242CHAPTER XXIX
A long moment of silence followed Micky’s broken confession. He dared not look at Esther, though she was staring at him, staring hard, with a curious sort of wonderment in her grey eyes. Then all at once she began to laugh, a laugh which held no real mirth, only incredulity.
Micky raised his head sharply.
For a second they stared at one another; then Micky said hoarsely––
“You don’t believe me”; and then again, more slowly: “You mean that you––don’t believe––me?”
He half rose to his feet.
“Esther, I implore you.”
She moved back from him.
“It was clever of you––to think of such an excuse,” she said unevenly.
“It’s the truth; I swear it if I never speak again. I know now that I must have been out of my mind to attempt such a thing, but it has only seemed impossible since you showed me how little you thought of me. I wrote those letters––every one of them. I–––”
In the excitement of the moment neither of them had noticed that the train had reached its destination and was slowly stopping.
A voluble porter had already wrenched open the door and was imploring monsieur to accept his services; it was impossible to say any more to Esther.
Micky followed her out on to the platform; he felt that the last shred of his patience and tenderness had been killed.
She did not believe him––whatever he said she would243never believe him; it was useless to waste his breath; he might as well give up and let her go her own way; perhaps a sharp lesson would teach her better and more quickly than all his love had been able to do.
He was dispirited and hungry, and hunger alone makes a man angry. He looked at the girl for whose sake he had raced all these miles of wild-goose chase, and a boorish longing to hurt her, to let her suffer rose in his heart.
Let her go to Ashton and see for herself the sort of man he was.
He spoke with savage impulse.
“I won’t bother you with my unwelcome company any longer. You will be able to get breakfast in the restaurant, and you will find that most people here understand English.... Good-bye–––”
Esther gave a little gasp––
“You’re not going to leave me?”
The hardness of his eyes did not soften.
“You are not trying to tell me that you wish me to stay, surely?” he submitted drily.
She raised her head.
“Certainly not; after all, it’s your own fault you came.”
He did not answer, perhaps he could not trust himself; he raised his hat and turned away unseeingly, and Esther clutched her suit-case tightly and walked away with her head in the air, trying to look as if she knew every inch of the Gare St. Lazare and had been there thousands of times before.
But her heart was beating up in her throat, and she would have given a great deal, had it been compatible with dignity, to rush after him and beg him to stay.
She wandered out of the station, not knowing where to go, Raymond seemed to have faded into the background; she only thought of him subconsciously; it was the figure of Micky Mellowes that worried her––she could not forget him.
Supposing he had really written those letters? “But244he didn’t,” she told herself in an agony. “I know he didn’t.”
She took one of the letters from her suit-case and stared at the handwriting––Raymond’s writing. The whole thing was too preposterous.
She did not know what she meant to do, or where she meant to go; it no longer seemed that she had come here for any specific purpose.
The early morning greyness and chilliness had faded; the sun had risen and cleared away the mists.
She found herself in some gardens where an elderly man was feeding sparrows; she sat down on a bench and watched him.
It seemed years ago that she went down to Enmore with June––since she sat in the little inn with Micky and heard those two men talking.
The hot blood beat into her cheeks as she remembered something that for the moment she had forgotten––that Raymond Ashton was married!
The man gave the sparrows his last crumbs and went away. The little brown birds came hopping to Esther’s feet, looking up at her with bright, eager eyes, as if expecting her to supply a further meal.
The sun faded and went in, and a few drops of rain came pattering down. She rose and began to walk on slowly. The light suit-case seemed to have grown heavy since yesterday.
At the back of her mind was the frightened knowledge that she was alone in Paris; that she had nobody to turn to now that Micky had deserted her; but as yet it was only in the background. Raymond was somewhere, perhaps quite close; but she no longer felt that she wanted to go to him.
Further on she found another bench sheltered under some trees and sat down again; she opened the suit-case and took out a bundle of Micky’s letters ... Micky’s! No, Raymond’s.... Oh, whose letters were they?
245
She opened the one that had been written from the hotel in Paris. Its fond words seemed to take on a new meaning....
“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....”
