Micky stayed in Paris four days; the four longest days of his life.
He wandered about killing time and wishing everything and every one at
the bottom of the sea.
It seemed impossible that he had ever managed to have a good time over
here--the noise and bustle of the streets got on his nerves; the
things that had always amused him before bored him and left him cold;
he thought of London with a deadly sort of home-sickness.
Esther did not mean to write to him, he was sure, and in some ways he
hoped she would not; he realised that he was playing a mean trick on
her, cheating her out of fond words and a love-letter to which he had
not the smallest claim.
He tried to salve his conscience by making up his mind to leave on the
Monday morning whatever happened; if there was no letter by that time
there would never be one. Esther would have gone to Mrs. Ashton's. It
was surprising how much he hated the thought of her being with
Raymond's mother. During the interminable hours when he walked about
Paris trying to kill time he thought out all manner of possibilities
that might result from this unforeseen contingency. Mrs. Ashton might
get fond of Esther--and if she got fond of Esther, well--who knew what
might happen in the future in spite of Tubby Clare's little widow? He
had not run across Ashton again, and he sincerely hoped that he would
not.
When Monday morning came he packed his portmanteau before he left his
room--there would be no letter for him, so he might as well clear out
and go home without making a further fool of himself. There was not
the least hope in his heart when he went to the bureau and asked for
letters; the reply came as it had done each morning: "Nothing for
monsieur...."
Micky turned away. He was half way to the dining-room before it
suddenly dawned upon him that they did not know he was expecting
letters in the name of Ashton--that he had forgotten to tell them. He
went back hurriedly to the bureau.
"Any letters for Ashton?--I am expecting one for a friend of mine of
that name...."
He waited breathlessly while the girl sorted through the pigeon-holes
on the wall; he felt as if he could hardly breathe when she came back
with a grey envelope in her hand.
"Mais oui...." she said smilingly. "I did not know it was for
monsieur...."
Mickey almost snatched it from her; he had not even glanced at the
writing, but he knew it must be from Esther. He sat down at the
breakfast table with his thoughts in a whirl; he was sure that the
waiter must know how excited he felt. He ordered coffee and rolls
before he opened the envelope; he laid it down on the cloth beside him
and stared at it very much as a sentimental girl might stare at her
first love-letter, hesitating to open it, wishing to prolong the
ultimate delight.
Finally he cut it open carefully and drew out the contents. His pulses
were racing, he did not know if shame or delight were the greatest
emotion in his heart; he glanced at the first two words and the blood
rushed to his face.
It seemed almost sacrilege to read what she had written to the man she
loved--he pushed the paper back into its envelope--he did not look at
it again till he had finished his pretence of a meal, then he took it
out with him into the rather dingy winter garden and sat down in the
quietest corner he could find.
There he faced the greatest moment of his life; as to whether he
should go on with this thing or wipe it out of his life once and for
all.
Ashton had done with Esther; he was as sure of that as he was sure
that Ashton meant to marry Mrs. Clare. This being so, was it wrong of
him to try and give Esther some happiness in place of what she had
lost? She had refused to marry him--she had said that she could never
care for him; could he hope to make her change her mind? In his heart
he was sure that he could; he wanted her so badly that it seemed to
him as if the very force of his desire must compel some return from
her.
He sat staring down the dismal garden with moody eyes. He knew it was
a big risk; he thought of her as he had first seen her and as he had
last seen her. He had never once really thought that she looked
happy--she had never quite lost the shadow in her eyes or the droop to
her lips which he had at first noticed, and he wanted her to be happy.
He wanted her happiness far more than he wanted his own.
He took the letter from his pocket and looked at the address on the
envelope. "Raymond Ashton, Esq...."
He hated the sight of that name--some day Esther would hate it too,
when she knew how he had deceived her.
It was a great risk--but ...
"I'll chance it," said Mickey under his breath, and drew out the
letter again.
