219CHAPTER XXVI
Micky had just reached the unpretentious inn in the village where he had taken a room, when he was hailed from across the road by June; a very cheerful looking June, in a business-like coat and skirt of rough tweed, and carrying a walking-stick, which she proceeded to wave at him vigorously.
“Back so soon!” She came across to where he stood by the car, and looked at his despondent face. “Not another row?” she demanded tersely.
Micky frowned.
“No––merely a sort of frigid silence this time,” he said savagely, then he laughed. “It’s no use, June, I may as well throw up the sponge. I seem to put my foot in it whatever I do.”
June drew a pattern in the mud at her feet.
“Well, what have you done?” she asked. “Esther was all right this morning, and quite pleased to be going with you. I certainly never expected to see either of you till this afternoon. Where did you go?”
Micky shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, some little one-eyed place. We stopped at an inn and had some coffee, and that seemed to finish it.”
“What, the coffee?” asked June with a twinkle.
Micky turned away.
“If you’re going to make a joke of everything–––” he said with dignity.
She laid her hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry, old boy. But you do explain things so badly, you know. You had coffee at the inn, yes––and then–––”
“I went outside to start up the engine, and when I220came back she seemed to have utterly changed. She even looked different and she hardly spoke all the way home.”
“It must be your imagination.”
He shook his head.
“No, it isn’t; and when we got home she went indoors without even saying good-bye––confound her!” he added in savage parenthesis.
“Oh, Micky!” said June reproachfully.
He coloured.
“I didn’t mean that, but I’m so fed-up with everything–––” He leaned his elbow on the side of the car and looked away from her down the road. “I think I’ll get back to town this afternoon,” he said after a moment. “I was a fool to come at all.”
June looked at him silently.
“Well, what are you thinking?” he asked.
She roused herself and answered briskly.
“I think you want your lunch, that’s what I think, and I’m going to take you back with me to have some. Aunt Mary is expecting you–––” Her queer eyes twinkled. “Micky, she’s quite made up her mind that you’ve come down here after me.”
Micky laughed ruefully.
“It would be a dashed sight better for me if I had,” he said.
He moved to the door of the car.
“Jump in, and I’ll drive you back. I’m not sure that I shall stay to lunch, though–––” he added darkly.
“Oh yes, you will,” June said. “And when you see Esther you’ll find that it was just imagination on your part––why, only coming down in the train the other morning she agreed with me that you were a perfect darling––she did, on my word of honour!”
When they reached the house Micky meekly followed June into the hall.
“The table’s laid,” she informed him. “I’ll just go and take off my hat and find Esther and Aunt Mary. Go in, Micky.”
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Micky took off his hat and coat and obeyed.
He looked several sizes too large for the little dining-room as he walked over to the fire and stood with his back to it; he looked round the room appreciatively.
This was a real home, he thought with sudden wistfulness in spite of its small rooms and general atmosphere of a bygone decade; a man could be very happy here with a woman he cared for.
“Micky––Micky–––” called June urgently. She came clattering down the stairs anyhow––she burst into the room, she thrust a scrap of paper into his hand.
“She’s gone––she’s gone! Oh, what fools we’ve been! I told you what it would be. I knew she’d find out sooner or later. Oh, why didn’t you let me tell her?––I begged you to let me. It’s not my fault. I warned you what it would be––oh dear! oh dear!” and June fell into a sobbing heap on the uncomfortable horsehair couch behind her.
Micky stood clutching the paper and staring at her; it was some minutes before he could find his voice, then he went over to where she lay, put his hand on her shoulder, and shook her almost roughly.
“What are you talking about, June? For heaven’s sake sit up and behave like a rational woman. Who’s gone? What do you mean?”
She raised her tear-stained face.
“Read it! read it! Oh, Micky, you have been a fool!” she said furiously. “It’s all your fault. I knew what would happen–––”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake shut up,” said Micky.
