Micky sat for a few moments breathless and exhausted before he pulled
himself together, and taking off his hat wiped his hot forehead.
The train was gathering speed; he let down the window with a run and
looked out; the station was out of sight altogether; they were
crossing the bridge under which the silent Thames flowed sluggishly.
A breath of cold air touched his hot face and he shivered suddenly and
drew the window up once more.
Something had driven his thoughts back to his first meeting with
Esther, to the cold silence of the night, and the hard desperation of
her voice as she said--
"I didn't mean to go home any more--I shouldn't have ever gone home
again if I hadn't met you...."
If she got to Paris before he saw her she would feel like this again.
Micky groaned.
Fortunately he had the carriage to himself, but it was a third-class
compartment, and not a corridor carriage. He cursed his luck here; if
there had been a corridor he could have gone the length of the train
and seen if Esther were on it. As it was, he would have to wait till
they reached Dover, and even then perhaps he would never find her.
He tried to calm himself with the conviction that everything would be
all right, but in his heart he was despairing; if he found Esther and
brought her back she would hate him for the rest of his life.
What had happened to make her rush off like this? He could not
imagine. She had seemed so happy only that morning. What could account
for the tragedy that seemed to breathe in every word of that little
note she had left for June?
He took it from his pocket and read it again. It gave no hint of what
had prompted this sudden flight. He wrote out a couple of telegrams to
dispatch from Dover--one for June, and another for Driver.
He wished he had got Driver with him. There was a sort of security in
the man's stolidness.
He realised that he was without luggage, and that he had not much
money. Supposing he had to go on to Paris, what the dickens was he
going to do?
When the train ran into Dover he got to his feet with a sigh of
relief. Quickly as he was out of the train a great many passengers had
left it before him. He started at a run down the platform. He stared
at every woman he met, hoping it would be Esther. The crowd was
getting thick; he had to push his way unceremoniously past people;
porters with luggage trucks jostled him; he began to lose his
temper--he was just answering with great heat a man who had cynically
asked "who he was shoving," when some one touched his arm.
"Micky...."
For a moment Micky's heart beat up in his throat; he turned quickly
and found himself looking down into the brown eyes of Marie Deland.
If she had hoped for anything better, it must have been a shock to her
to see the bitter disappointment in Micky's face. He stammered out
that he had not expected to see her, that he was in a deuce of a
hurry; he hoped she would forgive him, but--
"Micky, by all that's wonderful!" said another voice, and there was
Marie's father, the good-natured old man who had pretended to agree
with his wife when she raved against Micky for the cavalier way in
which he had treated his daughter, but who in his heart had indulged
in a quiet chuckle, thinking that Micky had been rather clever to
escape from the toils at the eleventh hour.
He shook hands with Micky heartily enough; he, at any rate, had no
grudge against him. He asked Micky a hundred questions.
"Are you going over, my boy? Come with us. I've got a reserved
carriage on the Paris express. Delighted to see you. Marie and I are
just off for a little holiday by ourselves."
He touched his daughter's arm. "Ask him to join us, my dear."
Micky did his best to answer civilly; he was in the deuce of a hurry,
he said again; he had got to meet a friend but had missed her in the
crowd.
"I came off in the deuce of a hurry," he said. He was chafing bitterly
at this enforced delay; each moment was so precious.
Marie touched her father's arm.
"We are only keeping Mr. Mellowes, Daddy...." Something in her voice
made Micky's eyes smart. It was hard luck that for the second time he
was forced to humiliate her. He stammered out incoherently that he
hoped they would forgive him, but he was in such a deuce of a
hurry.... He went off abruptly.
Everybody was off the train now, and many people were already on the
boat. Micky remembered that he had no ticket; he entered into a hot
argument with an official, who listened to him skeptically, and took
as long as possible to make out the ticket; even when Micky had paid
he still looked suspicious.
The gangway was still down; Micky went on board and stood as close to
it as he could, scanning the face of each passer.
Esther was not amongst them.
"Stand away there--stand away...."
Micky was pushed aside, and a couple of brawny seamen hauled the
gangway on to the harbour. The gap of green water was widening slowly
between the pier and the ship's side. Micky felt as if he were being
exiled. Supposing she was not on the boat?
He turned away and searched the crowded deck. The boat was full, and
most of the people were women, but there was nobody who looked in the
very least like Esther.
She would be wearing the fur coat, he was sure--the coat he had given
her!
One or two people stared at him curiously. Once he came across Marie
and her father on the leeward side of the boat. For decency's sake he
had to stop. He made an inane remark on the weather and said he
thought they were going to have a smooth crossing.
Marie's brown eyes lifted to his.
"You haven't met your friend?" she said quietly.
Micky had a horrible conviction that she had not believed that he had
any one to meet. He coloured in confusion as he answered--
"No--no. I'm sorry to say I haven't."
She moved away leaving him with her father. The old man slipped a hand
through Micky's arm.
"Don't notice her, my boy; women are queer cattle--and I expect she's
a little sore with you still."
Micky wished it was possible to jump overboard. He found the old man's
friendliness more insufferable than the look of reproach in Marie's
eyes. As soon as he could he got away; he went down the companion-way
and wandered round despondently.
If Esther were on the boat she must have seen him and was deliberately
keeping out of his way; he glanced in at the open door of the ladies'
cabin as he passed.
Several pessimistic souls who had already made up their minds to be
ill, although the sea was like a mill-pond, had arranged themselves on
the couches, with pillows under their heads; as Micky passed the cabin
some one slammed the door smartly in his face.
He went upon deck again and stood looking out to sea, with the wind
stinging his face.
It was getting dark rapidly; the lights of Dover twinkled through the
greyness. Micky stood and watched till they could no longer be seen.
He was chilled to the bone in spite of his warm coat; he turned the
collar up round his throat and thrust his hands deeply into his
pockets.
His fingers came in contact with the telegrams he had written in the
train and forgotten to send. He swore under his breath.
He kept out of the Delands' way when they reached Calais; he was first
off the boat; he stood in the darkness trembling with excitement.
There were all sorts of people pouring past him--men, women, and
children. They all seemed happy and eager--a couple of Frenchmen
standing near him chattered incessantly; Micky moistened his dry lips;
there was a little nerve throbbing in his temple.
Supposing he never saw her again! His hands clenched deep in his
pockets ... supposing he never met the half-shy glance of her grey
eyes--supposing he never heard her voice any more--or her laugh....
The sweat broke out on his forehead. For a moment he closed his eyes
with a sick feeling of hopelessness, and when he opened them again he
saw Esther standing there not half a dozen paces from him.
The glare from a huge arc lamp shone full on her slim figure and
golden hair.
She was looking round her in a scared, apprehensive way as if not
knowing where to go.
A wave of such utter relief swept through Micky's very soul that for a
moment it almost turned him faint.
She was quite alone, but as Micky watched her he saw a French porter
in a blue blouse go up to her and start chattering away, pointing to
the small suit-case she carried and gesticulating violently. Esther
shook her head--Micky remembered that she knew no French--but the man
persisted, and she shook her head again in a frightened sort of way.
Micky covered the distance between them in a couple of strides.
"Esther...." he said, in a queer, choked sort of voice.
She turned with a stifled scream, and a most unwilling relief swept
her face.
"Oh, Micky!" she said breathlessly. She put out her hand as if to grip
his arm, then drew it away, moving back.
"How did you come here ... oh, how dare you follow me...?" she said
passionately.
Micky took her arm very gently.
"We found your note," he said. "I had to come ... June said...." Then
suddenly his calmness broke "Oh, thank God I found you--thank God!" he
said hoarsely.