CONNIE DECLARES
“My dear Connie!” Helen Everard was amazed. “My dear Connie, why talk
such nonsense? This marriage between Joan and Johnny is the best, the
very best possible thing in the world for him. Joan is—”
“I know all she is, Helen,” said Connie; “no one knows better than I
do. I know she is lovely; she is good, she is rich, and she is
cold—cold to Johnny. She doesn’t love him; and I love him, Helen, and I
hate to think that Johnny should give his life to a woman who does not
care for him!”
Helen shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes, Connie with her queer
unworldly notions annoys me,” she thought.
“At any rate, dear child, it is all arranged, and whatever you and I
say will not matter in the least. But, all the same, I am sorry you are
opposed to the marriage.”
“I am!” said Connie briefly.
She had declared herself, as she had known sooner or later she must,
and she had declared on the side of the girl who loved Johnny Everard
better than her life.
At home Johnny wondered at the change that had come to the two women
whom he loved and believed in. It seemed to him that somehow they were
antagonistic to him, they seemed to cling together.
Ellice deliberately avoided him. When he asked her to go out, as in the
old days, she refused, and when he felt hurt Connie sided with her.
“Con, what does it mean?” he cried in perplexity.
“Nothing. What should it mean?”
“But it does. Ellice hardly speaks to me. When I speak to her she just
answers. You—you”—he paused—“and you are different even. What have I
done?”
“You have done nothing—yet, Johnny. It is what you are going to do—that
troubles me and makes me anxious.”
He stared, open-eyed.
“How?”
“Your marriage!”
“With Joan. You mean that you are against her?”
“I am against any woman who would have you for a husband and give you
none of her heart,” cried Connie.
“Why—why?” he stammered. “Con, you couldn’t expect that Joan would fall
in love with a chap like me?”
“Then why is she going to marry you? Isn’t marriage a union of love and
hearts? Oh, Johnny, I am anxious, very anxious. I hate it, this
loveless marriage—”
“But I love her!” he said reverently.
“Do you—can you go on loving her? Can you? Your own heart starved, can
you continue to love and give again and again? No, no, I know
better—the time will come when you will realise you have married a cold
and beautiful statue, and your heart will wither and shrivel within
you, Johnny.”
“Con, in time I will make her care for me a little.”
“She never will!”
“Why?”
Connie looked out of the window. “Johnny, dear, if I am saying
something that will hurt you, will you forgive me?—knowing that I love
you so dearly, that all I want to see is your happiness, that I hate to
see you imposed on, made a fool of, made a convenience of!”
“Connie, what do you mean?”
“I mean that I believe that Joan Meredyth will never love you, because
all the heart she has to give has been given to someone else.”
“You have no right to say that. What do you know? What can you know?”
“I know nothing. I can only guess. I can only stumble and grope in the
dark. Think! That woman, lovely, sweet, brilliant, could she accept all
that you offer her and give nothing in return if she were heart-free?
Wouldn’t your love for her appeal to her, touch her, force some
tenderness in response? Oh, I have watched her. I have seen, and I have
guessed what I know must—must be true. For she is all woman; she is no
cold icicle, but you have not touched her heart, Johnny, and you never
will, and so—so, my dear,” Connie’s voice choked with a sob, “you’ll
hate me for this—Johnny!”
He went to her, put his arm about her, and held her tightly and kissed
her.
“To prove my hate, dear,” he whispered, and then he went out with a
very thoughtful look on his face.
In the yard he saw Ellice.
“Gipsy girl,” he said, “come with me. Let’s go out—anywhere in the car
for a ride—it doesn’t matter where. Come with me!”
Her face flushed, then paled.
“No thank you!” she said coldly. “I am busy doing something for Joan.”
Johnny sighed with disappointment, there was pain in his eyes too. In
the old days she would not have refused; she would have come gladly.
“My little Gipsy girl is against me too!” He walked away slowly and
dejectedly, and the girl watched him. She lifted her hands and pressed
them hard against her breast, and then—then Johnny heard the light fall
of swift-moving feet. He felt a clutch on his arm, and turned. He saw a
flushed face, bright eyes were looking into his.
“If—if you want me to, I’ll come,” she said. “I’ll come with
you—anywhere!”
He did not answer. His hands had dropped on to her shoulders; he stood
there holding her and looking into her face, glowing with a beauty that
he had never seen in it before, and in his eyes was still that puzzled
look, the look of a man who does not quite understand.
“Why, Gipsy girl!” he said slowly, “you are a woman—you have grown up
all suddenly.”
“Yes, I am—I am a woman!” She laughed, but the laughter ended in a sob.
She bent her head, and Johnny, strangely puzzled, slipped his arm about
her and drew her a little closer to him.
He had thought her a child; but she was a woman, and he had seen in her
eyes that which set his dull wits wondering.