He had unfolded the paper, and there was a moment’s tragic silence as he read the three lines Esther had scribbled.
“I have gone to Paris; I can’t live without him any longer. Please don’t worry about me....”
Twice his lips moved, but no words would come, then he broke out in a strangled voice––
“It’s a joke––of course it is. She’s done it to frighten222us. Why, I––I only left her here half-an-hour ago––it can’t be more. It’s a joke––of––of course it is ... June....”
“A queer sort of joke,” said June sobbing. “Poor darling! and a nice sort of reception she’ll get when she reaches Paris with that cad there....”
“She’ll never find him; she doesn’t know where he is,” Micky said hoarsely. There was a stunned look in his eyes––he took a step towards the door and came back again as if he did not know what to do.
June was drying her eyes and shedding more tears and drying them again; she looked at Micky angrily.
“Of course she’ll find him,” she said tartly. “She knows his address; the brute’s written to her dozens of times, and she’s written to him as well....” Her eyes searched his face with a sort of contempt.
“Well, what are you going to do now you’ve made such a glorious hash of everything?” she demanded.
Micky passed a hand across his eyes.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to think. She can’t have been gone long. She may still be in the village.” He dragged out his watch. “There may not have been a train up to London––”
“Yes, there was; the twelve-twenty–––” The eyes of both of them turned to the clock, and Micky gave a smothered groan.
“She must have gone by that. I must follow her, of course.”
June bounced up.
“I’ll come with you; I’ll put on my hat again–––” She made a dive for the door, but Micky caught her arm and stopped her.
“You can’t; I can’t take you with me. Be sensible, June––I’ll find her and bring her back–––”
She looked up at him stormily.
“She’s my friend, and it’s all your fault she’s got into this mess. I told you not to interfere, and you wouldn’t listen–––”
223
It was a woman all over to rave at him now, but Micky took it patiently.
“Very well, it’s my fault, and as it’s my fault it’s up to me to try and put things right. Don’t waste time arguing––if I’m to catch her before she leaves England....”
June burst into fresh tears and sobs.
“You won’t be able to; she’ll get over there and have to bear it all alone.... Oh, Micky, I almost hate you when I think what we’ve done....”
Micky went out of the room; he went down to the road and mechanically started up the car; he was getting into his seat when June followed and called to him––
“You haven’t got your coat or cap, Micky.”
He came back; he hoisted himself into his coat, and turned away again; June caught his hand.
“I didn’t mean to be a beast, Micky–––”
He gave her fingers a squeeze.
“I know; it’s all right; but don’t keep me, there’s a dear.”
But she still clung to him.
“You’ll bring her back safely, Micky––promise.”
Micky turned away without answering.
“... I can’t live without him any longer....”
In spite of everything, that was how she still felt about the brute.
When he got to the station he found there was no train to town for a couple of hours; he asked a sleepy porter an agitated question.
“Did you see a young lady go by the twelve-twenty––one of the young ladies staying with Miss Dearling. Oh, for heaven’s sake hurry up and answer, man!”
The man scratched an unshaven chin with irritating consideration.
“Yes, I seen her,” he said at last. “She came in running––caught the train to London––she....”
But Micky had gone; he would have to drive to town,224he decided. If Esther had got to know the truth, better hear it from him than from that brute.
He drove off at breakneck speed. It seemed miles and miles to London; no matter how much of the winding road he covered, it unfolded again before his eyes, and mercilessly again.
He went straight to Charing Cross; he left the car in the yard and dashed in to inquire about trains; he searched a time-table; 12.59––3 o’clock––4.5 ... he looked up at the clock––three minutes past four now. Micky dashed across the big hall to a gate where a signboard said “Dover Express”; he had no ticket; he pushed by the protesting inspector; the guard was waving his flag; some one grabbed at Micky and missed as he flung himself breathless and panting into the last coach of the moving train.