"MY DARLING BOY,--You can never know how glad and happy I was to
get your letter to-night and to know that I can really write to
you at last. I have been so miserable during these weeks in spite
of all your goodness--and you have been good. It makes me feel
mean and ungrateful now when I remember how horrid I often was to
you before you went away. When you come back I will make it all up
to you, and show you how nice I really can be, because I do love
you--I have never loved any one but you. Thank you so much for the
money you have sent me--I was very much down on my luck when it
came. They haven't a vacancy for me just now at Eldred's, or else
they did not want me back, and I am going to try and find another
berth. I am living in a new boarding-house, as you will see; it's
ever so much nicer than the Brixton Road, and I shall be able to
stay on now you are so generously sending me money. I have made a
nice friend here, too, a girl named June Mason--she tells me that
she knows your mother, and you, too!--I did not let her know how
well I knew you, dear, as I thought perhaps you would rather I
said nothing about it. She has a man friend who sometimes comes to
see her--a Mr. Mellowes--she thinks the world of him, but I think
he is detestable...."
Mickey caught his breath hard. After a moment he went on reading:
"June tells me he is very rich, and quite a 'somebody,' but I
cannot see anything out of the ordinary about him, and he isn't a
bit good looking. He knows you, too--but he does not say much
about you. Dearest, it seems such a long time since I saw you--and
I cannot help wondering if you really miss me and want me as much
as I want you.... Sometimes I would give just anything to lay my
head on your shoulder and say how much I love you. I'm very
lonely, really; though June is so kind she isn't any one of my
very own, is she? And now I wonder if you will be very angry with
me if I ask you something? I don't think I should have dared to,
only your last letters have been so dear and kind. Raymond, why
can't I come out to you and be with you? We could get married, and
we should be ever so happy even if we have to be poor--at least, I
know I could, and from your letters, somehow I think it sounds as
if you, too, have realised that there isn't much happiness away
from me. I have had the offer of a good post--I won't tell you
what it is, as I want it to be a surprise to you if I do take it.
But if you would like me to come, I will just leave everything and
come to you. Couldn't you send me a wire when you get this letter?
I shall be longing and waiting to hear from you. I am a little bit
afraid in my heart, really, now I have written this, but your last
letter is lying beside me, and I keep peeping at it and reading
what you say there, and somehow I feel that it's going to be all
right.--
With all my love for ever and ever, LALLIE.
Mickey sat there staring down at her signature a long time after he
had reached the end.
Then he moved slowly as if it cost him an effort. He was rather pale
now, and there was a hard line round his mouth. So that was how she
thought of him! Somehow he had not imagined how much it would hurt to
read the fond words and to know all the time that they were written to
another man. And to a man so unworthy! He thought of Ashton as he had
seen him three nights ago with Mrs. Clare; of his callous questioning
about Esther; of his almost brutal remarks, and it made his blood
boil.
He could picture her so well--waiting for a wire that would never
come.
He hated Ashton at that moment. His brows almost met above his eyes in
a scowl as he went up to the bureau and asked for his bill. The
smiling French girl sobered a little meeting his gaze; for once she
did not dare to smile or dimple; she gave him his account silently.
"Ah, but they are funny, these English;" she told her father
afterwards. "To-day he had no smile, the tall monsieur--not even one
little smile!"
She watched Micky across the lounge with interested eyes as he sat
down at one of the tables and proceeded to write a letter. It took him
a long time, and twice she saw that he tore up what he had written and
flung it into the wastepaper basket, but at last he had finished, and
getting up, stalked away.
Celeste ventured out then--there was nobody about, and tiptoeing
across the lounge, took the torn papers from the paper-basket. They
were torn across and across, but on one or two slips the writing was
visible, and she carried them back with her to the shelter of the
bureau.
She spread them out on the desk before her, carefully piecing them
together. She knew English quite well, and she soon made out one
sentence:--
"It is not that I do not love you--I have never loved you better than
at this moment--but...."
Celeste was sentimental. She gave a big sigh of sympathy for the big
Englishman. "No wonder he has no smile!" she told herself. "_C'est si
triste!_"