The one sentence caught her eye. She wondered that she had never before thought how unlike Raymond this was. Why was it she had not realised before that Raymond could never have written this?
Somewhere in the distance a church clock chimed; Esther found herself mechanically counting the bells––nine, ten, eleven! All those hours since Micky had left her at the station.
She was cold and hungry, but it did not seem to matter; she felt there was a great, unanswered question in her mind which she must settle.
She rose and walked on again; she turned out of the gardens and found herself in a street of shops. People looked at her curiously.
Hardly knowing that she did so, she stopped and looked in at a jeweller’s window; there were trays of precious stones. She felt her own ring beneath the glove––she had worn it so long now, she wondered how she would feel when she had to take it off. Of course, she could not go on wearing it if Raymond was really married.
Micky had once gone into a pond on a bitter night to save a kitten from drowning; she wondered what made her remember that.
The man who could save a drowning kitten would never hurt a woman so that she could hardly think or feel; June had claimed for Micky that he was the best man in the world.
“But I don’t believe in him––I don’t believe anything he says,” Esther told herself feverishly; she moved on again away from the trays of flashing diamonds.
246
Two girls passing her were chattering in French––Esther looked after them vaguely.
This was really Paris––this rather noisy, confusing place; the Paris she had longed to see.
A man passing stared at her, half stopped, went on again, then turned, paused irresolutely, and finally came back.
He walked quickly till he drew abreast with her, and there was a curious eagerness in his face as he stooped a little to look down at hers; then he gave an exclamation of sheer amazement.
“Lallie! Good heavens! What in the world are you doing here?”
It was Raymond Ashton.
247CHAPTER XXX
And so the dream had come true after all, and she and Raymond were together in Paris.
As she looked up into his handsome face it seemed to Esther that all the past hours of grief were as if they had never really existed; he was smiling down at her in the same old way; the very tone of his voice awoke forgotten memories in her heart; she felt as if a gnawing pain which had allowed her no rest had suddenly been lulled to sleep.
“I thought it must be you,” Raymond was saying nervously. “And yet I could not be sure. Somehow I never thought of you and Paris as being in any way compatible, and yet–––” He broke off; it had been on the tip of his tongue to say that she had never looked sweeter or more desirable.
His overwhelming conceit suddenly woke the wish in his heart to know if she still cared, or if she had forgotten him, and a little flush crossed his face and his eyes grew tender as they met the tragedy of hers; he looked hastily round.
“We can’t talk here. Will you come to a café? There is so much I should like to say to you. When did you come over? What are you doing here?”
They were walking slowly along, the man’s head bent ardently towards her.
He had once told Micky that this girl was the only woman he had ever loved, and perhaps it was right––as he accounted love.
He took her to a café––one where there would be nobody likely to recognise him; he ordered coffee and biscuits.
248
“Now we can talk undisturbed,” he said; he moved his chair closer to Esther’s––he laid his hand on hers.
She did not move or try to evade his touch; she just looked down at his hand for a moment and then up at the handsome face which had for so long meant all the world to her.
“I never thought we should meet again here of all places,” he said in his soft voice. “How long ago does it seem to you since we said good-bye?”
She could not answer, but the thought floated through her mind that they never had said good-bye, that he had just walked out of her life and stayed away until this moment, when fate had thrown them together.
“If you knew how often I have thought about you,” he said.
“Did you get my letter, Lallie? The one I wrote on New Year’s Eve––and the money? I sent you some money.”
A swift flush dyed her cheeks; she raised her eyes.
That had been his letter then, after all––Micky had lied to her; she caught her breath on a little gasp.
“Yes,” she said faintly. “Yes––yes, I got it––thank you.”
“I’ve often thought since that I might have written you a kinder letter,” he said after a moment. “But everything had gone wrong then––the mater cut up rough––and I was up to my eyes in debt. It was the best thing for both of us to put an end to it, don’t you think it was? You used to say that you wouldn’t mind being poor, but in the end you’d have hated it as much as I should.” He paused as if expecting her to speak, but she was plucking at the blue-and-white fringe of the tablecloth with nervous fingers.
What did he mean––that he might have written her a kinder letter––when she always remembered it as one of the dearest she had ever received?
