The Imaginary Marriage Part 38

She did not answer in words, nodding speechlessly.

"Is he a good man, dear?"

"The best in the world, Hugh," she said softly--"the finest, the dearest, and best."

"That's bad!" Hugh thought. "But I might have guessed that she would say that, bless her little heart! Poor Tom!" He sighed. "So, after all, this beautiful muddle I have made of things goes for nothing! Do you care to tell me who he is, Marjorie?"

"Don't ask me--don't ask me! I can't tell you! I wish I hadn't come. I had no right to ask you to--to listen to me. I wish I hadn't written now!"

He came across to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He bent and kissed the bright hair.

"Little girl, remember always that I am your old friend and your true friend, who would help you in every way at any time. I am not of much use, I am afraid; but such as I am, I am at your service, dear, always, always! Tell me, what can I do? How can I help you?"

"Nothing, nothing, you--you can't help me, Hugh!"

"Can I see Tom?"

"No, oh no, you must not!"

"Can I see--the other? Marjorie, does he know? Has he spoken to you--not knowing perhaps of your engagement to Tom?"

She shook her head. "He--he doesn't know anything!"

Silence fell on them.

"Don't think about it any more, you can't help me. Hugh, where have you been all this long time?"

"I have been in Kent, at Starden."

"Is--is that where she--"

"Joan? Yes! she lives there. I have been there, believing I can help her, and I shall help her!"

"You--you love her so?"

"Better than my life," he said quietly, and never dreamed how those four words entered like a keen-edged sword into the heart of the girl who heard them.

She rose almost immediately.

"I am a foolish, silly girl, and--and, Hugh, I want you to forget what I told you. I shall forget it. I shall go back to--to Tom, and I will try and be worthy of him, try and be good-tempered and--all he wants me to be. Good-bye, Hugh!"

It seemed to him that she had changed suddenly, changed under his very eyes; the tenderness and the tears seemed to have vanished. She spoke almost coldly, and with a dignity he had never seen in her before, and then she went with scarce a look at him, leaving him sorely puzzled.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

GONE

"DEAR JOAN,

"I daresay you will wonder at not having heard from me for so long, but I have been busy. Things have been going from bad to worse with me of late, and I have been obliged to give up the old offices in Gracebury. I often think of the days when we were so much together, as I daresay you do. Naturally I miss you, and naturally I want to see you again. I feel that you seemed to have some objection to my coming to your house. That being so, I wish to consult your wishes in every way, and so I am writing to suggest that you meet me to-morrow, that is Sat.u.r.day night, on the Little Langbourne Road. I daresay you will wonder why I am so familiar with your neighbourhood, but to tell you the truth I am naturally so interested in you that I have been down quietly several times--motoring, just to look round and hear news of you from local gossip, which is always amusing. I have heard of your engagement, of course, and I am interested; but we will talk of that when we meet--to-morrow night at the gate leading into the field where the big ruined barn stands, about half a mile out of Starden on the Little Langbourne Road at nine o'clock. This is definite and precise, isn't it? It will then be dark enough for you to be un.o.bserved, and you will come. I am sure you will come.

You would not anger and pain an old friend by refusing.

"I hear that the happy man is a sort of gentleman farmer who lives at Buddesby in Little Langbourne. If by any chance I should fail to see you at the place of meeting, I shall put up at Little Langbourne, and shall probably make the acquaintance of Mr. John Everard.

"Believe me, "Your friend, "PHILIP SLOTMAN."

It was a letter that all the world might read, and see no deep and hidden meaning behind it, but Joan knew better. She read threat and menace in every line. The man threatened that if she did not keep this appointment he would go to Langbourne and find John Everard, and then into John Everard's ears he would pour out his poisoned, lying, slanderous story.

Better a thousand times that she herself should go to Johnny and tell him the whole truth, hiding nothing. Yet she knew that she could not do that; her pride forbade. If she loved him--then it would be different.

She could go to him, she could tell him everything, laying bare her soul, just because she loved him. But she did not love him. She liked him, she admired him, she honoured him; but she did not love him, and in her innermost heart she knew why she did not love Johnny Everard, and never would.

But the letter had come, the threat was here. What could she do? to whom turn? And then she remembered that hard by her own gate was a man, the man to whom she owed all this, all her troubles and all her annoyance and shame, but a man who would fight for and protect and stand by her.

Her heart swelled, the tears gathered for a moment in her eyes.

He had not answered the letter she had sent him a couple of days ago.

She had looked for an answer, and had felt disappointed at not receiving one, though she had told herself that she expected none.

For long Joan hesitated, pride fighting against her desire for help and support. But pride gave way; she felt terribly lonely, even though she was soon to be married to a man who loved her. To that man ought she to turn, yet she did not, and hardly even gave it a thought. She had made no false pretences to Johnny Everard. She had told him frankly that she did not love him, yet that if he were willing to take her without love, she would go to him.

So now, having decided what she would do, Joan went to her room to write a letter to the man she must turn to, the man who had the right to help her. She flushed as the words brought another memory into her mind; the flush ran from brow to chin, for back into her mind came the words the man had uttered. Strange it was how her mind treasured up almost all that he had ever said to her.

_"You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart!"_

That was what he had said, and she would never forget, because she knew--that it was true.

She went to her own room, where was her private writing-table. She found the room in the hands of a maid dusting and sweeping.

"You need not go, Alice," she said. "I am only going to write a letter."

The girl went on with her work.

"I did not think to appeal to you, yet I find I must appeal for help that I know you will give, because but for you I should not need it.

I--"

She paused.

"Funny, miss, Mrs. Bonner's lodger going off like that in such a hurry, wasn't it?" said the girl on her knees beside the hearth.

Joan started. "What do you mean, Alice?"

"The gentleman you gave our Bob a letter for--Mr. Alston," said Alice Betts. "Funny his going off like he did in such a hurry."

"Then you--you mean he is gone?"

"Thursday night, miss."