CHAPTER XIII

123

June was packing the tea things on to the tray and humming a snatch of song. Esther rose.

“Let me do that––you cleared away yesterday.”

She took the tray.

June asked Micky for a cigarette.

“I’ve got heaps somewhere,” she said vaguely. “But I never know where they are.” She looked over to Esther. “Don’t bother to put the cups away now,” she said. “Come back and be cosy.”

She was rather surprised that Esther obeyed; she had quite expected her to go off and not return.

Fond as she was of Esther, she could not quite make her out; she was full of surprises. It was getting dusk, and the room was full of shadows.

“Shall I light up?” Micky asked. “Or do we like the firelight?”

“We like the firelight,” June said promptly; she nestled down amongst her mauve cushions.

Micky was sitting straddle-ways across a chair between the two girls, and Esther had drawn back a little so that her face was in shadow. Micky glanced at her once, but could only see the glint of firelight on her hair and her hands clasped listlessly in the lap of her frock. He glanced at them; she still wore Ashton’s ring, with its three inferior stones; he wondered how long the farce was going to be kept up and what would happen to bring it to an end.

“If some one doesn’t talk,” June said drowsily, “I shall go to sleep.”

There was a quiet peacefulness in the cosy little room. Micky crossed his arms on the chair back and leaned his chin on them, staring into the fire, and Esther, from her place in the shadows, looked at him unobserved.

Not in the least good-looking, she told herself again, and yet in common fairness she had to admit to herself that there was something about Micky Mellowes that was undeniably attractive.

124

She liked the obstinacy of his chin––she liked the way his hair grew, and the shape of his hands––strong, manly hands they were, in spite of the fact that they had probably never done a day’s useful work in their lives. Of course he was too well dressed. To begin with, there was no need to wear grey spats over his shoes, or to have his trousers so immaculately creased. She forgot that she had liked Ashton to indulge in both these weaknesses.

Micky was whistling a snatch of a love-song under his breath. Esther did not know what it was; she had never heard the melody before, but something in the softly sentimental notes brought the tears to her eyes; before she was aware of it they were tumbling down fast.

June sprang suddenly to her feet.

“Why are we all mooning like this? Micky, give me a match.” She almost snatched the box from him and lit the gas; the yellow flare flooded the room. Micky, glancing at Esther, saw the tears on her cheeks and the way she averted her head.

He scowled and rose to his feet, standing so that his tall figure shielded her.

“Well, I must be getting along,” he said. He pulled out his watch and looked at it, but he never noticed what the time was.

He was thinking of Esther and the tears he had surprised.

“And when are you going to introduce me to this man who is to make my fortune?” June demanded crisply. She was standing on a footstool, trying to see herself in a glass above the mantelshelf.

“Esther, you might have told me what a sight I look! My hair is all over the place.”

“I thought it looked nice,” Esther said hurriedly. She knew Micky had seen her tears, and was silently hating him for it.

Micky answered hesitatingly, “I’ll let you know––I’ll fix it up and let you know. There’s no hurry, is there? I don’t want him to think we are too keen.”

125

“But I am keen,” June insisted. “Wouldn’t you be keen if some one had told you you would be a gold mine, properly handled?” she laughed. “Oh, I forgot! money is no object to you. Well, bide your own time, my dear, but don’t let it be too long.... Must you really go?”

“I’m afraid so; and, June–––”

“Um!” said June, intent on another cigarette.

Micky fidgeted. He looked down at the carpet.

“If you don’t hear anything of me for a few days you’ll know I’m out of London....” He looked at Esther, but she was kneeling down by the fire stroking Charlie.

“Out of London!” June said in surprise. “Where are you going?”

Micky cleared his throat.

“I thought of running over to Paris for a day or two,” he said.

“Paris!” They were both looking at him now. Micky was painfully aware of the eagerness in Esther’s face.

“Yes; I haven’t been since September. Anything I can do for you while I’m there?”

June raised her brows comically.

“Not for me, but perhaps Esther ... Esther has a great friend over there, haven’t you, my child?”

Esther turned crimson from chin to brow.

“Mr. Mellowes is not at all likely to meet any friend of mine,” she said stiffly.

Micky felt horribly sorry for her.

“Don’t be too sure, Miss Shepstone,” he said lightly. “It’s a small world, you know, and it’s the most unexpected things that happen.”

But Esther seemed not to have heard.

126CHAPTER XIII

Micky went to Paris. “No, I shan’t want you, Driver,” he told his man awkwardly. “I’m only going for a day or two. I––er––I shan’t want you,” he said again lamely.