He went on again––
249
“It hurt me more than you’ll ever know.” There was a sort of self-satisfaction in his voice. “It took me a long time to forget you, Lallie, and then, just as I was beginning, I saw you at the theatre––in the stalls ... with Mellowes.” His brows met above his handsome eyes. “Mellowes wasn’t long picking you up,” he added jealously.
Her lip quivered, but she did not raise her eyes.
“You saw me, too, didn’t you?” he persisted. “I know you did, because Mellowes came round afterwards and cursed me to all eternity.” He laughed. “I should have made a point of seeing you the next day if it hadn’t been for his confounded interference,” he went on. “He told me to get out of London and leave you alone.” He bent towards her a little. “What is Mellowes to you?” he asked her deliberately.
She raised her eyes now, and somehow it seemed as if, in the last few moments, the man she had known and loved had changed into a stranger––some one whom she had never seen before, whom she hoped never to see again.
She forced her lips to smile; she felt at that moment she would die rather than let him see how she was suffering, or guess how she had suffered in the past.
“He’s been kind to me,” she said voicelessly. “That’s all.”
Raymond made a little, inarticulate sound.
“He’s got me to thank for ever getting to know you,” he said. “I gave him your address and asked him to take you out a bit if he fancied it.... I asked him to be kind to you.”
The hands in her lap twitched convulsively.
“If I’d had one tenth of his beastly money,” Raymond said then savagely, “we shouldn’t be sitting here now as if we were strangers––as if ... Lallie––do you remember the good time we used to have–––”
“I remember everything.” He bent closer.
250
“I never cared for any woman in all my life but you. It’s cursed hard luck.” He sighed. “You know I’m married?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh yes!” The words came stiffly.
His eyes searched her white face jealously.
“You don’t seem to care. I’ve often wondered if you knew––and if you minded!” He sat staring before him, and there was a little smile in his eyes. “We do things in style now, I can tell you,” he said with sudden change of voice. “She’s as rich as you please, and she likes to spend her money.” Another silence.
“I hope you’ll be happy,” Esther said faintly.
Afterwards she wondered what made her say it, seeing that she did not care in the very least if he were happy or not; why should she care? This man was a stranger to her.
He laughed ruefully.
“Oh, I suppose we shall,” he said. “She’s not a bad sort, and she lets me alone....” He roused himself suddenly and bent closer to her. “Lallie––you’ll let me see you again. There’s no reason why we can’t be––friends––just because I’m married–––” He tried to take her hand, but now she repulsed him, though very gently.
“You’re not going to be a little prude?” he said in a whisper. “I can give you the time of your life if you’ll let me. I’ve plenty of money now–––”
“Your wife’s money,” said Esther with stiff lips.
He looked annoyed.
“If you like to put it that way––but she doesn’t mind––she’s too fond of me to mind how much I spend ... Lallie–––” She hated to hear that name, because once she had loved it.
She closed her eyes for a moment with a little sick shudder.
“Are you faint?” he asked anxiously. “I suppose it is warm in here. Take your coat off! Jove! that’s a fine coat–––” He ran an appreciative hand down the251soft fur sleeve; a sudden suspicion crept into his eyes. “Who gave you that?” he asked sharply. “Not Mellowes–––?”
“No––at least....” She could not go on. Micky had given it to her, she knew, but she would have bitten her tongue through rather than have told this man.
It had been Micky all the time––Micky....
She thrust the thought of him from her; she did not want to think of him now. There would be plenty of time later on; plenty of time when she had shaken off the last rag of the past.
“It cost a pretty penny, whoever bought it,” he said sulkily. “What else has he given you? If you can take presents from him you can’t refuse to let me see you sometimes, and after all––you did love me once.... Esther, do you remember the way you cried that last day?”
“Yes,” she said mechanically, “I remember; I remember everything.”
“You loved me well enough then,” he reminded her moodily. “You didn’t behave like an iceberg then, Lallie, and I’m not really changed; I’m the same man I was––I care for you just as much–––”
“You’re married!” she said.
