25
Out in the night the bells were still ringing joyously.
It was New Year’s morning, and perhaps, if he sent that letter ... He stood quite still for a moment, staring at it; then suddenly he threw his cigarette into the fire and snatched the letter down from the shelf.
He tore it open impulsively and drew out the enclosure. He unfolded it and began to read. The silence of the room was unbroken save for the little crisp sound as Micky turned the paper; then the letter fluttered to the rug at his feet and lay there, half-curled up, as if it were ashamed of the words it bore and wished to hide them.
Micky raised his eyes and looked at his reflection in the glass above the mantelshelf. The pallor of his face surprised him, and the look of passionate anger in his eyes.
He was a man of the world. He was no better and no worse than many of the men whom he knew and called his friends, but this letter, in its brutal callousness, seemed to shame his very manhood.
He had liked Ashton, had been his constant companion for months, but he had never suspected him of being capable of this.
He supposed he ought to be ashamed of having opened the letter, but he was not ashamed; he was glad that he had been able to spare the girl this last and hardest blow of all––the knowledge that the man whom she loved and trusted was unworthy.
Presently he picked the letter up from the rug. He picked it up with the tips of his fingers, as if it were something repulsive to him, and threw it down on the table.
The first few words stared up at him as it lay there.
“Dear Lallie,––By the time you get this letter I shall be out of England, and I hope you won’t make things worse for me than they already are by trying to find out where I have gone or by writing to my people and making a scene. The worst of these little flirtations is that they always have to end, as this must, and you must have known it.”...
“Dear Lallie,––By the time you get this letter I shall be out of England, and I hope you won’t make things worse for me than they already are by trying to find out where I have gone or by writing to my people and making a scene. The worst of these little flirtations is that they always have to end, as this must, and you must have known it.”...
26
Micky drew in his breath hard; not an hour ago in this very room Ashton had made out how cut-up he was at the turn his affairs had taken, and yet all the time he had written this letter.
He flicked over a page and read on:––
“... I shall never forget you and the good times we’ve had together. I should try and get back at Eldred’s, if I were you. It’s a good thing we didn’t get married as matters have turned out, or the fat would have been in the fire with a vengeance. As it is, I shall have all my work cut out to put the mater in a good temper again. I am sending you some money by Mickey Mellowes; he’s a friend of mine and as rich as Crœsus, and as selfish as the devil. If he offers to take you out, let him, by all means. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if he took a fancy to you; he doesn’t care a hang for any one but himself. If only I’d got half his money ... but what’s the use of talking about it? Anyway, this is good-bye; I shan’t write again. Be a sensible girl, and try to see things from my point of view. It would only have meant ruin for both of us if I’d stuck to you. Good-bye; I send you my love for the last time.Raymond Ashton.”
“... I shall never forget you and the good times we’ve had together. I should try and get back at Eldred’s, if I were you. It’s a good thing we didn’t get married as matters have turned out, or the fat would have been in the fire with a vengeance. As it is, I shall have all my work cut out to put the mater in a good temper again. I am sending you some money by Mickey Mellowes; he’s a friend of mine and as rich as Crœsus, and as selfish as the devil. If he offers to take you out, let him, by all means. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if he took a fancy to you; he doesn’t care a hang for any one but himself. If only I’d got half his money ... but what’s the use of talking about it? Anyway, this is good-bye; I shan’t write again. Be a sensible girl, and try to see things from my point of view. It would only have meant ruin for both of us if I’d stuck to you. Good-bye; I send you my love for the last time.
Raymond Ashton.”
And this from the man whom she loved; the man who had pretended to love her!
Micky dragged forward a chair with his foot and sat down straddlewise. He leaned an elbow on the chair-back and ran his fingers through his hair with a sort of bewilderment.
“He’s as rich as Crœsus and as selfish as the devil....”
And this from Ashton, his friend––the man whom he had helped out of scrapes scores of times; the man to whom he had lent money without the least hope of its ever being returned; Micky felt as if he had a blow in the face.
His thoughts were in a whirl; the whole world needed readjusting. Was he selfish? he asked himself in perplexity––if so, it was quite unconsciously, and anyway Ashton was the last person who should have made the accusation.
“I am sending you some money by a friend of mine....”
27
There was no hint that the money was first to be borrowed; he had evidently been sure of his prey; Micky swore under his breath.
Of course, Ashton had not dreamed of the letter being opened, had not dreamed of anything but that his carefully-made plans would be minutely carried out and nothing more said.
Micky sat for a long time, lost in thought; the hands of the clock crawled round to one and the chime struck; he looked up then, glancing at the clock vaguely.
If he had not met Esther Shepstone there might have been no Esther in the world at all now; if he allowed that letter to reach its destination he would be plunging her back again into the abyss of despair from which he had dragged her only that evening. She loved Ashton; of that Micky was sure. Very well then, she should at least have some part of her ideal left to her.
He went over to his desk and took up paper and pen; he spread Ashton’s letter out before him and studied the writing carefully.
Ordinary sort of writing, rather unformed and sprawly, but after a trial run Micky managed a very presentable copy of it.
He sat back in his chair and eyed his handiwork with pride; he had missed his vocation, he told himself with a chuckle; he ought to have been a forger.