He looked at the man guiltily, but Driver was as impassive as ever. “Very good, sir,” he said. He could not understand what had happened to Micky; as a rule, he refused even to take his own railway ticket or speak to a porter. This new independence worried him.

But Micky went off cheerfully enough. He rang June up at her club the morning he started and told her he was really going. He heard her cheery laugh across the telephone. “Micky, you’re not up to any mischief?”

“As if I should be!” he answered with dignity.

“I wouldn’t trust you,” she said promptly. “However, have a good time, and if you see the phantom lover, you might push him into the Seine for me.”

“I’ll remember,” Micky said grimly. He hesitated. “Everything all right?” he asked.

She echoed his words, not understanding. “Everything all right? Do you mean the swindle? Oh, yes, it’s going fine, thank you. I had another order from those American export people this morning.”

“Good.... And––Miss Shepstone gone?”

“No, she’s going on Saturday. Sickening, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think she’ll stay long,” Micky said soothingly. “It won’t do her any harm to see how she likes it. Well, good-bye.”

He stood for a moment after he had hung up the receiver, staring at it. He wished he had not arranged to go to Paris. Supposing Ashton took it into his head to come back while he was away? Supposing he went home and found Esther there?

127

He tried to believe that it was not at all likely, but at the last moment, as he got into the train and received his ticket from the solemn Driver, Micky said––

“You know where to find me if anything happens––if anything should be the matter?”

“Yes, sir.” Driver raised wooden eyes to his master’s face. “Was you expecting anything to happen, sir?” he asked stolidly.

Micky got red. “No, you fool!”

“Very good, sir,” Driver retorted unmoved.

And so Micky went to Paris. It was dark when he got there, and he drove at once to a small and unpretentious hotel in a narrow side street, where he had never been before, but of which he had heard from Philips.

After all, it was only for a few nights. He did not want to stay in Paris long––Paris always bored him, but he made a little grimace as he looked up at the windows of the hotel. It certainly was a rotten-looking little show, he thought as he followed the concierge into the hall. This, too, was small and unpretentious, with a polished floor and wicker chairs scattered about. There was a kind of winter garden leading from the lounge, where a few neglected palms and ferns were struggling for an existence, and the whole place was silent, almost deserted.

Micky was too late for dinner, but a smiling host, with a short dark beard, assured him that he could have a most excellent supper in less time than he would enumerate of what that supper would consist. Micky said he didn’t care what it was. He followed his suit-case up the wide, shallow stairs to a quaint little room with a low ceiling and polished floor.

He was beginning to feel more at home after all; one could be quiet here and not be eternally running up against people whom one knew; he felt more cheerful when he went down to his supper.

He asked the waiter if there were many people staying there. His tone of voice sounded as if he sincerely hoped128there were not, and the waiter tactfully submitted that the place was almost empty.

Micky proceeded with his supper.

It was nearly ten o’clock, but he went out into the lounge when he had finished and sat down at a table in one of the most secluded corners.

There were pen and ink and a supply of hotel note paper, which Micky looked at with great satisfaction, before he took up a pen, carefully examined the nib, squared his elbows and began to write.

“My darling–––”

Micky wrote the words hurriedly and covered them over with a sheet of blotting paper as if they made him feel guilty.

“I thought I should have been leaving Paris before now, but have been delayed. I shall be staying here till the end of the week and am writing this so that you can let me have a letter before I leave. I hope you have received both my other letters safely, and are quite well and as happy as possible, seeing that we cannot be together–––”

He sat back for a moment and looked at this frowningly, then he wrote on hurriedly.

“I want you to miss me, you see––I want you to feel as I do, that there is only one thing to look forward to and that is when we shall be together again. Dearest, it seems now that I have never really told you how well I love you. Some day, if all that I wish for comes true, I will tell you the many things you would not let me say when we were last together....”

Micky’s pen flew easily enough. For the moment he had forgotten why and for whom he was writing, and thought only of Esther as she had looked when he last saw her with the tears wet on her cheeks.

“Write to me as soon as you get this, so that I may have a letter to take with me when I leave. I shall watch for every post and count the minutes till it comes. I have arranged with my bankers to send the money to you every week. Dearest, if this is not enough, please let me know, and I will send some more....”

129

Micky scratched out the last five words, finally rewriting the whole page to add

“... Let me know and we must see what can be done. I cannot bear to think that you are wanting anything which it is in my power to give you. Tell me all about yourself; if you are well and happy––and how often you think of me. I shall write again soon, perhaps to-morrow ... and till then, and for ever, I am always yours, Micky ....”