She felt as if she had so much time mapped out before her during which she must put up with this man’s society; as if each moment were another inch torn in the rags of disillusionment which had got to be destroyed thoroughly before she could ever hope to gather up the broken threads of her life again.
He laughed at her reminder.
“I’m not the only married man who sometimes forgets that he is no longer a bachelor,” he said detestably.
He laid an arm familiarly along the back of her chair. He touched her chin with his fingers.
She moved back, the hot blood rushing riotously over her face. She was white no longer; she looked like a marble Galatea suddenly brought to life.
252
Raymond Ashton laughed, well pleased. He was confident that he had not lost his power over her. For the moment his appalling vanity blinded him to the fact that it was not love in her eyes, but scorn.
“What are you thinking, Lallie?” he asked her.
She sat very straight and stiff in her chair.
“I am thinking,” she said, “how impossible it seems that I can ever have thought that I cared for you.” Her voice was low but very clear, and he heard each word distinctly. “I am thinking that you are the most contemptible thing I have ever met in my life––I am thinking how sorry I am for the woman who is your wife.”
She pushed back her chair and rose.
“Would you like to hear any more of my thoughts?” she asked.
Ashton had risen too; there was a look of bewildered amazement in his face; he tried to laugh. Even now he thought she was joking.
“Lallie––” he said hoarsely. He half held his hand to her. “Lallie––” he said again––but the cold contempt of her face struck the appeal from her lips.
He drew himself up with a poor attempt at dignity.
“So virtue is to be the order of the day, is it?” he said sneeringly. “Very well–––” His eyes flamed as they rested on her face. “It makes one wonder why you are here––in Paris––alone!” he said insultingly––“If you are alone.”
There was a little point of silence. For a moment Esther scanned his handsome face as if she were trying to remember what it was she had ever loved in him––his eyes!––but they were so cruel and insolent––his lips ... she shuddered, realising that in all her life she could never undo the memory of his kisses––then she pulled herself together with a great effort and turned away.
He followed. His amazement had gone now––he was merely furiously angry––his face was crimson––he caught her arm in a grip that hurt.
253
“My God, you’re not going like this,” he said furiously. “It’s only a few weeks ago that you were crying round my neck and begging me not to throw you over. Oh, that hurts, does it?” he said as she winced. “I dare say you’d like all that wiped out and forgotten. But I’ve got a few letters to remember you by––a few letters that would hardly make pleasant reading for the next man who is fool enough to waste his time on you––and I promise you I’ll send them along if it’s Mellowes or any other man–––”
She raised triumphant eyes to his face.
“He wouldn’t read them,” she said passionately. “Send them if you like; but he wouldn’t read them–––” She was not conscious of the admission in her words––she only knew that the knowledge that Micky was there somewhere in the background gave her the strength to defy Ashton.
She saw the sudden fury that filled his eyes.
“Then––then you admit that it’s Mellowes,” he stammered. “That it’s he who has taken my place––who has cut me out–––” His voice changed to a sort of threat.
“I might have know what he meant to do. I might have guessed. Wait till I see him––wait till I get back to London.”
Esther smiled––a little smile of security and confidence.
“There is no need to wait,” she said quietly. “Mr. Mellowes is here in Paris with me, if you wish to see him.”
254CHAPTER XXXI
Ashton echoed Esther’s words hoarsely.
“Here! With you! in Paris!... Micky–––”
A wave of bitterest jealousy surged through him. He fell back a step, struck dumb by the force of his emotions, and Esther fled away from him down the street.
She seemed to have awakened all at once to her true position. She was alone, with only a few shillings in her pocket and in a strange city.
She was tired to death. She felt as if her limbs would give way beneath her. The driver of a fiacre looked at her and drew his horse to the kerb.
Esther nodded; she threw her suit-case on to the seat and clambered in after it.
But where to go? The old blinding fear of her loneliness rushed back. Where could she go?
Then she suddenly remembered the hotel from which Micky had written to her. She would go there. It would be somewhere at least to sleep and rest.
It was only a little drive to the hotel; she wished it had been longer.
A commissionaire came forward, and said something in French. She looked up at him, but his face seemed all indistinct and unreal. She tried to answer, but her own voice sounded as if it were miles away.
