The Phantom Lover Part 60

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 mattered to 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 d.i.c.kens would become of it?--not that it mattered much, he was too miserable to be seriously concerned about anything.

Some minutes pa.s.sed, 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 time was 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 pa.s.sed 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.

"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 thrown her 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 hoa.r.s.ely.

"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.

CHAPTER XXIX