He added his own signature without noticing it, then realised what he had done and rewrote the last page in a panic.

Supposing he had sent it!––it made him hot all over to think what would have happened. He would have to be more careful, he told himself severely. He carefully directed the letter and went out to post it, then he went to bed in the little room with the low ceiling and lay awake half the night.

Now the letter had gone he wished he had never sent it; after all, it was cheating Esther. It was not fair to make her write to him; he felt that he had behaved like a cur ... he tossed and turned from side to side. Perhaps she would not write! He almost hoped she would not. When at last he dozed off it was almost daybreak; when he woke it was eleven o’clock and the sunshine was pouring into his room.

He had a bit of a headache and felt wretched; he drank four cups of strong coffee and went out.

He avoided the popular thoroughfares; he sauntered about till lunch time and then went back to the hotel. Apparently the waiter had spoken the truth when he said the place was almost empty, for only two of the twenty tables were occupied beside his own.

Micky felt bored; he made up his mind to tell Philips what he thought of his recommendation when he got back to London. He slept all the afternoon, then dressed and went off to dinner at the hotel where he and Driver stayed when they were last in Paris. Here at least was a welcome; most of the waiters recognised him; the attention130was excellent, and he got a decent dinner. The hotel was full, but though Micky looked suspiciously at every one who came in, he recognised nobody.

He wondered how long he had got to stay in Paris. Esther could not get his letter and send a reply that would arrive in less than three days; he calculated that he could not get back to London before Sunday morning.

And Esther was going to Mrs. Ashton’s on Saturday.

He had just finished his dinner when the swing doors opened and a man came into the room with a lady in evening dress.

Micky looked at them, and his heart began to race––for the man was Raymond Ashton, and the woman, Tubby Clare’s little widow.

Ashton saw Micky at once, and his face fell into almost comical lines of dismay, but he pulled himself together at once and spoke to the woman beside him.

Micky knew Mrs. Clare slightly; he rose and went towards them.

“I heard you were in Paris,” he said. He shook hands with Mrs. Clare; she was rather a pretty little woman, small and plump, with round, meaningless eyes and a friendly smile.

“We’re going to the opera,” Ashton said. “Mrs. Clare is not staying here, but she very kindly consented to come and dine with me. Are you staying here, Micky? When did you come over?”

“Last night; and I’m not staying here. Just dropped in for some grub.”

“You’d better dine with us,” Ashton said, but he did not sound very enthusiastic.

Micky laughed. “Thanks, but I have dined. I was just leaving when you came in.” He thought of Esther, and his face hardened. This was the man of whom she was thinking all day and every day; this man who was131so obviously going to try and marry Tubby Clare’s little widow.

He stood talking to them for a few moments, then excused himself.

“You haven’t told me where you are staying,” Ashton said.

“No––and I’m going away to-morrow anyway.... When are you coming back to town?”

Ashton looked quickly at his companion. “Oh, not yet awhile,” he said.

“I see.” Micky met his eyes steadily. “By the way, I got your letter,” he said after a moment. “You didn’t ask about that letter you gave me. I posted it–––”

Raymond turned crimson. “The letter––oh yes, thanks––thanks, very much. You didn’t take it then?”

“No, I posted it.” Micky’s voice was flinty.

“Er––thanks awfully!” Ashton said again. He twisted his moustache nervously. “I’ll see you some other time,” he said with a rush. “I’ll drop you a line.”

“Right oh!” said Micky laconically.

“I hope I shall see you again too, Mr. Mellowes,” Mrs. Clare said. She thought she was saying the right thing. She thought these two men were friends, and she was sufficiently in love with Raymond to wish to be liked by his friends.

“Thank you, Mrs. Clare,” Micky said stolidly. “But I am going back to London to-morrow; I am afraid I shall have very little time, though I should be delighted, of course–––”

He felt rather sorry for this woman. After all, she was harmless and good natured, she deserved a better fate than to be snapped up by a good-looking fortune-hunter.

He was getting into his coat in the lounge when Ashton came after him. He looked worried and abashed; he asked a hurried question.

“Everything’s all right, eh, Micky?––Lallie, I mean––I132thought from the way you looked just now––she––she’s all right––eh?”

“My dear chap––how should I know? She never answered my letter, though I sent the money, as you wished. I thought you would have heard.”

“I told you I didn’t mean to write––I said that I wanted the whole affair cut out,” Ashton said irritably.

Micky made no response.

“She sure to be all right, anyway,” Ashton said after a moment. “If she hadn’t I should have heard––eh?”