They were in the small, rather dreary lounge. Esther passed a hand across her eyes. She must conquer this absurd weakness. She forced herself to remember that she was alone, but she felt as if she had no will-power left.
A door in front of her opened suddenly, and a man came into the lounge.
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When he saw Esther he stopped. The hot colour rushed to his face. He seemed to be waiting for some sign from her. For a moment their eyes met; then, hardly knowing what she did, Esther held out her hand.
“Oh, please,” she said faintly, “oh, please tell me––what I am to do?”
But for the next few minutes she was past remembering anything, though she never really lost consciousness. She only knew that everything was all right now Micky was here––and the sheer relief the knowledge brought with it for the time threw her into a sort of apathy.
Some one took off her hat and the big fur coat that had grown so heavy; some one had bathed her face and unlaced her shoes, and now Micky stood there looking down at her with eyes that hurt, though they smiled.
“I’ve told them to bring lunch in here,” he went on. “You’ll like it better than the public room––and I haven’t had mine yet.”
Esther looked up at him.
“And can we––can we go back to London to-day?” she asked.
“We can go any time you like,” he said.
He felt he had aged years during that morning. No sooner had Esther got out of his sight at the station than he was beside himself with remorse for having allowed her to go; he had spent the whole morning wandering about looking for her. He had been to this hotel a dozen times; he had only just come in again when she followed.
The relief of having her safely in his charge once more was almost more than he could bear. He walked over to the door, then stopped and looked back at her.
“You won’t ... you won’t run away from me again, will you?” he asked. For the first time there was real emotion in his voice.
Esther had been sitting looking into the fire; she raised her head now.
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“Don’t go,” she said tremulously. “Please don’t go. I want to speak to you.”
He flushed crimson, he tried to make some excuse.
“Another time.... You’re tired. I’ll come back presently. You ought to get some rest if we’re to go back to-night.”
“No,” she said. “It must be now.”
He shut the door, but he kept as far away from her as possible, standing over by the window that looked into the dreary winter garden.
There was something implacable about his tall figure.
“Oh, won’t you come here?” she said.
He obeyed at once. He rested an elbow on the mantelshelf and kept his eyes fixed on the fire.
There as a little silence, then Esther said, almost in a whisper:
“I want to beg your pardon. I hope you will––will try and forgive me.”
Micky did not move.
She struggled on:
“I’ve seen ... Mr. Ashton.” Somehow she could not bring herself to speak of him by his Christian name.
“And I know––I know––that I’ve been––been a fool.”
Her voice broke. She gripped the arms of the chair hard to keep herself from breaking down.
Micky forced himself to speak.
“I’m glad you’ve seen him––as you wished it,” he said jerkily. “But as hoping I will forgive you, there’s nothing to forgive––it’s all the other way on. I behaved like––like a cad––it’s for you to forgive me.”
He smiled faintly.
“And now we’ve both said the right thing I’ll go and see about that train,” he said.
But again she stopped him.
“I don’t want you to go––I want to talk to you. I want ... oh, I don’t know what I do want!” she finished, with a sob.
“You’re tired out,” Micky said calmly, though he257looked anything but calm, “and I’m going to bully you and insist that you rest. I’ll come back presently....”
He went away quickly, as if he were afraid of being kept against his will but outside the door he stood still for a moment with his hand over his eyes before he pulled himself together and went on.
Esther listened to his departing steps with a sinking at her heart.
What had she hoped for? She hardly knew, but she felt as if she had made an overture of friendship that had been kindly but decidedly refused.
Her cheeks burned. It was not what she had expected.
It seemed an eternity till Micky came back again.
“There’s a train in half an hour,” he told her. “We can get back to town very comfortably. I’ve wired to June to meet us. She probably came up from Enmore yesterday.”
June! Esther had almost forgotten June.
“You ought to be getting ready if we are to catch that train,” Micky said. “Would you rather stay till to-morrow? I’m afraid the journey will tire you dreadfully.”
She rose hurriedly.
“No, no––oh no, I’d much rather go!”
Micky had reserved a carriage.