225CHAPTER XXVII
Micky sat for a few moments breathless and exhausted before he pulled himself together, and taking off his hat wiped his hot forehead.
The train was gathering speed; he let down the window with a run and looked out; the station was out of sight altogether; they were crossing the bridge under which the silent Thames flowed sluggishly.
A breath of cold air touched his hot face and he shivered suddenly and drew the window up once more.
Something had driven his thoughts back to his first meeting with Esther, to the cold silence of the night, and the hard desperation of her voice as she said––
“I didn’t mean to go home any more––I shouldn’t have ever gone home again if I hadn’t met you....”
If she got to Paris before he saw her she would feel like this again. Micky groaned.
Fortunately he had the carriage to himself, but it was a third-class compartment, and not a corridor carriage. He cursed his luck here; if there had been a corridor he could have gone the length of the train and seen if Esther were on it. As it was, he would have to wait till they reached Dover, and even then perhaps he would never find her.
He tried to calm himself with the conviction that everything would be all right, but in his heart he was despairing; if he found Esther and brought her back she would hate him for the rest of his life.
What had happened to make her rush off like this? He could not imagine. She had seemed so happy only that morning. What could account for the tragedy that seemed to breathe in every word of that little note she had left for June?
226
He took it from his pocket and read it again. It gave no hint of what had prompted this sudden flight. He wrote out a couple of telegrams to dispatch from Dover––one for June, and another for Driver.
He wished he had got Driver with him. There was a sort of security in the man’s stolidness.
He realised that he was without luggage, and that he had not much money. Supposing he had to go on to Paris, what the dickens was he going to do?
When the train ran into Dover he got to his feet with a sigh of relief. Quickly as he was out of the train a great many passengers had left it before him. He started at a run down the platform. He stared at every woman he met, hoping it would be Esther. The crowd was getting thick; he had to push his way unceremoniously past people; porters with luggage trucks jostled him; he began to lose his temper––he was just answering with great heat a man who had cynically asked “who he was shoving,” when some one touched his arm.
“Micky....”
For a moment Micky’s heart beat up in his throat; he turned quickly and found himself looking down into the brown eyes of Marie Deland.
If she had hoped for anything better, it must have been a shock to her to see the bitter disappointment in Micky’s face. He stammered out that he had not expected to see her, that he was in a deuce of a hurry; he hoped she would forgive him, but––
“Micky, by all that’s wonderful!” said another voice, and there was Marie’s father, the good-natured old man who had pretended to agree with his wife when she raved against Micky for the cavalier way in which he had treated his daughter, but who in his heart had indulged in a quiet chuckle, thinking that Micky had been rather clever to escape from the toils at the eleventh hour.
He shook hands with Micky heartily enough; he, at any rate, had no grudge against him. He asked Micky a hundred questions.
227
“Are you going over, my boy? Come with us. I’ve got a reserved carriage on the Paris express. Delighted to see you. Marie and I are just off for a little holiday by ourselves.”
He touched his daughter’s arm. “Ask him to join us, my dear.”
Micky did his best to answer civilly; he was in the deuce of a hurry, he said again; he had got to meet a friend but had missed her in the crowd.
“I came off in the deuce of a hurry,” he said. He was chafing bitterly at this enforced delay; each moment was so precious.
Marie touched her father’s arm.
“We are only keeping Mr. Mellowes, Daddy....” Something in her voice made Micky’s eyes smart. It was hard luck that for the second time he was forced to humiliate her. He stammered out incoherently that he hoped they would forgive him, but he was in such a deuce of a hurry.... He went off abruptly.
Everybody was off the train now, and many people were already on the boat. Micky remembered that he had no ticket; he entered into a hot argument with an official, who listened to him skeptically, and took as long as possible to make out the ticket; even when Micky had paid he still looked suspicious.
The gangway was still down; Micky went on board and stood as close to it as he could, scanning the face of each passer.