Then he dipped the pen in the ink again and squared his elbows. He had never written a love-letter in his life, but he knew positively that he was about to write one now.
He thought of Esther and the wistfulness of her grey eyes; she was the girl whom a man could love. He coloured a little as the thought involuntarily crossed his mind; she was a girl whom––he began to write rapidly.
“My darling little girl–––”
Micky was naturally rather eloquent with his pen, though he had never before tried it in this especial direction.
28
“This is the most difficult letter I have ever had to write in all my life; first, because I love you so much; and, secondly, because I am afraid it is going to hurt you nearly as much as it hurts me. Dear, as it will be some time before I see you again, and because I cannot explain everything to you, I am going to ask you to trust me till we meet again. I am leaving England to-night....”
Micky paused and ran his fingers through his hair agitatedly before he struggled on once more: “I shall be thinking of you every minute till we meet again, and of the happy times we have had together. I will write to you whenever I can....” The pen paused, and Micky groaned, recalling that Ashton had said he should not write at all.
“It’ll have to do, anyway,” he muttered, and again the pen flew: “I’m not much of a hand at writing letters, as you know, but you must try and read between the lines, and guess at all I would say were we together ... All I will say to you when we meet again.”
That last sentence was rather neat, Micky thought with pride, then a wave of compunction swept through his heart as he remembered the tragedy behind it all, and he finished the page soberly enough: “Ever yours, Raymond Ashton.”
“Damn him!” said Micky under his breath, as he blotted the signature; then he took two ten-pound notes from a drawer in his desk, and, enclosing them in the envelope, sealed and stamped it.
It was half-past one, but Micky climbed into his coat again. He locked Ashton’s letter into his desk, and, taking the one he had written, went quietly down to the street.
The world was sleeping and deserted, and Micky’s footsteps echoed hollowly along the pavement.
“You’re a fool, you know!” he told himself, with a sort of humour. “You’re a bally fool, my boy! It won’t end here, you see if it does.”
But he went on to the pillar-box at the street corner.
29
When he reached it he stood for a moment with the letter in his hand.
“You’re a fool,” he told himself again hardily. “Micky, my boy, you’re a bally idiot, interfering with what doesn’t concern you––with what doesn’t concern you in the very least.”
He looked up at the stars and thought of Esther Shepstone, of her eyes and her wavering smile, and the soft note in her voice as she had asked him––
“Are you always as kind to every one as you have been to me?”
No concern of his! It was every concern of his; he knew that he was only living for the hours to pass before he saw her again. No concern of his! when the greatest miracle of all the world had come to pass during those last hours of the old year, inasmuch that Micky Mellowes, heartwhole and a bachelor for thirty odd years, had been bowled over by a girl without a shilling to her name––a girl who loved another man, but a girl to whom Micky had without wishing it, without knowing it, dedicated the rest of his life!
He was her champion for the future, some one to stand between her and the callousness of the man of whom even now she was probably thinking.
“No concern of mine!” said Micky to himself with fine scorn. “Why, of course it is! Every concern of mine.”
He squared his shoulders and dropped the envelope into the pillar-box.
And so Micky Mellowes posted his first love-letter.
30CHAPTER III
In spite of the events of the night Micky Mellowes slept soundly. It was half-past nine when he woke, to find his man Driver moving noiselessly about the room.
When he saw that Micky was awake he approached the bed.
“Good-morning, sir, and a happy New Year.”
Driver had an expressionless voice; he announced tea or tragedy in exactly the same tone.
“Eh?” said Micky vacantly; the words opened the door of memory, and he sat up with a start. It was New Year’s Day, and last night ... ye gods! what had not happened last night? Micky tingled to the tips of his fingers as he remembered the letter he had written and posted; he had expected to feel rotten about it in the light of day; it was an agreeable surprise to find that he did not feel anything of the kind.
When he went in to breakfast there was a pile of letters waiting for him; he looked them through carelessly––there was one from Marie Deland, which he opened with a vague feeling of nervousness.
Marie was a nice little girl; he really was quite fond of her, and yet ... surely the days of miracles had not yet passed away, seeing that in a few short hours his feeling for her had changed from something warmer to more brotherly affection.
It made him feel uncomfortable to read what she had written; it was really only quite an ordinary letter of regret that she had not seen him last night, but Micky imagined he could read more between the lines.
“... I quite hoped you would drop in, if only31for a few moments,” so she wrote. “It’s been so dull. I am writing this alone in the library.”
Micky knew that library well; he and she had spent a good deal of time there together talking sweet nothings; he wondered if he would have been an engaged man by this time if that relative of the Delands had not so conveniently died, and if Esther had not chosen his particular street in which to weep.
He screwed the letter up and tossed it into the fire; he would answer it some time, or call; there was no immediate hurry. When he had finished his breakfast he went to his locked desk and took out Ashton’s letter––somehow until he actually saw it again he could not quite believe that the events of last night had not all been a dream; but the letter was real enough, at all events with its callous beginning to “Dear Lallie.”
The morning seemed to drag; twice people rang him up on the ’phone and asked him to lunch, but Micky was not in the mood for lunch; he felt a suppressed sort of excitement, as if something of great import were about to happen.
