Outside in the road Micky suddenly started up the engine of his car.
The dull throb, throb, came faintly to Esther as she sat there as
motionless as if she had been carved in stone.
The little vibrant noise sounded like the beating of some one's heart,
she thought dully; she found herself listening to it subconsciously.
The two men behind her had moved out to the doorway; she could still
hear them talking and laughing together. Something within her urged
her to get up and follow them to tell them that she had heard what
they said, to tell them that it was all a lie--a shameful lie. But she
could not move.
She told herself that if she kept quite still for a few moments she
would wake and find that she had just dreamed it all. She stared hard
into the glowing fire, trying to believe that it was all part of her
dream, that it was not real warmth which she felt on her face at all,
that those leaping flames were only pictures of her imagination, that
even if she thrust her hand into them they would not burn her, but
would just melt away into the silence around like phantoms.
The phantom lover! June's half-mocking words beat dully against her
brain. June had always hated Raymond; she would be glad if this thing
were true.
She suddenly realised that she was shivering in every limb. With an
effort she dragged her chair closer to the fire. She put out her hands
to the flames....
"Good heavens! what are you doing?" said Micky's voice at her
shoulder. She had not heard him come into the room; it was only when
he bent and caught her hand back from the flames that she realised
what she had been going to do. She looked up at him with a sick
smile.
"I thought it wouldn't burn," she said stupidly.
A flash of alarm crept into his eyes; she looked so white.
He kept her hand in his holding it firmly.
"What's the matter?" he asked gently.
There was something so kind in his voice that for a moment she felt as
if she would have given her soul to have been able to lean her head
against his shoulder and sob out the truth; all she had just heard and
all the miserable hope and fear that had tortured her for the past few
weeks.
"What is it?" Micky said again anxiously.
She dragged her hand free of his; she remembered that he, too, had
hated Raymond, that he, too, would be glad when he knew of this
nightmare that had suddenly swooped down upon her.
She rose to her feet, holding fast to the chair-back to steady
herself.
"There isn't anything the matter; but I should like to go home--I'm
tired, that's all; I'm only tired."
She moved away to the door. The cold air beating on her face gave her
a grip of herself again. She stood for a moment looking down the
deserted street, her hands clenched.
It was only for a little while, just until they got back to Enmore,
that she had got to keep up appearances, and then--then....
A sudden wave of tragedy swept through her soul; oh, it could not be
true! It was some other man of whom they had been speaking, some other
Raymond!
She heard Micky laughing with the landlady as he paid for the coffee
and buns, and she felt that she hated him for not guessing how she
suffered. She walked down to where the little car stood waiting. If
only he would be quick and take her back; she could do nothing till
she got back to Enmore, and each moment was so precious.
It seemed an eternity until Micky joined her. He avoided looking at
her, though he bent and wrapped the rug carefully over her knees
before he took his seat.
The other car with its two occupants had vanished down the road some
minutes since; only a small cloud of grey dust on the horizon showed
which way they had gone.
Micky drove back faster than he had come. Once or twice he looked down
at Esther with an anxious pucker between his eyes.
What had happened in those few minutes to make this sudden change? he
wondered.
She had been happy and smiling enough this morning; now all that he
could see of her face, half hidden in the big upstand collar of the
coat he had given her, were two piteous blue eyes staring steadily
ahead of her down the road.
They had gone some miles almost silently when he felt that he could
bear it no longer. He stopped the car almost savagely and turned in
his seat.
"What's the matter? What have I done now?" he asked roughly. "You
weren't like this when we came out. If I've done anything to annoy
you...."
She forced herself to laugh. It would be the last straw if she broke
down now.
"How absurd!" she said in a high-pitched voice. "Nothing is the
matter. I'm tired, that's all; I shall be glad to get home."
He was not satisfied.
"You're not telling me the truth," he said. His mind searched
anxiously back to the short time they had stayed in the inn. What
could have happened? They had seen nobody there except the two men
with the racing car.
"Those two fellows who came in--they didn't annoy you, or anything
like that, when I was out of the room?"
She shook her head.