Micky looked at him coolly.

“You rather sound as if you were expecting to hear she’d done something foolish––jumped off Waterloo Bridge or something–––” he said drily.

Ashton laughed. “Well, you never know,” he said heartlessly. “Women are such queer creatures––and Lallie was so excitable; she said more than once that she’d do away with herself––it’s all rot, of course, but ... what did you say?”

“Nothing,” said Micky curtly. “Good-night.” He turned on his heel and went out.

133CHAPTER XIV

Micky stayed in Paris four days; the four longest days of his life.

He wandered about killing time and wishing everything and every one at the bottom of the sea.

It seemed impossible that he had ever managed to have a good time over here––the noise and bustle of the streets got on his nerves; the things that had always amused him before bored him and left him cold; he thought of London with a deadly sort of home-sickness.

Esther did not mean to write to him, he was sure, and in some ways he hoped she would not; he realised that he was playing a mean trick on her, cheating her out of fond words and a love-letter to which he had not the smallest claim.

He tried to salve his conscience by making up his mind to leave on the Monday morning whatever happened; if there was no letter by that time there would never be one. Esther would have gone to Mrs. Ashton’s. It was surprising how much he hated the thought of her being with Raymond’s mother. During the interminable hours when he walked about Paris trying to kill time he thought out all manner of possibilities that might result from this unforeseen contingency. Mrs. Ashton might get fond of Esther––and if she got fond of Esther, well––who knew what might happen in the future in spite of Tubby Clare’s little widow? He had not run across Ashton again, and he sincerely hoped that he would not.

When Monday morning came he packed his portmanteau before he left his room––there would be no letter for him, so he might as well clear out and go home without making a further fool of himself. There was not the least hope in his heart when he went to the bureau134and asked for letters; the reply came as it had done each morning: “Nothing for monsieur....”

Micky turned away. He was half way to the dining-room before it suddenly dawned upon him that they did not know he was expecting letters in the name of Ashton––that he had forgotten to tell them. He went back hurriedly to the bureau.

“Any letters for Ashton?––I am expecting one for a friend of mine of that name....”

He waited breathlessly while the girl sorted through the pigeon-holes on the wall; he felt as if he could hardly breathe when she came back with a grey envelope in her hand.

“Mais oui....” she said smilingly. “I did not know it was for monsieur....”

Mickey almost snatched it from her; he had not even glanced at the writing, but he knew it must be from Esther. He sat down at the breakfast table with his thoughts in a whirl; he was sure that the waiter must know how excited he felt. He ordered coffee and rolls before he opened the envelope; he laid it down on the cloth beside him and stared at it very much as a sentimental girl might stare at her first love-letter, hesitating to open it, wishing to prolong the ultimate delight.

Finally he cut it open carefully and drew out the contents. His pulses were racing, he did not know if shame or delight were the greatest emotion in his heart; he glanced at the first two words and the blood rushed to his face.

It seemed almost sacrilege to read what she had written to the man she loved––he pushed the paper back into its envelope––he did not look at it again till he had finished his pretence of a meal, then he took it out with him into the rather dingy winter garden and sat down in the quietest corner he could find.

There he faced the greatest moment of his life; as to whether he should go on with this thing or wipe it out of his life once and for all.

135

Ashton had done with Esther; he was as sure of that as he was sure that Ashton meant to marry Mrs. Clare. This being so, was it wrong of him to try and give Esther some happiness in place of what she had lost? She had refused to marry him––she had said that she could never care for him; could he hope to make her change her mind? In his heart he was sure that he could; he wanted her so badly that it seemed to him as if the very force of his desire must compel some return from her.

He sat staring down the dismal garden with moody eyes. He knew it was a big risk; he thought of her as he had first seen her and as he had last seen her. He had never once really thought that she looked happy––she had never quite lost the shadow in her eyes or the droop to her lips which he had at first noticed, and he wanted her to be happy. He wanted her happiness far more than he wanted his own.

He took the letter from his pocket and looked at the address on the envelope. “Raymond Ashton, Esq....”

He hated the sight of that name––some day Esther would hate it too, when she knew how he had deceived her.

It was a great risk––but ...

“I’ll chance it,” said Mickey under his breath, and drew out the letter again.

