“UNGENEROUS”
Hugh Alston had raised his hat, and she had given him the coolest of
bows. He was turning away, true to his promise to trouble her no more,
and her heart seemed to cry out against it suddenly.
If she could have believed that he had been here of deliberate intent,
to find her, to see her, she would have felt cold anger against him;
but it was an accident, and Joan knew suddenly that for some reason she
was unwilling to let him go.
What she said she hardly knew, something about the unexpectedness of
meetings that were common enough in London. At any rate she spoke, and
was rewarded by the look that came into his face. A starving dog could
not have looked more gratitude to one who had flung him a bone than
Hugh Alston, starving for her, thanked her with his eyes for the few
conventional words.
Before he could realise what had happened, she had introduced him to
her companion.
“Helen, this is Mr. Alston—whom I—I know,” she said.
“Alston.” Helen Everard congratulated herself afterwards that she had
given no sign of surprise, no start, nothing to betray the fact that
the name was familiar.
Here was the man then whom Lady Linden believed to be Joan’s husband,
the man whom Joan had denied she had married, and who she had stated to
General Bartholomew was scarcely more than a stranger to her.
And, looking at him, Helen knew that if Hugh Alston and she met again,
he would certainly not know her, for he had no eyes for anything save
the lovely cold face of the girl before him.
“Oh, Joan,” she said, “there is one of those bags I have been wanting
to get for a long time past. Excuse me, Joan dear, will you?” And Helen
made hurriedly to a shop hard by, leaving them together.
Joan felt angry with herself now it was too late. She ought to have
given him the coldest of cold bows and then ignored him; but she had
been weak, and she had spoken, and now Helen had deserted her.
“I will say good-bye, Mr. Alston, and go after my friend.”
“No, wait—wait. I want to speak to you, to thank you.”
“To thank me?” She lifted her eyebrows. “For what?”
“For speaking to me.”
“That sounds very humble, doesn’t it?” She laughed sharply.
“I am very humble to you, Joan!”
“Mr. Alston, do you realise that I am very angry with myself?” she said
coldly. “I acted on a foolish impulse. I ought not to have spoken to
you.”
“You acted on a generous impulse, that is natural to you. Now you are
pretending one that is unworthy of you, Joan.”
“I do not think you have any right to speak to me so, nor call me by
that name.”
“I must call you by the name I constantly think of you by. Joan, do you
remember what I said to you when we last met?”
“No, I—” She flushed suddenly. To deny, was unworthy of her. “Yes, I
remember.”
“It is true, remember what I said. I take not one word of it back. It
is true, and will remain true all my life.”
“My friend—will be wondering—”
“Joan, be a little merciful.”
And now for the first time he noticed that she was not dressed as he
had seen her last. There was a suggestion of wealth, of ample means
about her appearance. Clothes were the last thing that Hugh thought of,
or noticed. Yet gradually Joan’s clothes began to thrust themselves on
his notice. She was well dressed, and the stylish and becoming clothes
heightened her beauty, if possible.
“Joan, I have a confession to make.”
She bent her head.
“I couldn’t act unfairly or deal in an underhand way with you.”
“I thought differently!” she said bitterly.
“I remembered my promise made to you at General Bartholomew’s, yet I
came to London in the hope of seeing you, that was all that brought me
here. I would not have spoken to you if you had not spoken to me first.
I only wanted just to see you. I wonder,” he went on, “that I have not
been arrested as a suspicious character, as I have been loitering about
General Bartholomew’s house for days, but I never saw you, Joan!”
“I was not there!”
“No, I gathered that at last. You will believe that I had no intention
of annoying you or forcing myself on your notice. I wanted to see you,
that was all, and so when I had made up my mind that you were not
there, I went to the City Office where I saw you last.”
Her face flushed with anger.
“You have taken then to tracking me?” she said angrily.
“I am afraid it looks like it, but not to annoy you, only to satisfy my
longing to see you. Just now you said I sounded humble. I wonder if you
could guess how humble I feel.”
“I wonder,” she said sharply, “if you could guess how little I believe
anything you say, Mr. Alston? I am sorry I spoke to you. It was a
weakness I regret. Now I will say good-bye. You went to Slotman’s
office, and I suppose discussed me with him?”
“I did not; he was not there. I was glad afterwards he was not. I don’t
like the man.”
“It does not matter. In any event Mr. Slotman could not have helped
you; he does not know where I am living.”
“Won’t you tell me?”
“Why should I, to be further annoyed by you?”
“I think you know that I will not annoy you. Won’t you tell me, Joan?”