Driver looked at him woodenly once or twice; his face was as expressionless as his voice, but his dull eyes saw everything, and behind them his keen brain wondered what had happened to make Micky so restless.
Towards one o’clock he ventured a gentle reminder.
“You have an engagement for half-past three, sir––Miss Langdon’s.”
Micky was yawning over the paper then; he looked up with an absurdly blank face.
“Oh, I say!––well, I can’t go, anyway. What was it for? I’m going out––I’ve got an important appointment.”
Driver never showed surprise at anything if he felt it.
“It was a musical ‘At ’Ome,’ sir,” he answered stolidly. “Shall I ring up and say that you won’t be able to come?”
“Yes, ring up,” said Micky. He coloured self-consciously beneath the man’s stoic eyes and hurriedly buried his head again in the newspaper.
32
At three o’clock he changed his clothes for an immaculate morning-coat and grey trousers; then, remembering what Esther had said about the very horrid boarding-house, he changed them again for the oldest tweed suit in his possession, and a pair of brown boots that had seen their best days and long since been condemned by Driver.
“How in the world do I get to Brixton?” Micky asked the man when he was ready. “I know I could take a taxicab, but I don’t want to. What other ways are there?”
Driver told him.
“There’s the train, sir, or a tram.”
Micky jumped at the tramcar. He was sure that people who lived in Brixton must all use tramcars.
“How long would a tramcar take?” he asked.
Driver considered. Finally he said that he thought it might be the best part of an hour.
Micky glanced at the clock. It was already a quarter past three. He took up his hat hurriedly and went out into the street.
A taxicab would have to do for to-day anyway. He could dismiss it at the corner of the road and walk the last few yards. A moment later he was being whirled through the streets.
He sat leaning back in the corner with his feet up on the seat opposite, feeling decidedly nervous.
Supposing he did not see Esther––supposing she were not there? Supposing she had purposely given him the wrong address? Supposing ... oh, supposing a thousand and one things! Micky was full of apprehension when at last the taxicab stopped at the corner of the Brixton Road and the driver came to the door to ask what number.
Micky scrambled out.
“Oh, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
He paid the man liberally, and set out along the crowded pathway. There were so many people about33that he thought it must be a market day or something. A word with a policeman elicited the information that he was at quite the wrong end of the street for the number he wanted. Micky was rather glad. He felt that he needed time in which to collect his thoughts, and yet when at last he reached his destination he felt as nervous as a kitten and strongly inclined to go back. But he went on and up the bare strip of garden which led to the front door of the house. It wasn’t such a bad-looking house, he thought. Not nearly as bad as he had expected from the girl’s description. In fact, once upon a time it must have been rather a palatial residence, but all the windows now were boxed up with cheap, starchy-looking curtains, and there was a sort of third-rate atmosphere about the basement and the cheap knocker on the front door.
Micky looked for a bell, but there wasn’t one, so he knocked.
It seemed a long time before anybody came. When at last they did he heard them coming for a long time before the door was opened, heard slipshod steps on shiny linoleum, and a husky sort of breathless cough.
The owner of the cough was young and scared-looking, in shoes several sizes too large for her, and a skirt several inches too short. When Micky asked for Miss Shepstone she stared without answering for a moment, then she turned and slopped back the way she had come, leaving the door on the chain.
Micky chuckled to himself; she evidently did not like the look of him.
He waited patiently; then he heard another step along the shiny linoleumed floor of the hall––a very different step this time––and, turning eagerly, he saw Esther herself in the doorway.
“I didn’t really think you would come,” she said breathlessly.
For a moment Micky could not find his tongue. If he had thought this girl pretty last night with the tears34in her eyes he thought her a thousand times prettier now. She looked as if some magician hand had wiped the distress from her face and convinced her that the sun still shone.
She wore the same clothes she had worn last night, but even they seemed somehow to have changed. There was a bunch of violets pinned in her jacket. Micky wondered if it were the violets that were responsible for the alteration.
“When I make an appointment I always keep it,” he said.
He had almost added “with any one like you,” but thought better of it. “And are you going to let me take you out to tea?” he asked.
She hesitated; she glanced back into the dingy hall behind her.
“I am leaving here to-day,” she said. “My box has gone already. If you will wait a moment ... I would ask you in, but you’d hate it so.”
“I’ll wait outside,” said Micky.
He went down into the street. For the moment he had quite forgotten all about Ashton and the letter which must by this time be in Esther’s possession.
“And what about Charlie?” he asked whimsically when she joined him.
She smiled, shaking her head.
“I sent him on––in a basket. Nobody wants him here––he only gets badgered about all day long; so I’m taking him with me. Do you think I ought not to?”
“I think Charlie is a most fortunate cat,” said Micky.
She did not take him seriously.
“I think he will be happier with me anyway,” she said “I’m going to quite a nice boarding-house now. I went out this morning and found it.” She looked up at him with a smile. “I don’t think even you would mind coming to tea there,” she said.
“I thought you were going to say mind coming there to live,” Micky told her audaciously. “I’ve been looking35about for fresh diggings; I’m tired of mine.” He stopped and glanced behind him. “Can we get a tramcar here?”
“I’m not tired,” she said quickly.
“Well, I must admit that I am,” Micky answered. He hated walking at the best of times, and he did not like to suggest another taxicab. “Let’s go on top.”