“My Darling Boy,––You can never know how glad and happy I was to get your letter to-night and to know that I can really write to you at last. I have been so miserable during these weeks in spite of all your goodness––and you have been good. It makes me feel mean and ungrateful now when I remember how horrid I often was to you before you went away. When you come back I will make it all up to you, and show you how nice I really can be, because I do love you––I have never loved any one but you. Thank you so much for the money you have sent me––I was very much down on my luck when it came. They haven’t a vacancy for me just now at Eldred’s, or else they did not want me back, and I am going to try and find another berth. I am living in a new boarding-house, as you will see; it’s ever so much nicer than the Brixton Road, and I shall be able to stay on now you are so generously sending me money. I have made a nice friend136here, too, a girl named June Mason––she tells me that she knows your mother, and you, too!––I did not let her know how well I knew you, dear, as I thought perhaps you would rather I said nothing about it. She has a man friend who sometimes comes to see her––a Mr. Mellowes––she thinks the world of him, but I think he is detestable....”

Mickey caught his breath hard. After a moment he went on reading:

“June tells me he is very rich, and quite a ‘somebody,’ but I cannot see anything out of the ordinary about him, and he isn’t a bit good looking. He knows you, too––but he does not say much about you. Dearest, it seems such a long time since I saw you––and I cannot help wondering if you really miss me and want me as much as I want you.... Sometimes I would give just anything to lay my head on your shoulder and say how much I love you. I’m very lonely, really; though June is so kind she isn’t any one of my very own, is she? And now I wonder if you will be very angry with me if I ask you something? I don’t think I should have dared to, only your last letters have been so dear and kind. Raymond, why can’t I come out to you and be with you? We could get married, and we should be ever so happy even if we have to be poor––at least, I know I could, and from your letters, somehow I think it sounds as if you, too, have realised that there isn’t much happiness away from me. I have had the offer of a good post––I won’t tell you what it is, as I want it to be a surprise to you if I do take it. But if you would like me to come, I will just leave everything and come to you. Couldn’t you send me a wire when you get this letter? I shall be longing and waiting to hear from you. I am a little bit afraid in my heart, really, now I have written this, but your last letter is lying beside me, and I keep peeping at it and reading what you say there, and somehow I feel that it’s going to be all right.––With all my love for ever and ever,Lallie.

With all my love for ever and ever,Lallie.

Mickey sat there staring down at her signature a long time after he had reached the end.

Then he moved slowly as if it cost him an effort. He was rather pale now, and there was a hard line round his mouth. So that was how she thought of him! Somehow he had not imagined how much it would hurt to read the fond words and to know all the time that they were written to another man. And to a man so unworthy! He thought of Ashton as he had seen him137three nights ago with Mrs. Clare; of his callous questioning about Esther; of his almost brutal remarks, and it made his blood boil.

He could picture her so well––waiting for a wire that would never come.

He hated Ashton at that moment. His brows almost met above his eyes in a scowl as he went up to the bureau and asked for his bill. The smiling French girl sobered a little meeting his gaze; for once she did not dare to smile or dimple; she gave him his account silently.

“Ah, but they are funny, these English;” she told her father afterwards. “To-day he had no smile, the tall monsieur––not even one little smile!”

She watched Micky across the lounge with interested eyes as he sat down at one of the tables and proceeded to write a letter. It took him a long time, and twice she saw that he tore up what he had written and flung it into the wastepaper basket, but at last he had finished, and getting up, stalked away.

Celeste ventured out then––there was nobody about, and tiptoeing across the lounge, took the torn papers from the paper-basket. They were torn across and across, but on one or two slips the writing was visible, and she carried them back with her to the shelter of the bureau.

She spread them out on the desk before her, carefully piecing them together. She knew English quite well, and she soon made out one sentence:––

“It is not that I do not love you––I have never loved you better than at this moment––but....”

Celeste was sentimental. She gave a big sigh of sympathy for the big Englishman. “No wonder he has no smile!” she told herself. “C’est si triste!”

138CHAPTER XV

It was raining and miserable when Micky arrived in London. The roads were wet and slippery, and every taxi and omnibus splashed pedestrians with mud.

Micky shivered as he stood waiting while a porter lugged his traps down from the rack. He had felt depressed in Paris, but now London seemed a thousand times worse. The sight of Driver waiting on the platform annoyed him. He answered the man’s stolid greeting snappishly. He had wanted to come home, and yet now he was here he wished himself a thousand miles away. He leaned back in a corner of the taxi and shut his eyes.

The last four days had got on his nerves; Esther’s letter in his pocket was like an eternal reproach.

Why had he come back at all? She did not want him––nobody wanted him in the whole forsaken world. The silence of his flat seemed a thing to be dreaded in his present mood. Driver’s inscrutable face would, he felt, drive him mad. With sudden impulse he leaned forward and called to the chauffeur, “Stop––I’ve changed my mind––drive me back to the Savoy....”

