IN WHICH HUGH BREAKS THE NEWS
Lady Linden had just come in from one of her usual and numerous
inspections, during which she had found it necessary to reprove one of
the under-gardeners. She had described him to himself, his character,
his appearance and his methods from her own point of view, and had left
the man stupefied and amazed at the extent of her vocabulary and her
facility of expression. He was still scratching his head, dazedly, when
she came into the drawing-room.
“Hugh, you here? Where is Marjorie?”
“Down by the pond, I think,” he said, with an attempt at airiness.
“In a moment you will make me angry. You know what I wish to know. Did
you propose to Marjorie, Hugh?”
“Did I—” He seemed astonished. “Did I what?”
“Propose to Marjorie! Good heavens, man, isn’t that why I sent you
there?”
“I certainly did not propose to her. How on earth could I?”
“There is no reason on earth why you should not have proposed to her
that I can see.”
“But there is one that I can see.” He paused. “A man can’t invite a
young woman to marry him—when he is already married!”
It was out! He scarcely dared to look at her. Lady Linden said nothing;
she sat down.
“Hugh!” She had found breath and words at last. “Hugh Alston! Did I
hear you aright?”
“I believe you did!”
“You mean to tell me that you—you are a married man?”
He nodded. He realised that he was not a good liar.
“I would like some particulars,” she said coldly. “Hugh Alston, I
should be very interested to know where she is!”
“I don’t know!”
“You are mad. When were you married?”
“June nineteen eighteen,” he said glibly.
“Where?”
“At Marlbury!”
“Good gracious! That is where Marjorie used to go to school!”
“Yes, it was when I went down to see her there, and—”
“You met this woman you married? And her name?”
“Joan,” he said—“Joan Meredyth!”
“Joan—Meredyth!” said Lady Linden. She closed her eyes; she leaned back
in her chair. “That girl!”
A chill feeling of alarm swept over him. She spoke, her ladyship spoke,
as though such a girl existed, as though she knew her personally. And
the name was a pure invention! Marjorie had invented it—at least, he
believed so.
“You—you don’t know her?”
“Know her—of course I know her. Didn’t Marjorie bring her here from
Miss Skinner’s two holidays running? A very beautiful and brilliant
girl, the loveliest girl I think I ever saw! Really, Hugh Alston,
though I am surprised and pained at your silence and duplicity, I must
absolve you. I always regarded you as more or less a fool, but Joan
Meredyth is a girl any man might fall in love with!”
Hugh sat gripping the arms of his chair. What had he done, or rather
what had Marjorie done? What desperate muddle had that little maid led
him into? He had counted on the name being a pure invention, and now—
“Where is she?” demanded Lady Linden.
“I don’t know—we—we parted!”
“Why?”
“We didn’t get on, you see. She’d got a temper, and so—”
“Of course she had a temper. She is a spirited gel, full of life and
fire and intelligence. I wouldn’t give twopence for a woman without a
temper—certainly she had a temper! Bah, don’t talk to me, sir—you sit
there and tell me you were content to let her go, let a beautiful
creature like that go merely because she had a temper?”
“She—she went. I didn’t let her go; she just went!”
“Yes,” Lady Linden said thoughtfully, “I suppose she did. It is just
what Joan would do! She saw that she was not appreciated; you wrangled,
or some folly, and she simply went. She would—so would I have gone! And
now, where is she?”
“I tell you I don’t know!”
“You’ve never sought her?”
“Never! I—I—now look here,” he went on, “don’t take it to heart too
much. She is quite all right—that is, I expect—”
“You expect!” she said witheringly. “Here you sit; you have a beautiful
young wife, the most brilliant girl I ever met, and—and you let her go!
Don’t talk to me!”
“No, I won’t; let’s drop it! We will discuss it some other time—it is a
matter I prefer not to talk about! Naturally it is rather—painful to
me!”
“So I should think!”
“Yes, I much prefer not to talk about it. Let’s discuss Marjorie!”
“Confound Marjorie!”
“Marjorie is the sweetest little soul in the world, and—”
“It’s a pity you didn’t think of that three years ago!”
“And Tom Arundel is a fine fellow; no one can say one word against
him!”
“I don’t wish to discuss them! If Marjorie is obsessed with this folly
about young Arundel, it will be her misfortune. If she wants to marry
him she will probably regret it. I intended her to marry you; but since
it can’t be, I don’t feel any particular interest in the matter of
Marjorie’s marriage at the moment! Now tell me about Joan at once!”
“Believe me, I—I much prefer not to: it is a sore subject, a matter I
never speak about!”
“Oh, go away then—and leave me to myself. Let me think it all out!”
He went gladly enough; he made his way back to the lily-pond.
“Marjorie,” he said tragically, “what have you done?”
“Oh, Hugh!” She was trembling at once.
“No, no, dear, don’t worry; it is nothing. She believes every word, and
I feel sure it will be all right for you and Tom, but, oh Marjorie—that
name, I thought you had invented it!”
Marjorie flushed. “It was the name of a girl at Miss Skinner’s: she was
a great, great friend of mine. She was two years older than I, and just
as sweet and beautiful as her name, and when you were casting about for
one I—I just thought of it, Hugh. It hasn’t done any harm, has it?”
“I hope not, only, don’t you see, you’ve made me claim an existing
young lady as my wife, and if she turned up some time or other—”
“But she won’t! When she left school she went out to Australia to join
her uncle there, and she will in all probability never come back to
England.”
Hugh drew a sigh of relief. “That’s all right then! It’s all right,
little girl; it is all right. I believe things are going to be brighter
for you now.”
“Thanks to you, Hugh!”
“You know there is nothing in this world—” He looked down at the lovely
face, alive with gratitude and happiness. His dreams were ended, the
“might-have-been” would never be, but he knew that there was peace in
that little breast at last.