UNREST
Lady Linden patted the girl’s small white hand.
“Yes, child,” she said comfortably, “Colonel Arundel and I had a nice
long talk last night, and you may guess what it was about. He and I
were boy and girl together, there’s no better blood in the kingdom than
the Arundel’s—what was I saying? Oh yes, we decided that it would be a
good plan to have a two years’ engagement, or better still, none for
eighteen months, and then a six months’ engagement. During that time
Tom can study modern scientific farming and that sort of thing, you
know, and then when you and he are married, he could take over these
estates. I am heartily sick of Bilson, and I always fancy he is robbing
me—what did you say, child?”
“Nothing, auntie.”
“Well, you ought to be a very happy little girl. Run away.”
But Marjorie lingered. “Aunt, you haven’t heard anything of—of Hugh?”
she asked.
“Hugh—Hugh Alston? Good gracious, no! You don’t think I am going to run
after the man? I am disgusted with Hugh. His duplicity and, worse
still, his obstinate, foolish, unreasoning behaviour, have annoyed me
more than anything I ever remember. But there, my dear child, it is
nothing to do with you. I have quite altered my opinion of Hugh Alston.
You were right and I was wrong. Tom Arundel will make you a better
husband, and you will be as happy as the day is long with him.”
“I shan’t!” Marjorie thought as she turned away. It was wrong, and it
was unreasonable, and she knew it; but for the last four or five days
there had been steadily growing in Marjorie’s brain, an Idea.
Stolen fruits are sweetest, stolen meetings, moonlit assignations, shy
kisses pressed on ardent young lips, when the world is shrouded in
darkness and seems to hold but two. All these things make for romance.
The silvery moonlight gives false values; the knowledge that one has
slipped unseen from the house to meet the beloved one, and that the
doing of it is a brave and bold adventure, gives a thrill that sets the
heart throbbing and the young blood leaping—the knowledge that it is
forbidden, and, being forbidden, very sweet, appeals to the young and
romantic heart.
But when that same beloved object, looking less romantic in correct
evening dress, is accepted smilingly by the powers that be, and is sate
down to a large and varied, many coursed dinner, then Romance shrugs
her disgusted shoulders and turns petulantly away.
It was so with Marjorie. When the idea first came to her, she felt
shocked and amazed. It could not be! she said to herself. “I love Tom
with all my heart and soul, and now I am the happiest girl living.”
But she was not, and she knew it. It was useless to tell herself that
she was the happiest girl living when night after night she lay awake,
staring into the darkness and seeing in memory a face that certainly
did not belong to Tom Arundel.
Hugh Alston had commenced work on the restoration of certain parts of
Hurst Dormer. He had busied himself with the work, had entered
whole-heartedly into all the plans, had counted up the cost, and then,
realising that all his enthusiasm was only forced, that he was merely
trying to cheat himself, he lost interest and gave it up.
“I’ll go to London,” he said. “I’ll go and see things, and try and get
thoughts of her out of my mind.” So he went, and found London even more
uninteresting than Hurst Dormer.
He had promised that he would never molest her, never annoy her with
his visits or his presence, and he meant religiously to keep his word,
and yet—if he could just see her! She need not know! If he could from a
distance feast his eyes on her for one moment, on a sight of her, what
harm would he do her or anyone?
Hugh Alston did not recognise himself in this restless dissatisfied,
unhappy man, who took to loitering and wandering about the streets,
haunting certain places and keeping a sharp lookout for someone who
might or might not come.
So the days passed. He had gladdened his eyes three times with a view
of old General Bartholomew. He had seen that ancient man leaning on his
stick, taking a constitutional around the square.
And that was all! He passed the house and watched, yet saw no sign of
her. He came at night-time, when tell-tale shadows might be thrown on
the blinds, but saw nothing, only the shadow of the General or of his
secretary, never one that might have been hers.
And then he slowly came to the conclusion that Joan Meredyth could no
longer be there. It had taken him nearly a week to come to that
decision.
That Joan had left General Bartholomew’s house he was certain, but
where was she? He had no right to enquire, no right to hunt her down.
If he knew where she was, how could it profit him, for had he not
promised to trouble her no more?
Yet still for all that he wanted to know, and casting about in his mind
how he might find her, he thought of Mr. Philip Slotman.
It was possible that if she had left the General’s she had gone back to
take up her work with Slotman again.
“I’ll risk it,” he thought, and went to Gracebury and made his way to
Slotman’s office.
It was a sadly depleted staff that he found in the general office. An
ancient man and a young boy represented Mr. Philip Slotman’s one-time
large clerical staff.
“Mr. Slotman’s away, sir, down in the country—gone down to Sussex,
sir,” said the lad.
“To Sussex? Will he be away long?”
“Can’t say, sir; he may be back to-morrow,” the boy said. “At any rate,
he’s not here to-day.”
“I may come back to-morrow. You might tell him that Mr. Alston called.”
And Hugh turned away.
Another disappointment. He realised now that he had built up quite a
lot of hope on his interview with Slotman.
“Shall I wait till to-morrow, or shall I go back to-day?” Hugh
wondered. “This is getting awful. I don’t seem to have a mind of my
own, I can’t settle down to a thing. I’ve got to get a grip on myself.
How does the old poem go: ‘If she be fair, but not fair to me, what
care I how fair she be?’ That’s all right; but I do care, and I can’t
help it!”
He had made his aimless way back to the West End of London. It was
luncheon time, and he was hesitating between a restaurant and an hotel.
“I’ll go back to the hotel, get some lunch, pack up and leave by the
five o’clock train for Hurst Dormer,” he decided, and turned to hail a
taxicab.
And, turning, he came suddenly face to face with the girl who was ever
in his thoughts.
She had been helping a middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman out of a cab,
and then, as she turned, their eyes met, and into Joan Meredyth’s
cheeks there flashed the tell-tale colour that proved to him and to all
the world that this chance meeting with him meant something to her
after all.