There would be life there, at any rate––life and people and music––something to make a man forget the depression that sat like a ton weight on his shoulders.

He felt utterly at a loose end; he stalked moodily into the lounge. There were many people there, girls in pretty dinner frocks, with their attendant cavaliers. Micky glanced at none of them, till suddenly a girl who had been sitting on a couch listening rather listlessly to the conversation of a youth beside her, rose to her feet when she saw Micky, the hot colour flying to her cheeks.

For a moment she hesitated, waiting for him to look139at her, to speak––but Micky had stalked by without turning his eyes, and after the barest second she followed and touched his arm.

“Micky....” she said breathlessly, and again “Micky,” with an odd little catch in her voice.

Micky turned as if he had been shot, then stopped dead, colouring up to the roots of his hair, for the girl was Marie Deland.

She smiled tremulously, reading the distress in his eyes.

“I thought I was never going to see you any more,” she said. She tried hard to speak casually, but her voice quivered a little. “Where have you been hiding all this time, Micky?”

Micky stammered out that he really didn’t know––that he’d only just come back from Paris––that he did call to see her one night, but that they told him she wasn’t in. She broke in there impetuously––

“I know; I’m so sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I was there all the time. Mother–––” She stopped, biting her lip, but there was no need to explain further. Micky could well imagine that it was by Mrs. Deland’s orders that the butler had said “Not at home.”

His heart was full of remorse as he looked down at Marie. Such a little while ago he had thought of her as his wife. He had fully meant to marry her.

He broke out again agitatedly––

“I know you must think I’m an awful sweep. I––I––oh, I can’t explain.” He glanced past her to where the rather vapid-looking youth to whom she had been speaking sat tugging at an incipient moustache.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again. “Who are you with?”

She told him that she was with her married sister and some friends.

“We’re going to have dinner here,” she said. She was longing to ask Micky to dine with them, but was obviously afraid to do so.

140

After a moment––

“I suppose I ought to be going,” she said. “Violet will wonder where I am, Micky.” She looked up at him with abashed eyes. “I––I suppose––you wouldn’t––will you come out to tea with me to-morrow?”

Micky’s face reflected the flush in her own; he looked away in miserable embarrassment. He knew that she felt the same towards him as she had done before that memorable New Year’s Eve, and he knew that whatever happened now he could never feel the same to her any more.

He answered that he would be pleased, very pleased. Where should he meet her––or should he call for her?

“I’ll meet you,” she said quickly. “You know where we always used to go––I’ll be there at four, Micky.”

She put out her hand and Micky was forced to take it; he felt how her fingers shook in his, and he cursed himself for a brute as he turned away and left her.

In a way he was glad they had met. Any other woman would have given him the snubbing which he knew he so richly deserved. Deep down in his heart he wished that she had done so; anything would have been easier to meet than this trembling overture of friendship. He knew that the little abashed expression in Marie’s dark eyes could only mean one thing, that he had cut her to the soul and that she still cared for him.

He left the Savoy without having any dinner; he went back to his rooms, where the imperturbable Driver was brushing and refolding his master’s clothes. It had almost broken Driver’s heart to see the way in which Micky had packed his things; he raised eyes of wooden reproach as Micky entered the room.

There was a pile of letters on the table. Micky flicked them through carelessly; nothing of interest––a few bills and a good many invitations; nothing from Esther––not even a note from June.

He sat down by the fire and proceeded to cut the many envelopes open. He kept thinking of Marie and141wondering if it would be kinder not to meet her to-morrow, after all; if he could possibly write her a note that would tactfully explain the situation.

He just glanced at each of the notes as he opened them, and let them drop to the carpet at his feet. They could be answered later; there was nothing of importance, nothing he ... his attention was arrested:––

“Dear Mr. Mellowes,––I wonder if it will be asking too much of you to come round and see me one afternoon for half an hour?––Yours sincerely,Laura Ashton.”

“Dear Mr. Mellowes,––I wonder if it will be asking too much of you to come round and see me one afternoon for half an hour?––

Yours sincerely,Laura Ashton.”

Micky glanced quickly at the address at the top of the paper––it was from Raymond’s mother.

What in the world could she want with him, he wondered blankly. He looked across at Driver.

“This note––the one that came by hand––when did it come?” he asked.

Driver replied that it had been there for two days. He waited a moment, then went on brushing Micky’s coat.

Micky felt rather disturbed.

Raymond’s mother! What in the wide world could she want with him? Supposing it were anything to do with Esther ...