They climbed up and found a front seat; there was a working man next to them smoking shag in a clay pipe; he looked at Micky and Esther doubtfully, then asked––
“Does your good lady mind smoke, mister?”
Esther flushed.
“I don’t mind at all,” she said, laughing.
“You got home all right last night, then?” Micky said presently. “After you had gone I wished I had seen you safely in....”
“It’s kind of you, but I was quite all right.” There was a note of constraint in her voice. “I should like to thank you for what you did for me last night,” she said hesitatingly.
“If it hadn’t been for you....” She stopped.
Micky did not know what to say.
“Anyway, it’s all right now, eh?” he asked presently, with awkward cheerfulness. “I thought it would be; when things look so black that they can’t possibly look any blacker, they always begin to mend. I’ve found that out before; I don’t know if you have.”
“I found it out this morning.”
Micky looked down at her. She was sitting with her hands clasped together in her lap; there was a little flush in her cheeks, and her lips were curved into a faint smile.
“It seems so wonderful too,” she went on softly, “that it should have happened on New Year’s Day–––”
“Fares, all fares, please,” said the conductor beside them. Micky dived into a pocket and found a shilling.
“Two, please,” he said.
He had paid for and shared taxicabs with Marie Deland times without number, but it had never given him36quite the same pleasurable little thrill as he experienced at this moment.
There was something so pleasantly familiar about this tramcar ride, the fact of sharing the same uncomfortable seat with Esther Shepstone.
“Penny ones?” the conductor asked.
Micky looked at the girl.
“Where shall we get off?” he asked.
“Penny ones will do,” she said.
Micky took the tickets and pocketed his change.
“I don’t know if there are any decent teashops round here,” he said dubiously. “If you would rather go up to the West End....”
But finally they found a confectioner’s quite close to where the penny fare ended.
Micky looked round critically.
“Is this all right?” he asked. “I’ve never been here before.”
“I have, often,” she said. She was drawing off her gloves.
Micky glanced hurriedly at her hands; she was wearing a ring. Hardly knowing that he did so, he leaned across and touched it.
“Is that an engagement ring?” he asked. His voice sounded a little breathless.
She looked up at him, drawing her hand away.
“Why do you ask me?”
He drew back; he shrugged his shoulders.
“I beg your pardon. I suppose I have no right to ask.”
He ordered tea. He talked rather forced platitudes for the rest of the time. He was just going to call for the bill, when Esther Shepstone said suddenly––
“Mr. Mellowes, I should like to tell you something.”
“Yes!” Micky did not look at her. Somehow he could not trust himself.
“I don’t in the least know why I want to tell you,”37she said again nervously. “But––you’ve been so kind to me....”
“Yes!” said Micky gently, as she paused. “Yes, what is it?”
She was twisting her teaspoon, and she kept her eyes lowered.
“Last night, when I met you––I was very unhappy ... There didn’t seem anything to live for in the world.... I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that, or if you have ever cared for any one––really cared, I mean––but if you have....” She stopped again.
“I think I understand,” Micky said, with an effort. “You mean that there’s some one, some man....”
She raised her grey eyes to his face.
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Some man you care for––care for very much,” Micky went on slowly. “Perhaps some one you have quarreled with––who hadn’t been quite as ... kind as he might have been–––”
The soft colour flooded her face.
“Did you guess––last night?” she asked shyly.
Micky smiled.
“Did I? I am not sure, perhaps.” He drew a long breath that was half a sigh. “Well?” he queried.
“I don’t know why I am telling you this–––” she said again, with a sort of distress. “It cannot interest you, but, somehow, I think I should like you to know.”
“It interests me very much––I am honoured that you should tell me.” Micky looked again at the ring she wore; quite a cheap little ring, with a couple of inferior diamonds. “You mean that you are engaged to be married?”
“Yes; at least–––” The words were only a whisper.
Micky sat very still.
“Well, I suppose you will have me for a friend all the same, won’t you?” he asked with an effort.
38
She looked at him in faint amazement.
“I thought if I told you that perhaps you’d rather not....” She stopped in confusion.
Micky leaned a little closer over the table.
“You said last night that you didn’t believe in a man’s friendship for a woman,” he said. “Well, I am going to make you believe in it. I’m going to be your friend. The fact that you are engaged makes no difference to me, if it doesn’t to you.”
She looked at him earnestly.
“If you mean that,” she said, “I think I’m very glad.”
“Thank you. I suppose I mustn’t ask who the––the lucky man is?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t tell you. And he’s away now––out of England.”
Her voice changed a little, her eyes looked past Micky as if for the moment she had forgotten him.
Micky watched her jealously.
“And so whatever was wrong last night is all right to-day, is that it?” he asked with an effort.
“Yes ... somehow I never thought it would be, but this morning–––”
“This morning?” he echoed as she stopped.
“I had a letter this morning,” she told him, and her voice had softened so wonderfully that Micky caught his breath. “Oh, I wonder if you have ever been as unhappy as I was last night, and then had a letter, a wonderful letter like I had this morning? There was something in it that seemed to put everything right straight away; something that I’ve always wanted before and never had. I can’t explain it any better than that, but perhaps you understand. I’m just telling you because I feel so happy I must tell somebody, and because I didn’t want you to misjudge him as I did yesterday. I thought he didn’t really care, and I wanted to die, but to-day, when his letter came–––” She broke off into a little happy laugh.