Esther was not amongst them.
“Stand away there––stand away....”
Micky was pushed aside, and a couple of brawny seamen hauled the gangway on to the harbour. The gap of green water was widening slowly between the pier and the ship’s side. Micky felt as if he were being exiled. Supposing she was not on the boat?
He turned away and searched the crowded deck. The boat was full, and most of the people were women,228but there was nobody who looked in the very least like Esther.
She would be wearing the fur coat, he was sure––the coat he had given her!
One or two people stared at him curiously. Once he came across Marie and her father on the leeward side of the boat. For decency’s sake he had to stop. He made an inane remark on the weather and said he thought they were going to have a smooth crossing.
Marie’s brown eyes lifted to his.
“You haven’t met your friend?” she said quietly.
Micky had a horrible conviction that she had not believed that he had any one to meet. He coloured in confusion as he answered––
“No––no. I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”
She moved away leaving him with her father. The old man slipped a hand through Micky’s arm.
“Don’t notice her, my boy; women are queer cattle––and I expect she’s a little sore with you still.”
Micky wished it was possible to jump overboard. He found the old man’s friendliness more insufferable than the look of reproach in Marie’s eyes. As soon as he could he got away; he went down the companion-way and wandered round despondently.
If Esther were on the boat she must have seen him and was deliberately keeping out of his way; he glanced in at the open door of the ladies’ cabin as he passed.
Several pessimistic souls who had already made up their minds to be ill, although the sea was like a mill-pond, had arranged themselves on the couches, with pillows under their heads; as Micky passed the cabin some one slammed the door smartly in his face.
He went upon deck again and stood looking out to sea, with the wind stinging his face.
It was getting dark rapidly; the lights of Dover twinkled through the greyness. Micky stood and watched till they could no longer be seen. He was chilled to the bone in spite of his warm coat; he turned the collar229up round his throat and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets.
His fingers came in contact with the telegrams he had written in the train and forgotten to send. He swore under his breath.
He kept out of the Delands’ way when they reached Calais; he was first off the boat; he stood in the darkness trembling with excitement.
There were all sorts of people pouring past him––men, women, and children. They all seemed happy and eager––a couple of Frenchmen standing near him chattered incessantly; Micky moistened his dry lips; there was a little nerve throbbing in his temple.
Supposing he never saw her again! His hands clenched deep in his pockets ... supposing he never met the half-shy glance of her grey eyes––supposing he never heard her voice any more––or her laugh....
The sweat broke out on his forehead. For a moment he closed his eyes with a sick feeling of hopelessness, and when he opened them again he saw Esther standing there not half a dozen paces from him.
The glare from a huge arc lamp shone full on her slim figure and golden hair.
She was looking round her in a scared, apprehensive way as if not knowing where to go.
A wave of such utter relief swept through Micky’s very soul that for a moment it almost turned him faint.
She was quite alone, but as Micky watched her he saw a French porter in a blue blouse go up to her and start chattering away, pointing to the small suit-case she carried and gesticulating violently. Esther shook her head––Micky remembered that she knew no French––but the man persisted, and she shook her head again in a frightened sort of way.
Micky covered the distance between them in a couple of strides.
“Esther....” he said, in a queer, choked sort of voice.
230
She turned with a stifled scream, and a most unwilling relief swept her face.
“Oh, Micky!” she said breathlessly. She put out her hand as if to grip his arm, then drew it away, moving back.
“How did you come here ... oh, how dare you follow me...?” she said passionately.
Micky took her arm very gently.
“We found your note,” he said. “I had to come ... June said....” Then suddenly his calmness broke “Oh, thank God I found you––thank God!” he said hoarsely.
231CHAPTER XXVIII
Esther seemed arrested by the emotion in Micky’s voice.
She stood looking up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, then suddenly she broke out again––
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ll never forgive June if she sent you after me. I’m going to Paris. I’m not a child to be followed and looked after like this.... Let me go.”