“I—I don’t see why I should. Remember, I have no wish to continue
our—our acquaintance; there is no reason you should know.”
“Yet if I knew I would be happier. I would not trouble you.”
“Surely it does not matter. I am living in the country, then—in Kent,
at Starden. I—I have come into a little money.” She looked at him
keenly. She wondered did he know, had he known that night when he had
told her that he loved her?
“I am glad of it,” he said. “I could have wished you had come into a
great deal.”
“I have!” she said quietly.
“I am truly glad,” he said. “It was one of the things that troubled me
most, the thought of you—you forced to go out into the world to earn
your living, you who are so fine and exquisite and sensitive, being
brought into contact with the ugly things of life. I am glad that you
are saved that—it lightens my heart too, Joan.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t I told you? I hated the thought of you having to work for such
a man as Slotman. I am thankful you are freed from any such need.”
She had wronged him by that thought, she was glad to realise it. He had
not known, then.
“My uncle died. He left me his fortune and the old home of our family,
which he had recently bought back, Starden Hall, in Kent. I am living
there now with Mrs. Everard, my friend and companion, and now—”
While she had been waiting to be served with a bag that she did not
particularly require, Helen Everard watched them through the
shop-window. She watched him particularly.
“I like him; he looks honest,” she thought. “It is all strange and
curious. If it were not true what Lady Linden said, why did she say it?
If it is true, then—then why—what is the cause of the quarrel between
them? Will they make it up? He does not look like a man who could treat
a woman badly. Oh dear!” Helen sighed, for she had her own plans. Like
every good woman, she was a born matchmaker at heart. She had a deep
and sincere affection for John Everard. She had decided long ago that
she must find Johnny a good wife, and here had been the very thing,
only there was this Mr. Hugh Alston.
She had been served with the bag, it had been wrapped in paper for her,
and now Helen came out. She had lingered as long as she could to give
this man every chance.
“I am afraid I have been a long time, Joan,” she began.
Hugh turned to her eagerly.
“Mrs.—Everard,” he said, “I have been trying to induce Miss Meredyth to
come and have lunch with me.”
“Oh!” Joan cried. The word lunch had never passed his lips till now,
and she looked at him angrily.
“I suggest Prince’s,” he said. “Let’s get a taxi and go there now.”
“Thank you, I do not require any lunch,” Joan said.
“But I do, my dear. I am simply famished,” said Helen.
It was like a base betrayal, but she felt that she must help this
good-looking young man who looked at her so pleadingly.
“And it is always so much nicer to have a gentleman escort, isn’t it?”
“You can’t refuse now, Joan,” Hugh said.
Joan! The name suggested to Helen that Joan had not spoken quite the
truth when she had told General Bartholomew that she and this man were
practically strangers. A strange man does not usually call a young girl
by her Christian name.
“As you like,” Joan said indifferently. She looked at Hugh resentfully.
“I do not consider it is either very clever or very considerate,” she
said in a low voice, intended for him alone.
“I am sorry, but—but I couldn’t let you go yet. You—you don’t
understand, Joan!” he stammered.
She shrugged her shoulders; she went with them because she must. She
could not create a scene, but she would take her revenge. She promised
herself that, and she did. She scarcely spoke a word during the
luncheon. She ate nothing; she looked about her with an air of
indifference. Twice she deliberately yawned behind her hand, hoping
that he would notice; and he did, and it hurt him cruelly, as she hoped
it might.
But she kept the worst sting for the last.
“Please,” she said to the waiter, “make out the bills separately—mine
and this lady’s together, and the gentleman’s by itself.”
“Joan!” he said, as the waiter went his way, and his voice was shocked
and hurt.
“Oh really, you could hardly expect that I would wish you to spend any
of your—eight thousand a year on me!”
Hugh flushed. He bent his head. His eight thousand a year that once he
had held out as a bait to her, and yet, Heaven knew, he had not meant
it so. He had only meant to be frank with her.
He was hurt and stung, as she meant he should be, and seeing it, her
heart misgave her, and she was sorry. But it was too late, and she must
not confess weakness now.
There was a cold look in his face, a bitterness about his mouth she had
never seen before. When he rose he held out his hand to Mrs. Everard;
he thanked her for coming here with him, and then he gave Joan the
coldest of cold bows. He held no hand out to her, he had no speech for
her. Only one word, one word that once before he had flung at her, and
now flung into her face again.
“Ungenerous!” he said, so that she alone could hear, and then he was
gone, and Helen looked after him. And then, turning, she glanced at
Joan, and saw that there were tears in the girl’s grey eyes.