The Imaginary Marriage Part 43

"I must not forget that--I am--" She paused.

"Promised to another man? But you will never carry out that promise, Joan--you cannot, my dear! You cannot, because you belong to me. But it was not of that that you came to speak. Only remember what I have said.

It is true."

"It cannot be true. I never break a promise! What am I to do? Tell me and advise me. You know--what he--he says--what he thinks or--or pretends to think." Again the burning flush was in her cheeks.

"I know!"

"And even though it is all a vile and cruel lie, yet I could not bear--"

"You shall not suffer!"

"Don't--don't you understand that if people should think--think of such a thing and me--that they should speak of it and utter my name--Lies or truth, it would be almost the same; the shame of it would be horrible--horrible!" She was trembling.

"Tell me, have you seen this man?"

"Yes, last Sat.u.r.day. He wrote ordering me to meet him. In every line of the letter I read threats. I--I had to go; it was money, of course, five thousand pounds."

"And you didn't promise?" His voice was harsh and sharp, and looking at him she saw a man changed, a man whose face was hard and stern, and whose mouth had grown bitter. And, knowing it was for her, she knew that she had never admired him before as she did now.

"I promised nothing. I am to meet him again to-morrow night and--and tell him what I have decided. It is not the money, but--but to pay would seem as if I--I were afraid. And oh, I have paid before!"

"I know! And to-morrow you will meet him?"

"I--but--"

"You will meet him, Joan, but I shall be there also. Tell me where!"

She described the place, and he remembered it and knew it well enough.

"I shall be there, remember that. Go without fear--answer as you decide, but remember you pay nothing--nothing. And then I,"--he paused, and smiled for the first time--"I will do the paying."

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

THE DROPPING OF THE SCALES

It was like turning back the pages of a well-loved book, a breath out of the past. For this afternoon it seemed to John Everard that his little friend, almost sister, had come back to him.

And yet it seemed to Johnny, who studied her quietly, that here was one whom he had never known, never seen before. The child had been dear to him as a younger sister, but the child was no more.

And to-day, for these few brief hours, Ellice gave herself up to a happiness that she knew could be but fleeting. To-day she would be the b.u.t.terfly, living and rejoicing in the sun. The darkness would come soon enough, but to-day was hers and his.

How far in his boldness John Everard drove that little car he did not quite realise, but it was a slight shock to him to read on a sign-post "Holsworth four miles," for Holsworth was more than forty miles from Little Langbourne.

"Gipsy, we must go back," he said. "We'll get some tea at the farmhouse we pa.s.sed a mile back, and then we will hurry on. Con will be worrying."

They had tea at the little farmhouse, and sat facing one another, and more than ever grew the wonder in Johnny's mind. Why--why had this girl changed so? What was the meaning of it, the reason for it? It was not the years, for a few days, a few short weeks had wrought the change. And then he remembered with a sense of shame and wrongdoing that, strangely enough, he had scarcely flung one thought to Joan all that long afternoon.

And now in the dusk of the evening they set off on the homeward journey.

And at Harlowe happened the inevitable, when one has only a small-sized tank, and undertakes a journey longer than the average, the petrol ran out. The car stopped after sundry spluttering explosions and back-firings.

"Nothing else for it, Gipsy. I must tramp back to Harlowe and get some petrol--serves me right, I ought to have thought of it. Are you afraid of being left there with the car?"

"Afraid!" She laughed. "Afraid of what, Johnny?"

"Nothing, dear!"

He set off patiently with an empty petrol tin in each hand, and she watched him till he was lost in the dusk.

"Afraid!" she repeated. "Afraid only of one thing in this world--of myself, of my love for him!" And then suddenly sobs shook her, and she buried her face in her hands and cried as if her heart must break.

It took Johnny a full hour to tramp to Harlowe and to tramp back with the two heavy tins, and then something seemed to go wrong. The car would not start up: another hour pa.s.sed, and they had a considerable way to go, and then suddenly, seemingly without rhyme or reason, the car started and ran beautifully, and once more they were off and away.

But they were very late when they came into Starden, and with still some six and a half miles to go before they could rea.s.sure Connie.

"Connie will be worrying, Gipsy," Johnny said. "You know what Connie is, bless her! She'll think all sorts of tragedies--and--" He paused, his voice faltered, shook, and became silent.

They were running past Mrs. Bonner's cottage. The door of the cottage stood open, and against the yellow light within they could see the figure of a man and of a girl, and both knew the girl to be Joan Meredyth, and the man to be Mrs. Bonner's lodger, the man that Joan had cut that day in Starden.

The car was a quarter of a mile further down the road before either spoke, and then Johnny said, and his voice was jerky and uncertain:

"Yes, Connie will be getting nervous. I shall be glad to have you home--Gipsy."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

"HER CHAMPION"

Why should Joan have been at Mrs. Bonner's cottage at such an hour? Why should she have been there talking to the very man whom she had a week ago cut dead in the village? Why, if she had anything to say to him, whoever he was, had she not sent for him rather than seek him at his lodgings?

Questions that puzzled and worried Johnny Everard sorely, questions that he could not answer. Jealousy, doubt, and all the kindred feelings came overwhelmingly. Honest as the day, he never doubted a soul's honesty. If he found out that a man whom he had trusted was a thief, it shocked him; he kicked the man out and was done with him, and nothing was left but an unpleasant memory, but Joan was different.

Trust Joan? Of course he did, utterly and entirely.

"I should be unworthy of her if I didn't," he thought. "In any case, I am not worthy of her. It is all right!"

But was it all right?

Connie had been naturally a little anxious. She, womanlike, had built up a series of tragedies in her mind, the worst of which was Johnny and Ellice lying injured and unconscious on some far distant roadway; the least a smashed and disabled car, and Johnny and Ellice sitting disconsolate on a roadside bank.

But here they were, all safe and sound, and Connie bustled about, hurrying up the long delayed dinner, making anxious enquiries, and feeling a sense of relief and grat.i.tude for their safe return, about which she said nothing at all.