“I think I will go in a smoker,” he said. He put some magazines and a box of chocolates on the seat; he avoided looking at her. “It’s a corridor train so I’ll come and see that you are all right occasionally––if I may.”
She did not answer; she felt a little chill of disappointment. He had not asked a single question about Raymond, and now he was suggesting that they travel the long journey separately.
He hesitated.
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“Will you be all right?” he asked awkwardly.
“Yes, thank you.”
He went away, and presently the train started. Esther looked out of the window and watched the city as it was rapidly left behind.
“I never want to see it again,” was the thought in her heart. “I wish I never had seen it.”
She felt like a naughty child who has run away from home and is being ignominiously brought back.
Last night seemed like some fevered dream; Raymond Ashton some man of whom she had read in a book or seen in a play.
A phantom lover!––he had not even been that, and once she had wished to die because she had got to be separated from him.
Her eyes fell on her hand––she still wore his ring.
With sudden passion she dragged it from her finger; she let the window down with a run and flung the ring far out into the grey evening. It was the end of a dream; the final uprooting of an illusion.
259CHAPTER XXXII
Esther slept through the long journey fitfully––she was mentally and physically exhausted. She was only thoroughly aroused by people out in the corridor moving about collecting bags and baggage.
She opened her eyes with a confused feeling––the train was slackening speed, and Micky stood in the doorway.
“We are nearly in,” he said.
The train was almost at a standstill.
“Calais! Calais!”
Esther rose to her feet––her limbs were trembling, and her head ached dully.
Micky took her suit-case from the rack.
“You’d better fasten your coat,” he said casually. “It will be cold on the boat.”
She looked at him half fearfully. Was this the same man who had followed her from Enmore with such passionate haste and eagerness? He was perfectly undisturbed now at all events, he seemed even to avoid looking at her.
When they got on board he found her a chair on the leeside of the boat.
“Are you a good sailor?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been any distance until yesterday.”
“You’d better stay here; it’s preferable to that stuffy cabin.”
But he left her alone almost the whole time, though she knew that he walked up and down close to where she sat. She could see the glow of his cigar through the darkness and hear the slow sound of his steps.
She tried to think things over quietly as she sat there,260but everything seemed so unreal, and most of all the fact that Micky had once professed to love her.
In the train he left her to herself till they reached London. He was sure she “did not want to be bothered,” he said, and he was going to smoke.
Esther felt a little pang of disappointment. It seemed a long time till the train steamed fussily into Charing Cross; and the old weary feeling of loneliness had settled again upon her heart by the time Micky came to the door of the carriage.
“June is sure to be somewhere about,” he said laconically. “Will you stay here while I see if I can find her?”
She took a hurried step forward.
“No, I’ll come with you.”
She felt afraid of June’s kindly quizzical eyes; June who knew why she had run away to Paris, and what had been awaiting her there.
She touched Micky’s arm––the eyes she raised to his face were troubled.
“When shall I see you again?” she asked falteringly.
He half smiled.
“Why do you want to see me again?” he questioned gravely. “You can have no use for me––after this!”
Esther flushed painfully. Through the crowd she saw June pushing towards them. This was the last moment she would have with Micky, she knew, and in a flash something seemed to tell her what this man had meant to her during the last two terrible days.
“Oh,” she said tremblingly, “if you only would let me thank you.”
Micky laughed harshly––
“I hate thanks,” he said.
June was upon them; she seized Esther and kissed her rapturously.
“You darling! You’ll never know how glad I am to see you. I’ve been here for hours. Aren’t you dead tired? Micky, she looks worn out.”
“Does she?” said Micky.
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He was dead beat himself; he looked round vacantly.
“I wired Driver––I thought he’d be here....”
“Here, sir,” said a voice at his elbow, and there was Driver, stolid and impenetrable as ever.
Micky was unfeignedly glad to see the little man; for almost the first time in his life he realised that sometimes dullness and short-sightedness are a blessing in disguise. Apparently to Driver there was nothing odd in this mad rush over to Paris; his expressionless eyes saw the untidiness of his master’ toilet without changing.
“I’ve brought the car, sir,” he said.