He wrote a note in reply at once and said he would call the following afternoon; he could just look in early for half an hour and go on afterwards to meet Marie; it was strange how he dreaded both these appointments.

He felt ridiculously nervous when he reached Mrs. Ashton’s house. For the first time it occurred to him that possibly Esther would be here too.

He was kept waiting some minutes in the drawing room––minutes during which he wandered restlessly about staring at the pictures and the photographs.

There were many portraits of Raymond––Raymond at all stages of his chequered career, smiling and handsome. Micky turned his back on them with a feeling of disgust.

142

The door opened behind him, and, turning sharply, he found himself face to face with Mrs. Ashton.

She came forward with outstretched hand.

“This is kind of you, Mr. Mellowes. I did not know you had been away till I got your note this morning. I was wondering why I had had no reply to mine.”

Micky blurted out that he had been in Paris––that he only came back yesterday evening.

Mrs. Ashton’s face changed a little.

“Paris! Have you been with that son of mine?” she asked sharply.

Micky coloured. “I met him––quite by chance, though. We were not together more than a few minutes.”

She smiled rather ironically.

“Have you got tired of him at last, then?” she asked. She moved over to the fire. She looked back at Micky quizzically. “I have often wondered how you put up with his friendship so long, Mr. Mellowes,” she added rather sadly.

Micky felt embarrassed. He had always liked Mrs. Ashton. He stammered out that he and Raymond had always been very good friends.

She drew her chair a little closer to the fire.

“Very well––then, perhaps, you will be kind enough to answer a question I am going to ask you. Mr. Mellowes, what was the name of that girl at Eldred’s whom Raymond was always about with before Christmas?”

The question was so unexpected that Micky was utterly taken aback. Before he was aware of it he had told a lie.

“I don’t know––at least, he always spoke of her as ‘Lallie.’ I never once saw him with her, Mrs. Ashton––he never introduced me to her.”

She looked rather incredulous.

“And yet you were such friends,” she said.

Micky coloured.

“Our tastes were not always identical,” he said rather stiffly. “I am not very interested in women, and he–––”

143

“And he is,” she finished for him. “There is no need to tell me that––I know my son. So you cannot tell me the name of this girl? I had hoped that you would be able to do so.”

Micky met her eyes unflinchingly.

“I dare say I could find out,” he said. “If she is still at Eldred’s.”

“She is not there.” Mrs. Ashton looked up at Micky with an anxious line between her handsome eyes. “Mr. Mellowes, I have always prided myself on my sense of justice, and somehow lately I have got an uncomfortable feeling that when I forbade Raymond to have anything more to do with that girl it would have been better if I had advised her to have nothing more to do with him. He is my son, and perhaps it seems strange for me to speak about him like that, but you cannot have been friends with him all these months without finding him out, so I need not apologise. Raymond is just his father over again....” She paused, and a painful little smile curved her lips.

She looked at Micky rather pathetically. “There is no need for me to say any more, is there?” she asked.

Micky did not answer. He had heard many stories about Raymond’s father, all more or less unsavoury, and he knew that from all accounts Mrs. Ashton had been greatly to be pitied during his lifetime.

“So if you can’t help me in this,” she went on presently, “I am afraid I have brought you here for nothing. I want to find out who this girl is, and see her for myself.” She paused, but Micky’s face was inscrutable.

In his heart he was convinced that she did not believe him, but he had no intention of telling her Esther’s name; he longed to know if Esther were in the house, but, of course, it was impossible to ask.

It almost seemed as if Mrs. Ashton could read his thoughts, for she said suddenly––

144

“Do you know, Mr. Mellowes, that I am going to have a companion?”

Micky echoed her last word vacantly.

“Companion?––I––er....”

“Yes, a girl,” Mrs. Ashton went on; “I have always envied people with daughters; a daughter is so much more to a mother than a son; but as I was not fortunate enough to have one of my own I am going to try having a companion. Raymond will be annoyed, I dare say––he has always pooh-poohed the idea when I have mentioned it to him, but now–––” she shrugged her shoulders and sighed impatiently. “Well, he can no longer object, I think, seeing that he is to be married himself....”

Micky made a little quick movement, almost knocking over a vase of flowers standing at his elbow; he recovered himself with an effort.

“Married?” he said. “Why, I thought....” he broke off. “He did not say anything about it to me when I met him in Paris,” he said lamely.

“No?” Her handsome eyes searched his agitated face critically. “Well, he is to be married all the same,” she said. “I heard from him only this morning. He is engaged to Tom Clare’s widow––Tubby Clare, I believe he was always called.”

