“UNCERTAIN—COY”
Mr. Tom Arundel, cheerful and happy-go-lucky, filled with an immense
belief in a future which he was sure would somehow shape itself
satisfactorily, felt a little hurt, a little surprised, just a little
disenchanted.
“I can’t think what’s come over her. She used to be such a ripping
little thing, so sweet and good-tempered, and now—why she snaps a
chap’s head off the moment he opens his mouth. Goo-law!” said Tom.
“Supposing she grows up to be like her aunt—maybe it is in the blood!”
The prospect seemed to overwhelm him for a moment. Certainly of late
Marjorie had been uncertain, coy, and very hard to please. Marjorie had
suffered, and was suffering. She was contrasting Tom with Hugh, and
Hugh with Tom, and it made her heart ache and made her angry with
herself for her own previous blindness. And, womanlike, being in a very
bad temper with herself, she snapped at the luckless Tom like an
ill-conditioned terrier, and he never approached her but that she,
metaphorically, bared her pretty white teeth, ready to do battle with
him.
“Rum things, girls—never know how to take ’em! She don’t seem like the
same,” thought Tom. “I wonder—”
There had been a breeze, a distinct breeze. Perhaps Tom, anxious to
propitiate Lady Linden, had been a little more servile than usual. He
did not mean to be servile. Alluding to his attitude afterwards to
Marjorie, he called it “Pulling the old girl’s leg.” And when Marjorie
had turned on him, her eyes had flashed scorn on him, her little body
had quivered and shaken with indignation.
“If you think it clever currying favour with aunt by—by crawling to
her,” she cried, “then I don’t! If you want to—to keep my respect,
you’ll have to act like a man, a man with self-respect! I—I hate to see
you cringing to aunt, it makes me detest you. What does it matter if
she has money? Do you want her money? Do you want her money more than
you want me?”
“Goo-law, old girl, I—”
“Don’t talk to me!” cried Marjorie. “Be a man, or I shall hate you!”
And she had left him rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and wondering at
the ways of women and of Marjorie Linden in particular.
“Blinking little spitfire, that’s what she is!” he thought. “If she
means to grow like the old girl, then—then—Hello, here’s old Alston!”
Hugh could give Tom Arundel a matter of eight years, and therefore Tom
regarded him as elderly. “A decent old bird!” was his favourite
estimate.
“Hello!” said Hugh. “What’s the matter? Not been rowing, have you? Tom,
not rowing with the little girl, eh?”
Hugh’s face was serious, for he had caught a glimpse of Marjorie a
while ago hurrying through the garden, and the look on her face had
sent him to find Tom.
“Not worrying—her or rowing her?”
“No, goodness knows I haven’t said a word, but she flew at me and bit
me!”
“Did what?”
“Metaphorically, of course,” said Tom. “I say, Alston, do you think
Marjorie is going to grow like her aunt?”
“Look here,” said Hugh, and he gripped Tom by the shoulder with such
strength that Tom was surprised and a little pained. “Look here, I
don’t know what Marjorie is going to grow like, but I know this—that
she is the sweetest, most tender-hearted, dearest little soul, loyal
and true and straight, and because you’ve won her love, my good lad,
you ought to go down on your knees and thank Heaven for it. She’s worth
ten, fifty, a hundred of you and of me. A good woman—and Marjorie is
that—a good woman, I tell you, is better, infinitely better, than the
finest man that walks; and you are not that, not by a long way, Tom
Arundel. So if you’ve offended the child, go after her. Ask her to
forgive you and ask her humbly. You hear me? Ask her deucedly humbly,
my lad! And listen to this—if you bring one tear to her eyes, one tear,
one little stab to that tender heart of hers, if you—you bring one
breath of sorrow and sadness into her life, I’ll break your confounded
neck for you! Have you got that, Tom Arundel?”
A final shake that made Tom’s teeth rattle, and Hugh turned and strode
away to find Marjorie. Tom Arundel stared after him.
“Well, I—hang me! Hang me if I don’t believe old Alston’s in love with
her himself!”
Hugh Alston had meant to run over to Hurst Dormer and see how things
were getting on there, and incidentally to collect any letters that
might have come for him. But the days passed, and Hugh did not go. Lady
Linden required her fat horses for her own purposes. Marjorie’s own
little ancient car had developed a serious internal complaint that had
put it definitely out of commission, so there was no means of getting
to Hurst Dormer unless he walked, or wired to his man to bring over his
own car, but Hugh did not trouble to do that. They did not want him
there, everything would be all right, so Joan’s letter, with others,
was propped up on the mantelpiece in his study and dusted carefully
every morning; and Joan watched the post in vain, and with a growing
sense of anger and humiliation in her breast.
But of this Hugh knew nothing. He was watching Marjorie and Tom.
Somehow his sacrifice did not seem to have brought about the happy
results that he had hoped for.