“Good man; get me a taxi, then. You must take the car down to your rooms,” Micky said to June. “No, don’t argue; I insist–––”
He put the two girls into the car; he did not look at Esther, though he squeezed June’s hand when he said good-bye.
“Let me know if you get back all right; I shall see you soon.”
He raised his hat, stood aside, and the car started forward.
June looked at Esther with a sort of shyness. It seemed as if years must have passed since they were down at Enmore.
The car had rolled out of the station and into the heart of London before either of them spoke; then Esther said, stiltedly:
“It was kind of you to come.”
June flushed.
“It wasn’t kind at all,” she said bluntly. “You’re my friends, or, at least, you were, and, as for Micky––well, I love him.”
There was a sort of defiance in her voice. She had seen the tired, strained look in Micky’s face, and she was nearer being angry with Esther than she had ever been, but she turned and took her hand.
“Somehow I never thought I should see you again,”262she said, with real emotion. “I haven’t slept a wink since you went away.”
“You’re much too good to me,” Esther said. “Everyone is much too good to me.”
“I think Micky is, certainly,” June agreed exasperatedly. “The man’s a perfect fool to run about like he does after a woman who doesn’t care two hoots about him.... There! now I oughtn’t to have said that. Esther, if you’re crying....”
Esther had covered her face with her hands.
“I’m not crying,” she said in a stifled voice. “But I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what you must think of me––it’s so––so humiliating.”
“It’s nothing of the kind,” June declared. “The only mistake you’ve made is to put your money on the wrong man, if you’ll excuse the expression. Raymond Ashton was always an outsider.... There! I won’t say another word. You’ve come home, and that’s all that matters.”
It was only when they were safely up in the room with the mauve cushions that she flung her hat down on the sofa and drew a long breath.
“Well, I never thought we should be here together again,” she said tragically. “It seemed like the end of everything when I found your note on the pincushion. I don’t know what I should have done if it hadn’t been for Micky.”
“I don’t know what I should have done either,” Esther said. She met June’s eyes and flushed crimson. “I’ve been horrid about him, I know,” she added bravely. “And now I’m sorry.”
June said “Humph.” She sat for a moment staring at the floor, then she got up and searched for the inevitable cigarettes.
“You ought to go to bed,” she said in her most matter-of-fact tone. “Where did you sleep last night?”
“Nowhere––at least––we were in the train all night. I did sleep a little, but....”
263
June took her by the shoulders.
“Off you go to bed, and don’t argue. I’ve had a fire put in your room, and Charlie is there with a new bow on. I’ll come and tuck you up when you’re ready, and....”
But Esther refused to move.
“I couldn’t sleep if I went to bed. I want to tell you about––about what’s happened....” She paused breathlessly, but June was not going to help her.
“I don’t want to hear anything,” she said flatly. She looked at Esther and saw the tears in the younger girl’s eyes. She put an arm round her, drawing her down to the sofa.
“Tell me all about it, then,” she said. “I’m just––just longing to know.”
“But there isn’t much to tell, except–––” Esther held out her left hand. “I’m not engaged any more,” she said with a faint attempt to laugh. “He––Mr. Ashton––is married....”
“I know––Micky told me before we went to Enmore. I hope he’s married a vixen who’ll lead him an awful dance. It would serve her right to let her know the sort of man he is––to let her know the sort of letters he’s been writing to you––to show him up properly.”
Esther hid her face in the mauve cushions.
“Oh, but he has never written to me,” she said chokingly. “I’ve never had a letter from him since he went away, and that was on New Year’s Eve. It’s all been a mistake––a sham ... he never cared for me––he never really wanted me....”
June threw away the cigarette and tried to raise Esther.
“What are you talking about? He did write to you––you told me yourself that he wrote beautiful letters––he sent you that money––Esther! what do you mean?”
Esther looked up; for a moment June caught a glimpse of misty, shamed eyes.
“They weren’t from him: those letters––the money never came from him,” she said in a stifled voice.
264
“What! My good child, have you gone out of your mind?”
June was a hundred miles from guessing the truth. “If he didn’t write them, then who in the world did?” she demanded crisply. “And if he didn’t send the money, who in the wide world....”
