and took the first opportunity of calling him aside.
"You didn't sleep, Jimmy. You're worrying about something," she said, bluntly.
Jimmy made a rather unsuccessful attempt to laugh. "I'm taking on responsibilities," he said."I realise it now, and the letter to Canon Farlow is still unwritten, although I must do it before the afternoon post goes out. Vera had better help me, I think. Did you write to May?"
"Last night, after you had gone," Ethel answered. "It went by the nine-thirty this morning, so May will know before she goes to bed to-night." Then she went back to the subject of himself. "What is it you are worrying about, Jimmy? Is it anything that I can help you with?"
He shook his head. "There's no trouble, really there isn't. What can there be? Vera and I both know our own minds, and in another year's time I ought to be making a decent income. You will be able to point us out proudly as a couple whose happiness you secured."
He tried to speak lightly, but he did not convince her in the least; though she put on a smile when Vera came out again.
"Jimmy hasn't written to your father yet, Vera," she said. "You had better take him into the library now, and make him do it at once, or else he'll keep on putting it off. I know his ways of old. He lacks all his family's instinct for business-like promptitude. Now, his brother Walter probably had all such letters ready, or at least drafted out, before he proposed. Jimmy hasnone of the Grierson ways, as May will doubtless tell you."
Vera frowned slightly. Sometimes Ethel's flippant speech jarred on her a little. Family matters are treated as serious things in the household of a canon who has relatives possessing influence; moreover, it was by no means pleasant to be told that Jimmy was different from the Griersons. It was almost an implied slur on his respectability. However, before she had time to make any protest, Ethel had moved off, and Jimmy changed the current of her thoughts by suggesting that the letter to Canon Farlow had better be written at once, and she led the way into the library, well pleased at the idea.
Possibly because the letter to Lalage would be so terribly difficult to compose, Jimmy found that to his future father-in-law comparatively easy. There was not much feeling in it perhaps—even Vera, who read it with partial eyes, could not help noting the fact—but, after all, it was in a sense a matter of business; and so she was able to find consolation in its clear, incisive phrasing. She was glad when it was finished, more glad still when they had strolled down to the pillar box outside the gates, and dropped the envelope in it. Their relations were on a definite footing now, and she had little doubt that her father wouldbe well pleased. Of course, Jimmy was still a poor man; he had been perfectly frank on that point; but still he was making a name, and, as he said, he would now have a still stronger incentive to work. Altogether, she was quite satisfied with her prospects, and convinced that she had done a wise thing in saying "Yes." Perhaps, somewhere at the back of her mind, there was sense of disappointment, a feeling that both she and her lover were wanting in enthusiasm; but, if she did experience anything of the sort, she crushed it down resolutely, knowing well that passion is closely allied to wickedness, if it is not even a form of wickedness. She had been taught from childhood that sentiment is of necessity either sinful or ridiculous, and that the basis of a successful marriage—which was her people's phrase for a happy marriage—is equality of position, combined with business instincts on the part of the man. People in her world lived to get on; it was a sacred duty with them; failure to do so was discreditable, almost criminal, as she had often heard her mother say when engaged in district visiting amongst the homes of the improvident poor. Jimmy would get on, she fully believed that, especially when he had a sensible wife to help him; moreover, he was both good looking and sweet natured; consequently, she told herself that hewas all she could have wished for. It had never occurred to her that he might have a past, because neither the Griersons, nor the Farlows, nor anyone in their world, ever had such things. They seemed to live in a monotonous present of negative virtue, wholly safe and solid. So she had asked him no questions, and he had volunteered no confessions.
The day passed all too quickly for Jimmy, too quickly, not because he was revelling in the society of his fiancée, but because each hour brought him nearer the moment when he must write that final letter to Lalage. He stayed later than usual, so late that Ethel had a hard task to hide her yawns; but when, at last, he did go back to the cottage, he made no attempt to carry out what had now become the most hateful task of his life.
"It will do in the morning," he muttered as he turned out the lamp.
May looked up from Ethel's letter with a little cry of indignation. "Jimmy is engaged to Vera Farlow, Henry! Did you ever hear of such a thing! It seems the Grimmers have been staying quite close to Jimmy's cottage, and Ethel had Vera down on purpose—at least I'm sure she did. I had no idea they had met Jimmy. He never mentioned it in his last letter, nor did Ethel when I met her in town."
Henry Marlow had put down the evening paper and was staring at his wife solemnly. He scented trouble, possibly unpleasantness, and he was by no means sure what course he would be expected to take. Had they been alone it would have been different; but Ida was staying with them, and though Marlow admired his sister-in-law greatly in the abstract, or at any rate in a photograph, he was unaffectedly afraid of her, even in his own house. So he said nothing when May read out Mrs. Grimmer's letter, only shook his head twice, very gravely, and waited for Mrs. Fenton to speak.
Ida held out her hand in silence for the letter, which she read through carefully, then, "It has been a deliberate plot on Ethel Grimmer's part,"she said. "She has gone out of her way to do it. I know she has got fast and vulgar lately, smoking cigarettes and talking slang; but I did not think she would do an immoral thing like this."
Henry, who really had a sneaking admiration for Mrs. Grimmer, went rather red. "Oh, I say, Ida, that's going a little too far, isn't it?" he began, but his sister-in-law exchanged a meaning glance with May, and then cut him short.