145CHAPTER XVI

When Micky left Mrs. Ashton he raced off to meet Marie.

She was looking quite her prettiest, in dark furs with a bunch of violets in the breast of her coat, but Micky would not have noticed if she had been shabby, his thoughts were elsewhere. He did not even see that she wore the bracelet he had given her for a Christmas present, or remember that he had once told her violets were his favourite flowers.

He apologised breathlessly for being late.

“I had an appointment,” he explained. “Raymond’s mother; she wrote and asked me to call this afternoon.” He hesitated, then added, “Did you know that Raymond is going to be married? Oh, but, of course, you cannot know, as Mrs. Ashton only knew this morning.”

Marie’s dark eyes opened; like most women, she loved to hear of an engagement or marriage.

“Really?” she said. “At last!––not to––surely not to that little girl at Eldred’s?”

Micky flushed angrily. Did every one know about Esther? he asked himself savagely. He answered shortly that it was to Mrs. Clare, Tubby Clare’s little widow.

Marie looked amazed.

“But we all thought–––” she said, then stopped, remembering that Micky and Raymond had been great friends. “I hope he’ll be happy,” she said lamely.

Micky laughed shortly.

“I don’t,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to be.”

She made no comment.

There was an excited flush in her cheeks, and a nervous note in her voice when she spoke; it was like old times146to be here with him again, until she met his eyes across the little table, and then it seemed as if she were looking into the face of a stranger, a man who was like Micky––enough like him to hurt, and yet not Micky at all.

She aroused herself to amuse him. Micky had always told her she cheered him up in the old days, but this afternoon he answered her in monosyllables, and she saw with bitter mortification how often he looked at the clock. At last she was driven to remark on it.

“Micky, are you in a hurry to get away?”

She asked the question lightly, but there was a strained note in her voice.

Micky did not look at her.

“No––no, not at all,” he said hurriedly. “But I suppose we ought to be moving soon....” There was a little pause. “It’s been nice seeing you again,” he added with an effort.

She sat staring down at her plate. Her pretty colour had faded; she was very pale, and she bit her lip hard to hide its trembling.

Suddenly she looked up at him.

“Micky––may I ask you a question?...”

“A hundred if you like.”

She picked up a teaspoon and twisted it nervously. Micky watched her with apprehension; he knew what was coming, and his heart sank.

If only she would be content to leave things as they were; if only she would accept the friendship he was willing to give and close the book of the past for ever.

He did not understand that it was because she cared for him so much that at the risk of losing her self-respect and pride she must ask him for the truth, must know ...

He heard her catch her breath, then suddenly she spoke:

“Micky ... why was it? What have I done?”

There was a quiver in her voice that set him on edge;147he could not stand the sound of unhappiness in any woman’s voice, and he had once thought he loved Marie....

He answered without looking at her, realising that it was kinder to tell the truth out and have done with it.

“I meant to have written to you––I hope some day you will try and forgive me, but ... but....” He could not go on for the life of him, but he had said enough, and he knew that she understood.

“You mean ... you mean that there is some one else?” she asked with stiff lips.

“Yes.” He looked at her white, stricken face, and felt himself a brute.

It seemed an eternity before she could steady her voice enough to speak.

“Is it––is it some one I know?”

“No, dear,” said Micky very gently. “It isn’t any one you have ever seen–––”

She picked up her big muff suddenly and held it so that her face was hidden; the little word of endearment that had escaped Micky’s lips had almost broken her down. This was the end of all she had ever hoped for, and for the moment she could not choke the anguish in her heart.

The following silence seemed unending; then she looked round for her gloves, and put them on, buttoning them with shaking fingers.

“I am ready if you are,” she said. She did not look at him, but it felt like dying to walk beside him out of the shop and into the cold air and know that perhaps this was the last time they would ever be alone, he and she. Once her steps faltered a little, and Micky put out his hand to steady her, but she drew away from him.

“Please don’t,” she said in a whisper.

There was a taxi waiting at the roadside, and Micky called to the man. There was a slight cold drizzle of148rain falling as he held open the door. He would have followed but she stopped him. “I should like to go alone, if you don’t mind.”

He looked up, and for a moment he saw her face in the light of the taxi lamp; such a white, quivering face it was.

“Marie!...” said Micky in a choked voice, but she waved him away.

He stood there on the kerb till the taxi had whirled out of sight, and once again he asked himself desperately if it were all worth while, if he were not throwing away the real thing for a chimera.

There was probably a no more unhappy man in London at that moment than Micky Mellowes.

Back to Index Next