Micky released her arm at once. When he spoke his voice was quiet and rather stern.
“Please don’t make a scene. I have followed you for your own sake. I know I can’t stop you from going to Paris. I’m not going to try. All I do ask you is that you will let me speak to you. If what I have to say is useless, I give you my word of honour that I will leave you here and let you go on to Paris alone.”
She looked at him with stormy eyes.
“I don’t believe it––it isn’t the first time you’ve lied to me....” she broke off breathlessly. Micky turned pale, but he answered evenly enough––
“You’re quite justified in saying that; I’m not going to try and deny it. But we can’t stand here all night––people are beginning to stare at us....”
“I don’t care–––” but she dropped her voice a little, and when Micky made a slight movement forward she followed.
It was cold on the quay––there was a fresh wind blowing, and Esther shivered.
“There’s a restaurant place here,” Micky said. “I want a meal if you don’t; I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
232
He found a table and ordered a meal, but he knew he should not be able to eat a thing.
“I don’t want anything to eat,” Esther said. She sat sideways in her chair away from the table; there was a pitiable look of strain in her face; she still gripped her suit-case tightly. When Micky asked her to be allowed to put it down for her she turned on him almost fiercely.
“Leave me alone––oh, leave me alone!”
The French garcon eyed them both interestedly. Any one far less keen of perception than he was could have seen that there was tragedy of some kind between this pretty, frail-looking girl and the tall man in the big coat.
“You said you were hungry, but you’re not eating anything,” Esther broke out irritably. “How much longer are you going to make me sit here? I want to catch a train to Paris to-night.”
“There are no trains, except slow ones,” Micky told her; “the express has gone half an hour ago. I can find you rooms in a hotel close by for the night....” His eyes met hers across the table, and he broke out, “Esther, for God’s sake let me explain things to you. You’ve all your life before you; to-morrow, if you wish it, I’ll go away and never see you again. But I can’t let you go now without telling you the truth. I ought to have told you before––it was for your own sake I tried to keep it back....”
Her grey eyes searched his face disbelievingly.
“If you’ve anything to say against Mr. Ashton,” she said, “I refuse to listen. I shouldn’t believe anything you say, for one thing. Why, you don’t even know his name––unless June has told you,” she added breathlessly.
“June has told me nothing, but I know, all the same. I knew the first night I ever met you––when I left you and went back to my rooms, he was there waiting for me....”
She half turned, leaning across the table, and her eyes were like fire.
233
“He was there––who was there?” she asked shrilly.
“Ashton––Raymond Ashton,” Micky answered.
There was a tragic silence, then Esther rose to her feet; she stood looking dazedly round her in a helpless sort of way.
Micky called for the bill––without waiting for his change he followed Esther out into the darkness. She offered no resistance when he drew her hand through his arm. He did not know what on earth to do with her; if he took her to an hotel it would mean leaving her, and she would probably go away in the night. They went back to the station, and Micky found a waiting-room with a roaring fire; he dragged one of the uncomfortable wooden benches close to it and made Esther sit down; he closed the door and came back to her.
There was so much he wanted to say, and for the life of him he did not know how to begin. She sat there so silently; she seemed to have forgotten his presence altogether.
Micky looked at her, and suddenly he broke out––
“Esther, speak to me––say something––for heaven’s sake–––”
She moved in a curiously heavy sort of way, as if it were an effort; she raised her eyes to his agitated face.
“This morning––was it only this morning?––it seems so long ago.” She stopped for a moment, then went on again slowly. “When we were at that inn in the village––those men with the car––I heard them talking....” She stopped again.
“Yes,” said Micky.
She frowned as if his monosyllable had interrupted her train of thought. She went on presently––
“They were talking about Paris––and Raymond.” And now she raised her eyes. “If you say that it was true what I heard them say, I will kill you,” she said with sudden passion. “It’s a lie––just a lie to hurt me, to hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already.” She stopped,234panting. “It’s a lie––say it’s a lie,” she drove the words at him.