Micky had rammed his clenched hands into his pockets;39the blood was hammering in his temples; his brain felt in a whirl; somehow in all his wildest imaginings he had never dreamed of this.
It was his letter that had brought that new look of happiness to her eyes! His letter which perhaps even then lay against her heart; the first love-letter he had ever written to any woman, and she believed it to have been written by Raymond Ashton!
He did not realise how long he sat there without speaking till Esther spoke to him again. There was a little anxious note in her voice.
“I’m afraid I’ve bored you horribly with all this. I know it’s no interest to you, but I felt that I must tell somebody.”
Micky roused himself with an effort.
“It’s of great interest to me,” he said. “And you mustn’t ever say a thing like that again. We’re going to be friends, and real friends are always interested in everything that concerns the other. I’m more glad than I can say that you’re happy. I only hope it’s going to last for ever.”
Perhaps there was a dubious note in his voice, for an anxious gleam crept into the girl’s eyes.
“You sound as if you don’t think that it will,” she said quickly.
Micky made a hurried disclaimer.
“I do think so, of course I do! You deserve all the happiness you can get, and whoever the man is, if he doesn’t make you happy–––”
He stopped, with frowning memory of Ashton and their parting only last night.
He hoped in his heart that they would never meet again; if they did, he realised that there would be quite a few nasty things he would feel called upon to say to him.
The waitress brought the bill at that moment and put an end to further conversation, for which he was thankful. He realised that he was getting rather out of his40depth. He breathed more freely when they were safely out in the street.
“And where is the new boarding-house?” he asked presently. He wanted to change the subject; every moment he was afraid that he would say something to give himself away. He supposed he had behaved like an impetuous fool. He ought never to have posted that letter––ought never to have opened Ashton’s; and yet––if he had not done so.... He looked down at the girl beside him, and wondered grimly how she would have felt if he had allowed that callous farewell to reach her.
“It’s quite close to where we are now,” she told him. “It’s rather more expensive than the last one, but it’s well worth the extra money, and”––she glanced up at him smilingly––“I’m better off to-day than I was yesterday,” she explained. “And when I go back to work again–––”
“Are you going back, then?” he asked quickly.
“Of course I am. I must do something, and they will take me back at Eldred’s, I know–––”
“Eldred’s!” Micky frowned. “That’s the petticoat shop, isn’t it?”
She laughed.
“Yes; how did you know?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve seen the place lots of times. A girl I know buys all her–––” He stopped. “Do you want to go back there?” he asked.
“Not particularly, but it’s easier than looking for a fresh place, and I know they will take me. I’m in the workroom, and it’s not really such a hard life.”
Micky did some rapid thinking; it was surprising how easily his brain had taken to hard work during the last twenty-four hours.
“Why don’t you get a job as a companion to a nice old lady or somebody?” he suggested vaguely.
She laughed again.
“It doesn’t sound a bit attractive,” she said frankly.41“I think you need an awful lot of patience. It’s very kind of you to be interested, but I think I shall go back to Eldred’s, for a time, at least.”
Micky did not like the idea at all, but he let the subject drop.
“Are you going back to the Brixton Road?” he asked after a moment.
“Oh no; I paid them before I left this afternoon, so I shall go straight to the new place.”
“I should like to walk there with you, if I may,” said Micky.
“Of course you may.”
“And when shall I see you again?” he asked. “You’re not going to vanish for days, are you? I’ve got no end of time to kill, and–––”
“But I haven’t,” she reminded him. “At least, I shan’t have when I start work. But I should like to see you again,” she added kindly.
“Thank you,” said Micky with faint sarcasm.
He felt vaguely disappointed with the whole afternoon. She was holding him so decidedly at arm’s length. He supposed it was that infernal fellow Ashton that stood between them. There was a sort of irony, too, in the fact that he himself had by his own action established him more firmly than ever in this girl’s affections.
And the fellow was not worth a thought! That was the rotten part of it. As he looked at her he felt strongly tempted to blurt out the truth; to tell her that it was he who wrote that letter––to undeceive her once and for all.
But the thing was manifestly impossible. She would probably think it an abominable thing to have opened Ashton’s letter; she would probably be furious if he let her know that the money she had received had come from him. Whichever way he turned he seemed to be in a corner.
They had reached the new boarding-house now, and Micky was relieved to see that it was a decided improvement on the one in the Brixton Road.
42
The windows were not boxed up, and the steps and the bell were clean. It was on the sunny side of the road, too, and had an air of cheerfulness about it.
“It’s much better than the other one, isn’t it?” Esther asked.
“Streets better,” he assured her. “I shouldn’t mind living here myself....” He waited, but she made no comment, and he felt rather snubbed.
There was a little silence.
“Don’t you like the place where you are living now?” she asked after a moment. “Don’t they make you comfortable there?”
“Oh, it’s comfortable enough,” said Micky. He wondered if he looked as guilty as he felt. “But I don’t believe in sticking on anywhere too long. A change is good for every one. I shall be shifting out some day soon, I expect.”
