The Phantom Lover Part 75

Charlie had been her only friend then. Was he all that was to remain to her now?

June watched her across the room.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly; but Esther only shook her head.

For two days Micky Mellowes never left his rooms, and hardly ate a thing, and for once in his life Driver permitted a spark of anxiety to creep into his dull eyes. He was sure that his master was ill; he tried tempting dishes and alluring c.o.c.ktails, but Micky refused them all.

"My good man, I'm not an invalid," he protested irritably.

He hated it, because he knew his agitation was apparent; he tried to settle to read, but whenever a bell rang through the house he started up with racing pulses.

She must have got his letter, he knew. If there was any hope for him at all she would write at once or send for him. His nerves began to wear to rags.

Sometimes his hopes soared to the skies, to drop to zero again. Once in a fit of despondency he told Driver to pack his bag, as they would be leaving early in the morning.

"Yes, sir--where shall we be going, sir?" Driver asked stoically.

Micky swore.

"You do ask such d.a.m.ned silly questions," he complained irritably.

An hour later, when he found Driver packing, he called him a fool, and told him to unpack at once.

And so the days dragged away.

"Any more posts to-night?" Micky asked jerkily, on the second day.

Driver eyed the clock.

"There should be one at nine, sir."

But nine came, and half-past, and no post.

"Is it too late for the post now, Driver?" Micky asked feverishly, when it was nearly ten.

"The post went by, sir," was the answer. "I was down at the door and saw the postman pa.s.s."

Micky went back to his chair. It was all he could expect, he told himself--there had been no answer to his letter: there never would be an answer now.

When Driver came into the room again, Micky said without looking up--

"Pack that bag again, there's a good fellow, will you?"

"Yes, sir," said Driver imperturbably.

He hesitated, then asked--

"And--er--where did you say we should be going, sir?"

"I didn't say," said Micky. "And I don't care--on the Continent--anywhere you like--look up some hotels...."

One place was as good as another, he argued, as he sat and watched Driver pack. Wherever he went he was going to be infernally miserable, so what did it matter?

When Driver stoically inquired how long he expected to be away, Micky answered violently that he was never coming back if he could help it; he said he hated London--he said he was sick to death of his flat and wanted a change.

"I shan't come back till the autumn anyway," he declared recklessly.

"Very good, sir," was the stolid reply. Driver knew his master; he could remember another occasion when Micky had left London in a rage never to return, and ten days had seen him back again.

Certainly this was rather a different case from that other; this time there was a woman behind it. Driver knew this perfectly well, though beyond the posting of letters and the buying of the fur coat he had had no firsthand evidence.

But he kept his thoughts to himself and packed shirts and socks and coats by the score, as if to keep up the belief that they were really going for months, instead of the day which were the limit he prescribed in his own mind.

When Rochester called later on in the evening, Micky was almost rude to him. The American looked so unfeignedly happy that it got on Micky's nerves; but George P. Rochester was difficult to snub; he looked on at the packing with childlike amazement.

"It's a sudden idea of yours, this flitting!" he submitted mildly.

Micky did not answer.

"Hope you'll be back in time for my wedding, Sonnie," Rochester said again.

Micky flushed crimson; there was something rather pathetic about him at that moment.

"Oh, I'll be back all right," he said shortly.

Rochester laughed.

"You won't have to stay away long then," he said significantly.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

Esther woke from a troubled sleep that night, to find June standing beside her. Pale moonlight shone into the room from half-drawn blinds, filling it with an eerie light, as Esther started up trembling and frightened.

"What is it? is anything the matter? Oh, I thought you were a ghost!"

She clutched at June with both hands. "Oh, is anything the matter?"

she asked again.

June laughed nervously; she found matches and lit a candle, then she came back to Esther and thrust something into her hands.

"You'll never forgive me," she said. "But I've had it in my coat pocket for two days...." She pushed her dark hair back from her forehead tragically. "Lydia gave it to me for you the day I went out in my best hat to meet George, and I was such a selfish, conceited pig that he put everything else out of my head, and I forgot all about it till just now, when I was lying awake thinking ... and then ... oh, Esther, it's from Micky!"

Esther looked down at the crumpled envelope--

"From--Micky?..." she said. She was only half awake; she made a very fair picture there with her long hair tumbling about her shoulders, and her face a little flushed and startled.