So Hugh, though he had little understanding of women, felt yet that
things were not as they should be and as Marjorie of course could not
possibly be to blame, it must be Tom Arundel, and to Tom he addressed
himself forcibly.
Tom listened resentfully. “Look here, Alston, I don’t know what the lay
is,” he said. “I don’t know what’s the matter. I am not conscious of
having offended her. If I have, I am sorry—why goo-law, I worship the
ground the little thing treads on!”
And Hugh, looking Tom straight in the eyes, knew that he was speaking
the truth.
“Good!” he said. “I’m glad to hear it, and she’s worth it!”
“And—and it hurts me, by George it does, Alston,” Tom said, “the way
she cuts up rough with me. And now you go for me bald-headed, as if I’d
behaved like a pig to her. Why goo-law, man, I’d lie down and let her
jump on me. I’d go and drown myself if it would cause her any—any
amusement.”
There was a distinct suggestion of tears in the boy’s eyes, and Hugh
turned hastily away.
“Marjorie dear,” he was saying a while later, “what’s wrong? Tell me
all about it. Tell your old friend Hugh, and see if he can put things
right.”
“There is nothing—nothing wrong, Hugh!” Marjorie gasped. “Nothing!
Nothing in the world!” And she belied her statement by suddenly sobbing
and hiding her face against his shoulder.
“There, there—there!” he said, feeling as awkward as a man must feel
when a woman cries to him. He patted her shoulder with the
uncomfortable feeling that he was behaving like an idiot.
“It—it is nothing!” she gasped. “Hugh, it is really nothing!”
“Tom’s a good lad, one of the best—clean through and through!”
“Yes, I know he is, and—and oh, I do know it, Hugh, and it isn’t Tom’s
fault!”
“Your aunt’s been worrying you?”
“No, it is not that—oh, it is nothing, nothing in the world. It is only
that I am a—a—little fool, an ungrateful, silly, little fool!”
And Hugh was frankly puzzled.
“You’re going to be as happy as the day is long, little girl,” he said.
“Tom loves you, worships the ground you walk on; I think you’re going
to be the happiest girl alive. Dry your tears, dear, and smile as you
used to in the old days!” He stooped over her and pressed a kiss on her
shining hair; and there came to her a mad, passionate longing to lift
her arms and clasp them about his neck and confess all, confess her
stupidity and her blindness and her folly.
“It is you—you are the man I love. It is you I want—you all the time!”
She longed to say it, but did not, and Hugh Alston never knew.
Hurst Dormer looked empty, and seemed silent and dull after Cornbridge.
No place was dull and certainly no place was silent where Lady Linden
was, and coming back to Hurst Dormer, Hugh felt as if he was then
entering into a desert of solitude and silence.
“Everything has been quite all right,” said Mrs. Morrisey. “The men
have got on nicely with their work. Lane has taken advantage of your
being away to give the car a thorough overhaul, and—and I think that is
all, sir. There are a few letters waiting for you. I’ll get them.”
From whom this letter? Whose hand this? He wondered. He had never seen
“Her” writing before, yet instinct told him that this was hers.
Two minutes later Hugh Alston was behaving like a lunatic.
“Mrs. Morrisey! Mrs. Morrisey! When did this letter come?”
“Oh, that one, sir? It came ten days ago—the very day you left, the
same evening.”
“Then why—why in the name of Heaven—” he began, and then stopped
himself, for he remembered that he had ordered no letters should be
sent on.
“I hope it is not important, sir?”
“Important!” he said. “Oh no, not at all, nothing important!” Again he
read—
“Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have
subjected me to insult and annoyance, past all bearing, I ask you to
meet me in London at the earliest opportunity...”
At the earliest opportunity! And those words had been written eleven
days ago; and she had underscored the word “earliest” three times.
Eleven days ago! “I feel I have a right to appeal to you for
protection....”
She had written that, an appeal to him, and he had not until now read
the written words.
What was she thinking of him? What could she think of his long silence?
He could not blame Mrs. Morrisey. There was only himself to blame, no
one else! And there had he been, cooling his heels at Cornbridge and
interfering with other folks’ love affairs, and all the time Joan—Joan
was perhaps wondering, watching, waiting for the answer that never
came.
He wanted to send a frantic telegram; but he did nothing of the kind.
He wrote instead.
“I have been away. Only a few minutes ago did your letter reach me. I
am at your service in all things. Heaven knows I bitterly regret the
annoyance that you have been caused through me. You ask me to meet you
in London. Do you not know that I will come most willingly, eagerly. I
am writing this on the evening of Tuesday. You should receive my letter
on Wednesday, probably in the evening; but in case it may be delayed, I
suggest that you meet me in London on Thursday afternoon”—he paused,
racking his brain for some suitable meeting place—“at four o’clock, in
the Winter Garden of the Empire Hotel. Do not trouble to reply. I shall
be there without fail, and shall then be, as I am now, and will ever
be,
“Yours to command,
“HUGH ALSTON.”