There was a little silence.
“I shall see you again soon,” he said. “And if there is anything I can do for you–––”
“Thank you, but there isn’t.” She spoke quite kindly, but Micky had the uncomfortable sort of feeling that her thoughts were elsewhere. He waited a moment, then held out his hand.
“Well, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, and thank you for my tea.”
She nodded and smiled and turned away from him.
There was nothing else for Micky to do but to go; he raised his hat and walked off disconsolately.
43CHAPTER IV
When Esther went upstairs to her room in No. 11 Elphinstone Road, she found the door standing open, and she could hear some one talking inside.
She stood still for a moment in amazement; she thought perhaps she had made a mistake and come to the wrong room, but a glance reassured her; the number of her room was 23, and this one was 23; she pushed the door wider and went in.
Her boxes were there, standing one upon the other, so as to make more space in the small room, and on the rather shabby rug by the fireplace a woman was kneeling with her back to the door.
She did not hear Esther enter, and for a moment the girl stood staring at her in blank amazement. She could not see her face, but she could see that the woman was small and slightly built, with a wealth of jet black hair coiled in becoming carelessness with a couple of yellow pins to fasten it.
She wore a yellow blouse, which Esther would have thought hideous on any one else, but somehow against that dark coil of hair it looked decidedly picturesque.
Esther moved a little, deliberately knocking against a chair to attract attention, and the girl on the hearthrug looked round with a startled exclamation; then scrambled to her feet.
“I heard there was a cat,” she explained. “Lydia told me that he was shut up here alone, so I just had to come in and see him. I hope you don’t mind. I brought him some milk.”
For a moment Esther was too taken aback to answer. She looked from the little woman in the yellow blouse to44Charlie, sprawled on the rug and purring lustily, and then back again to the little woman.
She was very attractive looking, that was Esther’s first thought, and her next that she had never seen any one with such a beautiful complexion.
“You’re Miss Shepstone, aren’t you?” her visitor queried in the friendliest of tones. “You see, I know quite a lot about you already. Lydia told me––Lydia’s the housemaid––you’ll like her; she’s a really nice girl. My name is June Mason––I live here, too, and I hope we will be great friends.”
There was something so breezily disarming about her that Esther held out her hand.
“You’re very kind. I hardly know what to say....”
“Don’t say anything,” Miss Mason answered airily. “I’m going to like you; I knew I should somehow when I first heard your name. I believe in that sort of thing––I don’t know if you do, but as soon as Lydia told me who it was that had taken this room I knew I should like you. I think your name is sweet––Esther! So quaint and old-world. Have you had your tea?––yes, oh, what a shame! I’ve got some ready for you in my room. Oh, I hope you don’t think it’s awful cheek,” she broke out with a sort of embarrassment. “I’ve got a sitting-room here as well as a bedroom, and I always make my own tea, it’s better than you can get downstairs. I’ve got a fire there too, and if you’re ever cold I hope you’ll come and sit with me. I’m out a good deal but you can always use my room when I’m not there, if you care to. Take off your hat and come and see it now, or are you too tired? I don’t want to worry you.”
“I’m not a bit tired,” Esther said, laughing; she felt a little bewildered by this sudden offer of friendship, but June Mason interested her, and after a moment she took off her hat obediently.
“We’ll bring the cat too,” Miss Mason said; she45swooped down with a quick movement and caught the cat up in her arms. “I love cats,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Charlie,” said Esther shyly. “He’s very thin, but they weren’t kind to him where he belonged before....”
“What a shame! I simply loathe people who are not kind to animals. Never mind, he’ll soon get all right. Now come along––I’ll help you unpack your boxes presently.”
She led the way downstairs, and Esther followed.
She had been feeling a little scared of this new boarding-house. She felt grateful for this girl’s unaffected overture.
“Mine’s the best room in the house,” Miss Mason informed her. She pushed open the door of a room immediately below Esther’s. “Sit down and make yourself at home. I’ll get the tea in half a minute. I know you’ll have another cup. I shall, anyway. Do you smoke?”
“No,” said Esther.
“Well I do. I hope you’re not shocked. I find it’s so soothing when you’ve got nerves; and I’m a frightfully nervy person. I am hardly ever still; I’m always on the go.”
Esther could well believe it. She looked on with a slightly dazed feeling while June Mason lit a cigarette and bustled about the room.
It was a very comfortable room, with plenty of easy-chairs and lots of cushions all in the same pale shade of mauve.
“I didn’t think there would be any rooms as comfortable as this in the house,” Esther said. “I suppose you pay a great deal for it, though.”
“I don’t know about that. Most of the furniture is mine and all the cushions. Do you like my cushions?”
She put down the teapot, which she had been about to fill, and caught up one of the cushions, plumping its softness together with her white hands.
46
“Mauve is my lucky colour,” she rattled on. “Everything I do in mauve turns out well. But perhaps you don’t believe in a superstition like that?”
Esther was rather bewildered.
“I’m not sure. I never thought about it,” she said hesitatingly. “But it’s a very pretty colour.”
Miss Mason dropped the cushion to the floor, and stooping picked Charlie up and deposited him on it.
“Doesn’t he look sweet?” she demanded. “And a black cat is lucky too, you know, so that’s a comfort.”