"I beg your pardon, Henry. Have you forgotten Jimmy's conduct in town? He is hardly the fit husband for an innocent young girl like Vera Farlow; and, moreover, is he in a position to marry? He has no settled income, and his only capital was the thousand pounds which Joseph was foolish enough to leave him. I expect, too, that he has squandered that already."
Henry got up abruptly. He had heard that legacy discussed until he loathed the very mention of it; and now he had no intention of listening whilst the whole matter was threshed out anew.
"Well, I'll leave you to talk it over whilst I go and have a smoke," he said.
But his wife caught his sleeve. "Dear, you've had a cigar already this evening, and you might stay and advise us now. We must make up our minds what we are going to do."
Rather sulkily, Henry turned back, and went over to the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantelpiece, and began to fidget with his watch chain.
"I don't see what there is for you to do," he said. "It's an affair for Miss Farlow and Jimmy to settle between them. Your brother has sown his wild oats now, and he'll be steady enough."
May shook her head sadly. "I know you're very kind to him, dear, kinder than he deserves; but we must not let our feelings stand in the way of our duty. What do you say, Ida?"
Mrs. Fenton nodded. "We know that besides the affair of that creature in town, Jimmy used to drink too much. Probably, he does still. We don't want to have a scandal, and perhaps to have his wife and children penniless on our hands."
Somehow, that night Henry Marlow's temper was not quite under control, and his voice was distinctly sharp as he retorted, "Miss Farlow has money of her own, at least two hundred a year, settled on her, so they wouldn't starve. What is it you propose to do?"
"Tell Canon Farlow the truth, of course," Ida answered with asperity; "then he can judge for himself. It will relieve us of responsibility in the matter. It is the only thing we can do."
Marlow frowned. "It's not my idea of whatis right. You know Jimmy left this girl long ago. Why can't you forget it, and give him a chance to start again?" He addressed himself almost pointedly to his wife; but May shook her head.
"One can't forget in that way, Henry," she replied, gently; "at least not in this case. It wouldn't be fair to Vera, knowing what we do about Jimmy's instincts. No; Ida is right. We must certainly tell Canon Farlow."
"But he's left the girl," Henry persisted; he had always liked Jimmy, even if he had never understood him or been greatly interested in him; moreover, the whole idea of writing to the prospective father-in-law was repugnant to his ideas of fairness.
"How do you know he has really left her?" Ida asked coldly. "He has deceived us before and may be deceiving us again. The only address he has given us is his club, and this letter from Ethel is the first intimation we have had as to where he was living. She may be there, too."
Mr. Marlow laughed scornfully. "And under Ethel Grimmer's eyes? Hardly, Ida. And, according to the character you give her, she is not likely to allow him to get engaged to someone else. When did you hear of her last?"
"Never, after she fled that night." It wasMay who answered. "I wish we had been able to follow her up."
"Why?" Henry demanded. "I think you got pretty well revenged as it was."
Ida picked up her needlework again, rather ostentatiously. She had never seen her brother-in-law in this combative mood before, and it made her a little uneasy; but she was not going to let him see that fact, so she answered even more coldly than before:
"There was no question of revenge, Henry. Really, the suggestion is a little coarse, if May will forgive my saying so. Why we wished to find her was for this reason. Gilbert"—she coloured rather becomingly as she pronounced the name—Gilbert was Mr. Fugnell, Ethel's "Additional Curate," to whom she had recently become engaged—"Gilbert is greatly interested in a home for these people, where they do laundry work, and so on, and he was very anxious to save her. He said they had several vacancies, and they had been forced to refuse work for want of hands. That, if you want to know, is why we were anxious to discover where she had gone. It was entirely for her own good."
Marlow did not answer. He was a keen business man himself, and he liked clear balance sheets, even from a charitable institution, but Mr.Fugnell's charities issued no accounts at all. Moreover, of late a certain weekly paper had been displaying a great deal of interest in this very Home of which Ida was speaking, and only that day, coming down in the train, Henry had been wondering whether he ought not to mention the matter to Ida; but now he realised that his very advocacy of Jimmy's claim to be left alone had practically rendered it impossible for him to warn his sister-in-law. He would be doing the same thing he had condemned in her. So he held his peace, and, by a kind of tacit consent, the whole matter was dropped for the time being.
When Ida had gone up to bed, however, Marlow broached the question again to his wife. "Don't you really think you had better leave Jimmy to settle his own affairs, dear?" he said. "Just think how we should have felt if anyone had come between us when we were engaged. I know it would have sent me wrong altogether."
For a moment, May wavered; then she laid her hand on his arm very tenderly. "You mustn't say that, Henry. I know you would never have done anything you shouldn't do; and then, you see, you had no past to be afraid of, which makes all the difference. No, I think Canon Farlow must be told, so that he can investigate matters and judge for himself. Think if there were a scandalafter they were married, this other woman making a fuss at the house, and perhaps causing them to separate. It would ruin our position, too, and we must think of the children, even though we were ready to take the risks ourselves. Really, sweetheart, I'm right. Jimmy has only himself to blame."
Her husband sighed, then bent down and kissed her. "Well, I leave it to you, May. He is your brother, not mine. But if this sends him wrong again, you mustn't blame him too much. He will be very bitter with you and Ida."
May's face grew hard again. "We cannot help it if he is. None of us would agree to have the Grierson name dragged in the mud again."