This letter he wrote hurriedly, and raced off with it to catch the
post.
Seven, eight, ten days ago since Joan had written that letter, and
there had come no reply. The man had ignored her, had treated her with
silent contempt. The thought made her face burn, brought a sense of
miserable self-abasement to her. She had pleaded to him for help, and
he had treated her with silence and contempt.
Well, what did it matter? She hated him. She had always hated him. She
laughed aloud and bitterly at her own thoughts. “Yes,” she repeated to
herself, “I hate him. I feel nothing but scorn and contempt for him. I
am glad he did not answer my letter. I hope that I shall never see him
again. If we do meet, by some mischance, then I shall pass him by.”
Several times this morning Helen had looked curiously at Joan. For
Helen was in a secret that as yet Joan did not share. It was a little
conspiracy, with Helen as the prime mover in it.
“I am sure that there never was anything between Joan and that Hugh
Alston. It was some foolish tittle-tattle, some nonsense, probably
hatched by that stupid old talkative Lady Linden.”
Two days ago had come a letter for Helen Everard, with an Australian
stamp on it. It was from Jessie, her only sister, urging her to come
out to her there, reminding her of an old promise to make a home in
that distant land with her and her children. And Helen knew she must
go. She wanted to go, had always meant to go, for Jessie’s boys were
very dear to her. Yet to leave Joan alone in this great house, so
utterly alone!
Last night Helen had driven over quietly to Buddesby, and she and
Constance had had a long talk.
“I can’t leave Joan alone. I have written to Jessie, telling her that I
shall start in three months. I have said nothing to Joan yet; but,
Connie, I can’t leave her alone!”
“Helen, do you think she could care for Johnny enough to become his
wife?”
“I believe she is fond of him. I will not say that I think she is
desperately in love, but she likes him and trusts him, as she must; and
so, Connie, I hope it may come about. Joan will make an ideal wife. He
is all a woman could wish and hope for, the truest, dearest,
straightest man living, and so—Connie—I hope—”
“I will talk to him to-night, and I will suggest that he comes over
to-morrow and puts his fate to the test. I know he loves her.”
And to-day Johnny Everard should be here, if he had listened to his
sister’s advice, and that was a thing that Johnny ever did, save in the
matter of hops.
There was a look of subdued eagerness, of visible nervousness and
uncertainty, about Mr. John Everard that day. And Helen saw it.
“Joan’s in the garden, John,” she said.
“Yes, I—” He fumbled nervously with his hands.
“Helen, I have been talking to Con, at least Con’s been talking to me!”
“Yes, dear?”
“And she—she says—Con tells me that there is a chance for me—just a
chance, Helen. And, Helen, I don’t want to spoil my chance, if I have
one, by rushing in. You understand?”
“I think,” Helen said, “that Joan would like you the better and admire
you the more for being brave enough to speak out.”
“That’s it! I’ve got to speak out. You know I love her!”
“I do, dear.”
“But she doesn’t love me. It is not likely; how could she? Look at me,
a great ugly chap—how could such a girl care for me?”
“I think any girl might very easily care for you, Johnny!”
“An ugly brute like me? A farmer. I am nothing more, Helen, and—and—”
“Johnny, she is in the garden. Go to her; take your courage in both
your hands. Remember—
‘He either fears his fate too much.
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.’”
“I’ll go!” Johnny Everard said. “I can but lose, eh? That’s the worst
that can happen to me—lose. But, by Heaven! if I do lose, it is going
to—to hurt, and hurt badly. Helen dear, wish me luck!”
She put both her hands on his broad shoulders and kissed him on the
forehead. She felt to him as a mother might.
“From my heart, Johnny, I wish you luck and fortune and happiness,” she
said.
Joan was at the far end of the wide, far-spreading garden. She was
seated on a bench beside a pool where grew water-lilies, and where in
the summer sunshine the dragon-flies skimmed on the placid surface of
the green water—water that now and again was broken into a ripple by
the quick twist of the tail of one of the fat old carp that lived their
humdrum, adventureless years in the quiet depths.
She sat here, chin in hand, grey eyes watching the pool, yet seeing
nothing of its beauties, and her thoughts away, away with a man who had
insulted her, had brought trouble and shame and anger to her—a man to
whom she had appealed, and had appealed in vain; a man dead to all
manhood, a man she hated—yes, hated—for often she told herself so, and
it must be true.
And then suddenly she heard the fall of a footstep on the soft turf
behind her, and, turning, looked into the face of a man whose eyes were
filled with love for her.
So for one long moment they looked at one another, and the colour rose
in the girl’s cheeks, and into her eyes there came a wistful regret.
For she knew why this man was here. She knew what he had to say to her,
to ask of her, here by the green pool.