She went back to the teapot, made the tea, and poured out a cup for Esther.
“Is that chair comfy?––yes, lean back! What are you looking at? Oh, my photographs! Yes. I have got a lot, haven’t I? Lydia dusts them for me! Lydia’s a treasure! You’ll love her. When I get married she’s going to leave here and come with me–––”
Esther looked interested.
“Are you going to be married?” she asked.
Miss Mason laughed.
“Am I? No, I’m not. I’m too fond of my independence. Not that I don’t like men. I do like them, and I’ve got some awfully good pals amongst them, too. Look!”
She turned with one of her rapid movements, caught up a photograph from the shelf and handed it to Esther.
“There! that’s one of the nicest men I ever met in my life,” she said enthusiastically. “Don’t you think he’s got a ripping face?”
Esther took the portrait laughingly––she thought June Mason one of the most amusing people she had ever met––then she caught her breath on a little smothered exclamation as she found herself looking straight into the pictured eyes of Micky Mellowes.
June Mason was too occupied with a fresh cigarette to notice the blank look that filled Esther’s eyes.
She sat there in the big chair, staring at Micky’s portrait with a sense of foreboding. Surely it was something47bigger than just chance that had introduced him into her life for the second time.
“He’s one of the best,” June Mason went on. She dragged forward another chair and plumped down into it comfortably.
“Don’t you admire him?” She opened her eyes wide, looking across at Esther.
“Yes, oh yes! I think he’s quite nice,” Esther said stiltedly. “But not a bit good-looking, do you think?” she asked, with a sort of hesitation.
Miss Mason took the portrait from her and held it at arm’s length.
“Um!” she said critically. “Perhaps he isn’t, but I like him so much, you see, that I’m not a fair judge. He’s been a good friend to me, at all events.”
She got up, replaced the frame on the shelf, and plumped back once more amongst her mauve cushions.
“My people wanted me to marry him at one time,” she went on airily. “I might have done so only I liked him too well. He didn’t care for me, except as a friend, and it seemed a shame to spoil it, so I put my foot down.”
“You mean that you refused him?”
Esther was interested; she was remembering how Micky had told her that he had never really cared for any woman in all his life.
“He never asked me, my dear,” Miss Mason answered candidly. “I let him see that it wouldn’t be any good if he did, and I know he was frightfully relieved. We were never so nearly in love with one another as we were when we both knew that we didn’t mean to get married.” She chuckled reminiscently. “It finished me with my people, though,” she added, “so I cleared out and came here.”
“And––Micky?” Esther asked. “I––I mean Mr. Mellowes....”
Miss Mason looked faintly surprised.
“How did you know his name?” she asked. “Did I tell you? I suppose I did. Oh, he’s all right; he’s the48kind of man who always will be all right. He’s got another girl on the tapis now. I don’t know if it will come to anything, though. Anyway, she’s not good enough for him.”
“You seem very fond of him,” Esther said.
“I am. He’s a dear! I should love to see him happily married to a girl with a heart of gold like his own. I think I know him better than most people, and his little corner of the world would be amazed if they knew the amount of good Micky manages to do.”
She had flushed up with her own enthusiasm. Her curious eyes (Esther could not decide if they were grey, blue, or green, or a mixture of all three) were very bright and expressive.
“I’ve heard lots of rotten things said about him,” she went on, “and I know that none of them are really deserved––at least most of them are not. He isn’t a saint––but what man is, I should like to know? But Micky’s the sort who would give his life for a friend or any one little and weak. Do you know”––she flung away the half-smoked cigarette and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees––“last winter, down in the country, I saw Micky go into a dirty pond in evening dress to rescue a drowning cat. What do you think of that?”
“A––a––cat!” said Esther faintly. She looked at Charlie, and remembered how Micky had paid for milk for him the night of their strange meeting.
“A miserable drowning cat!” Miss Mason went on with tragic emphasis. “He heard it mewing from the road, and he went in after it without stopping to think. Now, I call a man a hero who will do a thing like that when he is on his way to a dance he is very keen about, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Esther. Her heart warmed towards Mellowes. Kind as he had been to her, she had not been quite sure of him; it made her feel happier to hear him so warmly championed.
“You’ll be sick to death of my chatter,” June Mason49broke out with sudden change of voice. She helped herself to a third cigarette. “I hope you don’t mind smoke,” she apologised. “I’m always at it; I think I smoke dozens a day–––”
“Or throw them away half smoked,” Esther thought amusedly. “I don’t mind at all,” she answered.
“You haven’t told me a thing about yourself,” Miss Mason reminded her reproachfully. “And it’s not fair that I should do all the talking. I know your name, and that’s about all. Have you got any people? Where do you come from?”
Esther flushed a little.
“There isn’t much to tell you. I haven’t any people. I was born in India, and my mother died there. I don’t know anything about my father. I was sent home to an aunt, and she looked after me till about three years ago, when she died. I came to London then, and they took me on at Eldred’s––do you know Eldred’s?”
“Do I not?” said Miss Mason fervently. “Scrumptious things they make; but what prices! I can’t afford them very often, but I go in there a good deal. I know the manager, and he’s going to do some business for me––at least I hope he is. If I can get my stuff into his place it will be a splendid thing. All London shops there, you know; all London with any money, that is!”