She caught her breath on a sudden illuminating thought.
“Esther ... not––not––Micky!”
“Yes.” It was the smallest whisper, and it was followed by a tragic silence; then June got up and began walking aimlessly about the room; she felt as if she had been robbed of all breath.
Twice she turned and looked at Esther’s huddled figure, then she went back, laid a hand on her arm and said in an odd, gentle voice that was strangely unlike her own brisk tones:
“And do you mean to say that you don’t just think him the finest man in all the world?”
Esther sat up with sudden passion.
“I didn’t think of him at all––it was like having a knife turned in my heart when I knew,” she said wildly. “Oh, you can’t understand if you’ve never cared for anybody what it feels like to know that you’ve been made a fool of. When he told me I felt that I hated him––there didn’t seem anything fine or good in what he had done; I only knew that I’d been played with, made fun of....” She stopped, sobbing desperately, but for once June attempted no consolation. She was looking at Micky’s portrait on the shelf, and there was a wonderful tenderness in her queer eyes.
“Who told you?” she asked then. “Who told you that it was Micky?”
“He did––he only told me when he knew why I was going to Paris––he told me in the train. It’s been from Mr. Mellowes all along––the money I’ve had every week––my clothes––this coat ... he’s been paying for my food, and for me to live here....” She raised265her eyes to June’s face. “Did you know?” she asked shakily. “He said you didn’t, but somehow....”
June rounded on her angrily.
“If Micky said that I didn’t, that ought to be good enough,” she said curtly. “And of course, I didn’t know––if I had, I should have told him that he was a fool to waste his time and money on a girl who thought nothing of him,” she added flatly. Her voice changed all at once. “Oh, isn’t he just splendid!” she said emotionally. “I don’t understand it in the very least, why he has done it, or how he managed it, or anything, but I think it’s the finest thing in all the world–––” Esther turned away.
“I knew him before we met here––he wanted to tell you, but I asked him not to–––” She stopped and dragged on again.
“I met him on New Year’s Eve––I was so miserable––there seemed nothing to live for, and he was kind and so ... so ... I told him a little of what was wrong, and I suppose he guessed the rest.”
“And when he went to Paris that time it was all for your sake, and it was for your sake he kept coming here––oh!”––June rose to her feet with a gesture of intolerance––“if you don’t just adore the ground he walks on,” she said, “you ought to, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
Esther made no answer; she was looking into the fire with eyes that as yet saw only the ruins of a dream that had been so beautiful, the rapidly receding shadow of the man whom she had once made a giant figure in her life.
“I never want to care for any one again,” she said presently in a hard voice. “You told me once that people were happier if they didn’t love, and I think you were right.”
“I was an idiot to ever say such a thing,” June cried in a rage. “And you’re a bigger idiot if you pretend to think I was right. There’s nothing better in the whole266world than being loved–––” Her face flushed like a rose. “If Micky had cared for me even a quarter as well as he does for you I would have married him, and that’s the truth,” she declared. “It was only because I knew he hadn’t anything except friendship to offer me that I knew it wasn’t fair....” She tried to cover the seriousness of her words with a laugh. She lit another cigarette. “And now, having got rid of my heroics, let’s talk sense,” she added more calmly. “But you ought to go to bed. You look worn out. You’ll be a wreck in the morning.”
“I don’t want to go to bed. I have such a lot to tell you. I shall have to leave here, of course; I haven’t got any money. I must try and find a post. I thought of asking Eldred’s to take me back; there might be a vacancy now....” But her voice sounded weary and hopeless.
June swooped down on her.
“You poor tired baby, come along to bed and don’t worry any more. You’ve got me whatever happens, and if the worst comes to the worst there’s always June Mason’s wonderful skin food for both of us to live on.”
They went upstairs together.
“There’s nothing like sunshine to put you on good terms with yourself,” she said philosophically. “Whenever I’m in the dumps or feel that I’m looking particularly plain, I put on my best hat and go out in the sunshine, and I assure you I’m a good-looking woman when I come home again.”
“You’re always better than good-looking,” Esther told her.