THE DROPPING OF THE SCALES
It was like turning back the pages of a well-loved book, a breath out
of the past. For this afternoon it seemed to John Everard that his
little friend, almost sister, had come back to him.
And yet it seemed to Johnny, who studied her quietly, that here was one
whom he had never known, never seen before. The child had been dear to
him as a younger sister, but the child was no more.
And to-day, for these few brief hours, Ellice gave herself up to a
happiness that she knew could be but fleeting. To-day she would be the
butterfly, living and rejoicing in the sun. The darkness would come
soon enough, but to-day was hers and his.
How far in his boldness John Everard drove that little car he did not
quite realise, but it was a slight shock to him to read on a sign-post
“Holsworth four miles,” for Holsworth was more than forty miles from
Little Langbourne.
“Gipsy, we must go back,” he said. “We’ll get some tea at the farmhouse
we passed a mile back, and then we will hurry on. Con will be
worrying.”
They had tea at the little farmhouse, and sat facing one another, and
more than ever grew the wonder in Johnny’s mind. Why—why had this girl
changed so? What was the meaning of it, the reason for it? It was not
the years, for a few days, a few short weeks had wrought the change.
And then he remembered with a sense of shame and wrongdoing that,
strangely enough, he had scarcely flung one thought to Joan all that
long afternoon.
And now in the dusk of the evening they set off on the homeward
journey. And at Harlowe happened the inevitable, when one has only a
small-sized tank, and undertakes a journey longer than the average, the
petrol ran out. The car stopped after sundry spluttering explosions and
back-firings.
“Nothing else for it, Gipsy. I must tramp back to Harlowe and get some
petrol—serves me right, I ought to have thought of it. Are you afraid
of being left there with the car?”
“Afraid!” She laughed. “Afraid of what, Johnny?”
“Nothing, dear!”
He set off patiently with an empty petrol tin in each hand, and she
watched him till he was lost in the dusk.
“Afraid!” she repeated. “Afraid only of one thing in this world—of
myself, of my love for him!” And then suddenly sobs shook her, and she
buried her face in her hands and cried as if her heart must break.
It took Johnny a full hour to tramp to Harlowe and to tramp back with
the two heavy tins, and then something seemed to go wrong. The car
would not start up: another hour passed, and they had a considerable
way to go, and then suddenly, seemingly without rhyme or reason, the
car started and ran beautifully, and once more they were off and away.
But they were very late when they came into Starden, and with still
some six and a half miles to go before they could reassure Connie.
“Connie will be worrying, Gipsy,” Johnny said. “You know what Connie
is, bless her! She’ll think all sorts of tragedies—and—” He paused, his
voice faltered, shook, and became silent.
They were running past Mrs. Bonner’s cottage. The door of the cottage
stood open, and against the yellow light within they could see the
figure of a man and of a girl, and both knew the girl to be Joan
Meredyth, and the man to be Mrs. Bonner’s lodger, the man that Joan had
cut that day in Starden.
The car was a quarter of a mile further down the road before either
spoke, and then Johnny said, and his voice was jerky and uncertain:
“Yes, Connie will be getting nervous. I shall be glad to have you
home—Gipsy.”