Esther looked mystified.
“Your stuff!” she echoed. “What do you mean?”
June Mason laughed merrily. She had a very infectious laugh and a trick of covering her face with her hands while she was laughing.
“I forgot that you didn’t know!” she said. “I seem to know you so well, I can’t remember that we never saw one another before to-day. My dear, I make face cream. Wait a moment.”
She sprang up and disappeared behind a mauve curtain into an adjoining room. Esther heard her moving about, opening and shutting boxes and singing a snatch of song all the time. Presently she came back with a50tray crowded with little pots and phials of all sizes and descriptions. She plumped down on her knees beside Esther’s chair.
“There you are!” she said lightly, though there was an odd dash of pride in her voice. “Face cream, night and day cream, eyelash tonic, and all the rest of it! Of course, I’m only just starting––I’m not like those people who advertise in all the papers and charge about a guinea for a shilling jar; but my stuff is as good as theirs any day, and better, because it’s pure. Look!” She took a lid off a little white pot with a mauve label and held it to Esther.
“Isn’t that a glorious perfume?” she demanded. She sniffed it herself with relish. “And it’s all my invention, and I’m as proud of it as a cat would be of nine tails. When I’ve got things a little more ship-shape, Micky’s going to put it on the market for me. It wants a man behind all these sort of things you know. I can do all the donkey work, but I’ve got no head for business. I never know the difference between a loss and a profit. It was partly over this that I quarrelled with my people––they said it was low-down to make face cream and sell it––they’re awful snobs! So I just cleared off and changed my surname and came here. I’m quite happy, and if I haven’t got as much money as I had, I don’t mind––I’ve got my liberty, and that’s worth every thing.”
“I think you’re just wonderful,” Esther said. She picked up a lid from one of the little pots and looked at the mauve and white label.
“June Mason’s natural beautifier....”
She looked at the glowing face opposite to her.
“Do you use it for your own skin?” she asked shyly.
Miss Mason chuckled; she pushed the tray to one side along the floor.
“I don’t mind telling you that I’ve never used cream to my skin at all,” she said. “But people think I do, and so there you are! Have some more tea?”
She refilled Esther’s cup and lit another cigarette. “So51that’s what I am,” she said. “And now go on, and tell me about yourself. You said you were at Eldred’s!”
“Yes, I was there for two years. I rather liked it! I love pretty things, and I was in the workroom. They paid me quite well, too, though it was hard work, and then––well, then I left–––” her voice changed subtly.
“Why?”
The query was only interested, and not at all impertinent.
Esther flushed.
“Well––well––I thought I was going to be married. He––well, he asked me to leave to marry him, and so I did....”
“But you’re not married?”
“No–––” Esther was looking away into the fire. “No, I’m not married,” she said in a stifled voice. “He––my fiancé––has had to go away on business––abroad, and I don’t know when I shall see him again.”
Her voice sounded sad and dispirited.
“You poor little thing!” said June Mason. She leaned over and laid her hand on Esther’s. “Never mind! The time will soon pass, and then he’ll come back and you’ll live happily ever after–––”
Esther smiled.
“I know. I keep on telling myself it’s foolish to worry. I felt quite happy this morning. I had a letter from him, and somehow when I read it things didn’t seem half so bad; but–––”
“And you’ll have another to-morrow, I expect.” Miss Mason insisted. “And another the next day, and one every day while he’s away. There! That’s better,” she added cheerily as Esther laughed.
“I don’t like to see you look so sad. I’m going to cheer you up. I shan’t allow you to be miserable. And anyway,” she added, with a sudden softening, “you’ve got some one who loves you, and that’s worth everything else in the world.”
“Yes,” said Esther. Her eyes shone and she thought52of the letter which was even then lying against her heart. Somehow she had never realised how much he really cared for her till to-day.
“And what are you going to do till he comes home?” Miss Mason asked interestedly. “If you had something to do you’d find the time pass ever so much more quickly.”
“It’s a question of having to do something rather than how to pass the time,” Esther said. “I haven’t any money except what I can make. My aunt left me a little when she died, but it was only a very little, and I spent most of it at first while I was looking for work. So I’m going back to Eldred’s––if they will have me, and I think they will.”
Miss Mason said “Humph!”
“I think you’re too good for a petticoat shop,” she said bluntly. “You’re wasted there! Nobody sees you, and you’re so pretty–––”
“Oh, what nonsense!” Esther exclaimed. She laughed in sheer amusement. To her it seemed absurd for this girl to call her pretty; she considered June Mason such a personality––so attractive!
She really did make a picturesque figure as she sat there with her mauve cushions all around her. Her yellow blouse and dark hair and wonderful rose-leaf skin reminded one of some brilliant portrait painted by a master-hand.
Esther would have been surprised could she have known the thought in June’s mind at that moment.
“She’s just sweet! I don’t know when I’ve seen a face I admire more. Micky would adore her! She’s just the sort of woman he always raves about. I must ask him to tea to meet her one day.”
“There are heaps of other berths going besides Eldred’s, you know,” she said earnestly. “However, you must do as you like, of course.” She threw away another unfinished cigarette. “Do you think we are going to be friends?” she asked.