Micky sat down beside her.
“If they said that Ashton had been married in Paris to Mrs. Clare it was the truth,” he said.
He marvelled at the steadiness of his voice. He felt sick with shame at the part he was having to play. He went on incoherently––
“I knew it before you ever went to Enmore––it was in the London papers. I was afraid you would see it. I persuaded June to get you down into the country. I suppose I was a fool. I ought to have known it was only putting things off.”
He looked at her and quickly away again.
“Forget him, Esther, for God’s sake. He never cared for you; he isn’t worth a thought.”
She rose to her feet, pushing the hair back from her face as if she were distraught.
“How dare you say such things to me?” she said in an odd, choked voice. “You always hated him––you and June. Do you think I’m going to believe you? Do you think I could believe you for a moment when I have his letters––when he has shown me in so many ways how he cares?... I don’t care what you say––I don’t care if the whole world were to tell me it was true––I’ll never believe it till he tells me himself....” Her breath came gaspingly; she looked at Micky’s white face with passionate hatred in her eyes.
“How do I know it isn’t all a made-up story?” she asked him hoarsely.
She hardly knew what she was saying; she leaned her arms on the mantelshelf and hid her face in them.
Micky let her alone; he got up and began pacing up and down the room.
He deserved everything she had said; it was all his fault that she had got this to bear. With the best intentions in the world he had proved himself a blundering fool.
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Esther raised her head; she had not shed a tear, but her face was white and desolate.
She walked past him to the door.
“I’m going on to Paris to-night,” she said. “Nothing you can say will stop me––nothing.”
“Very well, then I will come with you.”
She did not answer; she fumbled helplessly with the door handle. Micky came forward to open it for her, and their hands touched. A little flame of red rushed to his face; he put his shoulders to the door.
“You can’t go like this,” he said stammering. “How can I let you go like this? Whatever I’ve done, I haven’t deserved that you should think as badly of me as you do. It was because I cared for you so much––I tried to save you pain ... perhaps it isn’t any excuse, but it’s the truth.... I’d give my very soul if I could undo what’s gone, if I could save you from this.”
She was not looking at him, but the cold contempt in her face stung him.
“You may despise me,” he broke out again jaggedly. “But it’s the truth I’ve told you.... Ashton never cared for you; that night at my rooms....” He stopped, he did not want to tell her, but somehow there was a compelling force within him that drove the words to his lips.
“He told me he’d had to break with you––that he was going away from London because of you. He said he must marry a woman with money––it’s the truth, if I never speak again. He never cared for you, Esther––he was never fit to kiss the ground you walk on. He wanted to be rid of you––he–––”
Micky stopped; Esther had given a little strangled cry, half-sob, half-moan, like some animal in mortal pain; for the moment she saw the world red; hardly knowing what she did, she lifted her hand and struck Micky across his white face.
“Oh, you liar––you liar,” she said. The words were a hoarse whisper, her voice was almost gone.
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She fell away from him, shaking in every limb; she dropped into a chair hiding her face.
Micky stood like a man turned to stone. She had not hurt him physically, though there was a red flush where she had struck him, but he felt as if the blow had fallen on his aching heart and his love for her.
It seemed a long time before either of them moved or spoke, then Esther dragged herself to her feet.
“Please let me pass,” she said in a whisper, and Micky stood aside without a word.
He followed her out and inquired for a train; there was a slow one at ten-fifty they told him. He put Esther into a carriage and got a rug for her and a cushion. He knew she had had nothing to eat, and he ordered a basket to be made up at the refreshment-room. When he came back she was sitting in a corner with her eyes closed. She had taken off her hat, and her golden hair was tumbled about her face. She took no notice when he put the rug over her; she did not even open her eyes when the train started.