"Of course not; they never spoke to me."
"If you won't tell me what I've done, how can I hope to put things
right?" he said.
It was always like this, he told himself savagely; one little step
onward and a dozen back. He did not speak again till they got home.
Esther got out of the car without waiting for him, and went on into
the house.
After a moment Micky followed.
Esther was in the hall; she turned to him impatiently.
"Every one is out," she said. "Miss Dearling and June are both out."
There was a sort of strain in her voice which Micky could not
understand. She looked as if she had had some bad shock, and yet what
could have happened? He had not left her for more than a few minutes.
"Very well, I won't wait," he said formally. He spoke curtly; he felt
sore enough; he raised his hat stiffly and turned away.
He looked back once at the little house. He thought perhaps Esther
might be standing at the door in case he should turn, but the door was
shut, and it was impossible for him to guess that upstairs in the room
over the porch Esther had shut and locked the door and was pacing up
and down the room, her hands pressed hard against her eyes,
sobbing--great tearless sobs that seemed to rend her very heart.
"It's not true--it's not true," she said over and over again under her
breath. "It's not true--it's not true...."
The striking of a church clock in the village seemed to rouse her.
June would be back soon, and Miss Dearling.
She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief; they felt hot and burning.
She looked at herself anxiously in the little mirror--such a white
face; she turned away impatiently.
Twelve o'clock; there was a train up to town at half-past, she knew.
The confusion in her brain seemed to have passed all at once; she felt
quite calm and clear.
She would go to Paris--she would see Raymond, and hear from his own
lips what a lie it was. She ought to have gone before. She had been a
fool to listen to Micky; of course he would not wish her to go.
She put a few things into a bag. She took the last letter she had
had from Raymond, and kissed it before thrusting it back into her
dress; she scribbled a pencil note to June and fastened it to the
pincushion.
With the little suit-case in her hand she went downstairs and out into
the street.
There was nobody about, and she almost ran to the station. The porter
who had witnessed her meeting yesterday with Micky stared at her
wonderingly.
The London train was due now, he told her. She'd have to hurry.... She
was gone before he finished his slow speech.
She found an empty carriage and got in, sitting as far away from the
door as possible in case any one should come along the platform and
recognize her. It was only when the train started away that she leaned
back and closed her eyes.
"I am going to Paris; I can't live without him any longer. Please
don't worry." Over and over she found herself repeating these words in
her brain. She wondered where she had heard them and what they really
meant.
"I am going to Paris; I can't live without him any longer."
They were true anyway. She was going to Paris because she felt she
could no longer live without Raymond.
She opened her eyes with a little gasp; they were her own words. She
remembered that she had written them in the note she had left on the
pincushion for June.
Poor June! She would be angry. And Micky.... A little throb touched
her heart. She had not been very kind to Micky. She hoped he would
soon forget her. Her eyes closed again.
How long did it take to get to Paris? She had not the least idea. She
had not got much money with her; she tried to remember how much, but
somehow her brain refused to act; she took out her purse and tipped
its contents into her lap. She started to count it, but after a moment
she gave it up with a helpless feeling and put it all back again.
"Tubby Clare's little widow...." Who was Tubby Clare? she wondered.
She laughed foolishly. What a name!
But he had left his widow a great deal of money, and money was
everything nowadays. Nobody could be happy without money; Raymond had
told her that months ago; a man with money has the whole world at his
feet, so he had said.
She thought of Micky--he was one of the richest men in London, and yet
he was not happy. She had never thought that he looked happy; she
wondered if it was really because he loved her.
She wished she could stop thinking. She was so tired, she wanted to
sleep; but the wheel of thought went on and on in her brain.
The miles seemed to crawl by. Soon the fields and open country were
left behind; the houses were closer together; presently they crowded
one another, almost jostling each other out of the way, it seemed.
What an ugly place London was. She sat up with a little shiver.
Strange how cold she felt, and yet her head was burning hot.
Would this journey never end? Surely they had been travelling for days
and days already.
The train stopped with a jerk.
"Paddington ... all change--all change...."
Esther stumbled to her feet.