June raked up another appointment for the following day. "I'm behaving
like an angel to you," she told Micky. "Yesterday I tramped about the
fields till I was worn out so that I should be out of the way and
Esther could meet you. Oh, she didn't want to go at all," she hastened
to add as she saw the look of pleasure that filled his eyes. "I had to
make her go."
"Yes, I quite believe that," Micky said.
He was standing beside the car at Miss Dearling's gate, and Esther was
upstairs putting on her hat. She had protested twenty times that she
did not really want to go; she had begged June to take her place; she
had implored Micky to take June instead; but they had both refused.
"I'm not keen on motoring when it's cold," June declared. "Besides,
I've got my business to see to, and I don't want Micky. You go,
Esther, and amuse the poor soul!--just to please me."
Esther said "Very well," and tried to look as if she were not anxious
at all, but she was really looking forward to another drive.
"Didn't you really want to come?" Micky asked as they drove away.
Esther laughed. "Of course I did; I wanted to come so badly I had to
pretend that I didn't just for decency's sake."
There was a little silence.
"Did you have good news from Paris yesterday?" he asked deliberately.
He felt as if he must speak of Ashton to in some way check the wave of
joy that had filled his heart at her words; it was not to be with him
that she had wished to come, but for the drive and the comfort of the
car.
He saw how her face clouded at his question.
"Yes, thank you," she said, but her voice did not sound very
enthusiastic. Presently: "Mr. Mellowes," she said suddenly, "do you
know that I have always been sorry that I did not go to Paris that day
when I wanted to?--I wish I had now."
"Why now?" Micky asked.
She gave a little troubled laugh.
"I don't know. I really can't explain." She did not understand herself
what she really meant, but last night when she had read Raymond's
letter, it had suddenly come over her with a sickening feeling of
dismay that in some indefinite way he was really getting to be what
June had always called him--a phantom lover! It seemed so long since
she had seen him. After all, what were letters and words? But she
could not explain this to Micky.
"I think I know what you mean," he said after a moment. "You are
getting tired of this separation. Is that it? Letters are all very
well, but they are not enough...."
She looked up at him in surprise.
"Why, that is just what I do mean? How did you know?"
He laughed rather ruefully.
"Perhaps I've felt like it myself," he said.
"Have you?" There was a little note of wonderment in her voice.
"I said 'perhaps,'" he reminded her.
She changed the subject; she drew his attention to the country through
which they were passing. It was bare and wind-swept, but there was a
sort of rugged picturesqueness about it that appealed to Esther.
"I believe I should like to live in the country, after all," she said
suddenly. "You seem to be able to really breathe down here; it's not
shut in like London is."
"Dear old London," Micky said. "We all run it down, but we're all glad
to get back there when we've been away for more than a few days." He
leaned forward, wrapping the rug more closely round her. "Where do you
think you will live when you are married?" he asked.
The hot colour flooded her face; she looked up at him in a scared sort
of way.
"What a question! How do I know? I've never even thought about it."
"Haven't you?" said Micky. "I have, crowds of times. I've worked it
all out to a nicety. I shall have a house in London and a place in the
country as well, so that if my wife doesn't like town we can divide
our time and stay six months at each."
"We are not all rich like you are, you know," Esther said drily. "I
dare say when I get married--if I ever do--I shall just have a little
flat somewhere and stay there for the rest of my life, and be very
happy too," she added with a sort of defiance.
"Yes," said Micky after a moment. "I think I could be very happy in a
flat, too, for the rest of my life--with the right woman." He looked
down at her, smiling thoughtfully "The only trouble is, that I shall
probably have to marry the wrong one."
"If you do, it will be your own fault, I should think," said Esther,
laughing. She could not quite understand this man. Had he ever really
loved her, or had it all just been a pretence?
"No," said Micky promptly. "I think it will be your fault."
Esther raised her eyes slowly. Micky was smiling.
"Yes, I mean it," he said seriously. "The first time I ever saw you I
thought to myself, 'Here she is! That right woman I've been waiting
for all my life'--but, of course, you didn't think I was the right
man, and so that ended it," he added philosophically.
Esther did not like to hear him speak so lightly. She would have been
surprised if she could have known the desperate unhappiness in his
heart, the bitterness that drove him to speak so flippantly of all
that he held best and dearest.
She made no attempt to answer him, and presently he said again with
change of voice--
"Are you hungry, I wonder? Because I am! And I've got a firm
conviction that we're coming to a wayside inn. Do you see the chimneys
through the trees?..."
He slowed the car a little.
"There's another car outside--what do you say? Shall we risk it?"