Micky sat down in the opposite corner. He felt more tired than he had ever done in all his life, and yet he knew that he could not sleep; his brain seemed as if it would never rest again. He sat with face averted from the girl in the corner, looking out into the darkness.
It seemed strange to realise that he had made this same journey dozens of times before. He felt that it was all strange and distasteful to him. The chattering voices of the French porters and the whistle of the engines sounded new and quaint as if he had never heard them before. It seemed an eternity before the train started slowly away.
He leaned back and closed his eyes; his head was splitting, and he was cold and hungry.
He must have dozed for a few minutes, for he was roused by a little choking sound of sobbing. He opened his eyes––he was awake at once––he looked across at Esther. She was lying huddled up, with her face turned237against the dirty cushions of the carriage, sobbing her heart out.
Micky looked at her in miserable indecision. Then he got up impulsively, and sat down opposite to where Esther was huddled.
He stretched out his hand and took hers.
“Don’t cry––don’t; I can’t bear it,” he said hoarsely. He raised her hand to his lips. She had taken off her gloves and her fingers felt like ice. He chafed them gently between his own. She still wore the cheap little ring which Ashton had given her months ago.
She let her hand lie passively in his. Perhaps she was too miserable to remember that it was Micky, and only realised that there was something kind and comforting in his touch. Presently her sobs quieted. She wiped the tears from her face and brushed back her disordered hair.
Micky got up and took down the supper basket he had managed to get at the station. There was a small thermos of hot coffee. He poured some out and made her drink it. If he had expected her to refuse he was agreeably disappointed. She obeyed apathetically; she even ate some sandwiches.
Micky was ravenous himself, but he would not touch a thing till she had finished.
“You’d be much more comfortable if you put your feet up on the seat and tried to sleep,” he said presently. “You can have my coat as well as the rug. Your hands are like ice.”
He took off his coat as he spoke and laid it over her.
“I’m afraid we’ve got a long journey yet,” he said ruefully. “If you could get some sleep.”
She turned her head away and closed her eyes.
She looked very young and appealing in the depressing light of the carriage.
Micky sat looking at her in silence. She cared so little for him that she had even forgotten her anger against him; nothing he could do or say really mattered238to her, she was not sufficiently interested in him to even trouble to hate him for long.
He wondered what June was thinking, and Miss Dearling! He wished from the depths of his soul that he had remembered to send those wires. There was his car, too––he had left that in the yard at Charing Cross––what the dickens would become of it?––not that it mattered much, he was too miserable to be seriously concerned about anything.
Some minutes passed, but Esther did not move. Micky spoke her name once softly––
“Esther....” But she did not answer; he leaned over and touched her hand, but she did not stir; in spite of what she had said she was asleep.
Micky gave a sigh of relief. He drew his coat and the rug more closely around her; he was very cold himself, but that did not trouble him; he finished the contents of the supper basket before he went back to his own corner.
The train rumbled on through the night; it dragged into many little stations and stopped jerkily, but Esther did not wake.
Once when she moved and the rug slipped, Micky rose and quietly replaced it. He was very tired himself, but his brain would not allow him to sleep; he felt as if he were living through years during these long hours.
He sat looking at Esther with wistful eyes. Why was it that people never fell in love with the right people? he asked himself vaguely. He could have made her so happy.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then dragged them open again. He must not go to sleep, whatever happened. He sat up stiffly.
Presently he lifted a corner of the blind. The sky looked a little lighter, as if dawn were not far away. He looked at his watch. Nearly two!
A sudden impulse came to him to wake Esther and make her listen now to what he had to say. The time239was getting short, and there was so much to tell her and explain.
He rose and bent over her, but she did not move, and he went back again to his corner.
He let the window down a little way, hoping the cold night air would help to keep him awake. The minutes seemed to drag, though in reality only a quarter of an hour had passed when Esther woke with a little smothered cry.
Micky was on his feet in an instant.
“It’s all right––there’s nothing to be afraid of––you’ve been asleep.”
She rubbed her eyes childishly with her knuckles; she stared at him for a moment unrecognisingly, then, as memory returned, she shrank back into her corner.
Micky picked up the rug and coat that had slithered to the floor; he waited a few moments till he saw that she was quite awake before he spoke, then he said gently––
“I hope you feel better. We shall soon be in now. Are you warm enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“We shall be into Paris very soon,” he said again; “and there is a great deal I want to say to you first. Will you listen to me if I try to explain?”
She met his eyes unflinchingly.
“There is only one man who can possibly explain anything to me,” she said then, “and he is not you.”
Micky lost his temper; he was cold and tired and hungry, and at that moment she seemed the most unreasonable of mortals.
“I shall not allow you to see Ashton, if you mean Ashton,” he said roughly. “The man isn’t fit for you to think about. He’s married, you know that ... Esther, for your own sake–––”
She had turned her face away and was looking out into the darkness; she seemed not to be listening.
Micky went on urgently.
240
“I blame myself. I always meant to tell you before things had gone as far as this. I shall never forgive myself for not having done so. I’ve behaved like a cad, but my only excuse is that I loved you; I wanted to spare you unnecessary pain–––” He was no longer stammering and self-conscious, his voice was firm and steady. “I suppose I was a fool to imagine that I could ever make you care for me; I suppose it was conceit that led me to think I could ever cut out this ... this phantom lover of yours–––” He laughed mirthlessly.
“Esther, let me take you back home; it’s no use seeing Ashton––it only means humiliation and pain for you.”
Her lips moved, but no words came.
“Let me take you home to June,” he went on. “She will tell you that what I say is only the truth. She knows him––she....”
She spoke then.
“She always hated him; it isn’t likely she would wish me to marry him.” She bit her lip. “Oh, it’s no use saying any more,” she broke out wildly after a moment. “I’m going to see him––I can’t bear it if I don’t see him––just once! I’ve got to hear the truth–––”
“I’ve told you the truth,” he repeated doggedly. “It’s no interest to me to try and prevent you from seeing him. I know I’ve done for whatever chance I had with you. Oh, for heaven’s sake believe that it’s only for your sake I want to take you back!”
She shook her head.
In her heart she found it impossible to believe him; she thought of the letters she had received from Raymond, the money––the presents––why even this coat she wore had come from him; she felt that she could laugh at this man opposite to her. A little smile curved her lips; a contemptuous smile it seemed to Micky.
For the first time the injustice of it all seemed to strike him; for him who had done his best she had nothing but dislike and contempt, but for the man who had left her with a brutal letter of farewell, who had thrown241her over because she had no money, she had endless faith and trust, and love!
He broke out in his agitation.
“I’ve tried to spare you––I’ve done my best, but you won’t let me ... I’ve kept back the truth, but now you’ll have to hear it if nothing else will keep you from him. He’s never given you a thought since he left London––he imagines that you’ve forgotten him. It was he you saw at the Comedy Theatre that night when June and I were with you. He didn’t even trouble to let you know that he was in London––that’s how he cares for you––this man you refuse to believe one word against ...” His eyes flamed as they met hers.
She was staring at him now; her face was white and incredulous.
“If you––if you think I’m going to believe that–––” she began, in a high, unnatural voice. She stopped; she seemed to realise all at once that he was speaking the truth. She leaned towards him. Her breath came in broken gasps.
“Those letters!” she said shrilly. “Whose letters? They were from him––they were from him––weren’t they from him?” she asked hoarsely.
“No,” said Micky doggedly.
Better to hurt her now, he told himself, than to let her go on to worse pain and humiliation.
There was a tragic silence; then she asked again, in a whisper––
“Then who––who wrote them?”
A wave of crimson flooded Micky’s white face. He dropped his head in his hands as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.
“I did,” he said brokenly.