"It would be rather nice," Esther admitted. She was feeling cold; she
was rather glad when the car stopped and Micky gave her his hand.
"They've got a fire anyway," he said cheerily. "I saw it through the
window, and we'll ask for some coffee."
He led the way into the parlour. Two men wrapped in heavy coats stood
by the fire; they moved to make way for Esther. After a moment they
went out of the room, and she saw them in the road bending over the
car next to Micky's.
"We can have coffee and buns," Micky said, coming back after a moment.
"I don't know what they'll be like, but----"
"I shall enjoy them anyway," she told him. "I really am hungry."
He pulled off his gloves and dragged a chair up to the fire for her.
"This is fine," he said. "Have you ever thought what a novelty a
honeymoon would be touring through villages like this? I should like
to just start away and go on driving for miles and miles, just staying
anywhere and getting meals anyhow."
Esther laughed. "I should have thought it was just the sort of thing
you would hate," she said.
"That's where you're mistaken," he told her. "I live in town and in
the way I do because people expect it of me, and I'm too lazy to
bother to change. It's not a bit the life I should choose if I had my
way. I hate dressing for dinner, and wading through six or seven
courses, and being bored stiff half the time by some dressed-up woman
beside me...."
He looked at her with a comical expression.
Esther leaned her chin in her hand and raised serious eyes to his
face.
"Well, how would you really like to live, then?" she asked.
Micky sat down on the edge of the table and stuck his long legs out
before him. He kept his eyes fixed on his boots as he answered--
"Well, I should like a place in the country, as I said, and a
garden--a ripping garden, with lots of roses and grass--walks like you
see in old-fashioned pictures, and a high box hedge--that's one of the
things I simply must have! Have you ever smelt a box hedge after a hot
sun has been on it? No? well, you ought to; it's fine!"
He paused reflectively.
"I should like to look after the roses myself, I think," he went on
presently. "I dare say I should make a mess of it, but I should like
to have a try, anyway. And I should like to keep lots of animals,
horses and dogs and chickens. Do you know"--he half turned to
her--"I've always had a fancy for great Danes--you can't keep 'em in
town, only in the country. Some people I once stayed with down in
Lincoln had a couple--ripping dogs they were--almost as big as ponies,
and they used to let the kids play with them and pull them about. Old
Lancing had a boy, you know--a ripping little kid of five--a real
sport he was, too--Uncle Micky he used to call me." Micky chuckled
reminiscently. "It must be jolly fine to have a youngster of your own
like that," he added.
This was a new Micky, indeed! Esther watched him with fascinated eyes.
She had not known that he was fond of children; she had taken it for
granted that men hardly ever were. She supposed drearily that she had
got that idea from Raymond. He had always said he would not stand
"kids." It was odd that, though Micky had used the same word, it had
sounded somehow quite different when he said it.
Micky raised his eyes suddenly. "What are you thinking about?" he
asked.
She shook her head; her lip quivered a little.
Micky half rose to go to her, when the two men who owned the second
car came back into the room again. Micky turned on his heel.
"I suppose we ought to be getting on," he said constrainedly. "I'll go
and start up; you stay here."
He went out, leaving Esther by the fire.
Her thoughts were a little confused. What had he been going to say,
she wondered. It seemed hardly possible that she had really had that
little glimpse of the other Micky whom she had never seen before; the
Micky who was not at all a man about town, but just an ordinary person
who thought it must be fine to have a home in the country and lots of
roses and a little son of his own.
The two men behind her were talking together; one of them was laughing
a good deal in a sneering way.
"She must be a fool, you know," he said drily. "I'm surprised at any
woman being caught like that. It was only her money he was after, of
course."
"I've never seen her myself," the other said disinterestedly--he
sounded rather bored--"and I only know him slightly. You met them in
Paris, you say?"
"Yes--last week." There was the sound of a match being struck and a
little pause while he puffed at a cigarette.
Esther turned in her chair; it was odd how the mention of Paris always
seemed to grip her heart. She looked at the two men, but they were
both strangers to her.
"Perhaps he won't really marry her," the elder one said yawning.
"There's many a slip you know, and from what I know of Raymond
Ashton----" He shrugged his shoulders eloquently.
The girl by the fire sat very still. She was staring at the two men
with piteous grey eyes; she felt as if all the blood in her body had
ebbed to her heart, where it was hammering enough to kill her.
Like some one in a dream she heard the laugh the other man gave----
"Not marry her! My dear boy, he must! It's his last chance, and he
knows it! He's up to his neck in debt and borrowed money. As a matter
of fact, I shouldn't be at all surprised if Tubby Clare's little widow
hasn't already changed her name for Raymond Ashton's."