“HER CHAMPION”
Why should Joan have been at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage at such an hour? Why
should she have been there talking to the very man whom she had a week
ago cut dead in the village? Why, if she had anything to say to him,
whoever he was, had she not sent for him rather than seek him at his
lodgings?
Questions that puzzled and worried Johnny Everard sorely, questions
that he could not answer. Jealousy, doubt, and all the kindred feelings
came overwhelmingly. Honest as the day, he never doubted a soul’s
honesty. If he found out that a man whom he had trusted was a thief, it
shocked him; he kicked the man out and was done with him, and nothing
was left but an unpleasant memory, but Joan was different.
Trust Joan? Of course he did, utterly and entirely.
“I should be unworthy of her if I didn’t,” he thought. “In any case, I
am not worthy of her. It is all right!”
But was it all right?
Connie had been naturally a little anxious. She, womanlike, had built
up a series of tragedies in her mind, the worst of which was Johnny and
Ellice lying injured and unconscious on some far distant roadway; the
least a smashed and disabled car, and Johnny and Ellice sitting
disconsolate on a roadside bank.
But here they were, all safe and sound, and Connie bustled about,
hurrying up the long delayed dinner, making anxious enquiries, and
feeling a sense of relief and gratitude for their safe return, about
which she said nothing at all.
And now Connie was gone to bed, and Ellice too; and Johnny smoked his
pipe and frowned over it, and asked himself questions to which he could
find no answer.
“But I trust her, absolutely,” he said aloud. “Still, if she knows the
man”—he paused—“why hasn’t she spoken to me about him? I am to be her
husband soon, thank Heaven, but—”
And then came more doubts and worries crowding into his mind, and his
pipe went out, and he sat there, frowning at thoughts, greatly worried.
Johnny Everard looked up at the sound of the opening of the door. In
the doorway stood a little figure. He had never realised how little she
was till he saw her now, standing there with her bare feet and a thin
white dressing-gown over her nightdress, her hair hanging in great
waving tresses about her oval face and shoulders and far down her back.
She looked such a child—and yet such a woman, her great eyes anxiously
on his face.
“Johnny,” she said softly, “you have been worrying.”
He nodded, speechless.
“Why, Johnny?”
“Because—because, Gipsy, I am a fool—a jealous fool, I suppose.”
“If you doubt her honour and her honesty, Johnny, then you are a fool,”
she said bravely, “because Joan could not be mean and treacherous and
underhand. It would not be possible for her.”
“I thought you did not—like Joan?”
“And does that make any difference? Even if I do not like her, must I
be unjust to her? I know she is fine and honourable and true and
straight, and you must know that too, so—so why should you worry,
Johnny? Why should you worry?”
“Why has she never said one word to me about this man? Why did she
refuse to recognise him that day when she saw you and him together? Why
does she go to Mrs. Bonner’s cottage to meet him late at night?”
He hurled at her all those questions that he had been asking himself
vainly.
“I do not know why,” Ellice said gravely, “but I know that, whatever
the reason is, it is honourable and honest. Joan Meredyth,” she paused
a little, with a catch of the breath, “Joan Meredyth could not be other
than honest and true and—and straight, Johnny. It would not be her
nature to be anything else.”
“Why do you come here? Why do you come to tell me this, Gipsy?” He had
risen, he stood looking at her—such a little thing, so graceful, so
lovely with the colour in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the light
of her fine generosity. “Gipsy—” He became silent; looking at her,
strange thoughts came—wild, impossible thoughts, thoughts that come
when dreams end and one is face to face with reality. So many years he
had known her, she had been part and parcel of his life, his everyday
companion, yet it seemed to him that he had never known her till
now—the fineness, the goodness of her, the beauty of her too, the
womanliness of this child.
“I came here to tell you, Johnny, because you let yourself doubt,” she
said. “I heard you moving about the room restlessly, and that is not
like you. Usually you sit here and smoke your pipe and think or read
your paper. You never rise and move about the room as to-night.”
“How do you know?”
She laughed shortly. “I know—everything,” she said. “I listen to you
night after night. I always have for years. I have heard you come up
and go to your room, always. I always wait for that!”
“Gipsy, why—why should you?”
“Because,” she said—“because—” And then she said no more, and would
have turned away, her errand done, but that he hastened to her and
caught her by the hand.
“Gipsy, wait. Don’t go. Why did you come to tell me this of Joan
to-night?”
“Because since you have asked her to be your wife, you belong to her,
and you should not doubt her. She is above doubt—she could not be as
some women, underhand and treacherous, deceitful. That would not be
Joan Meredyth.”
“And yet you do not like her, dear. Why not?”
“I can’t—tell you.” She tried to wrench her hand free, yet he held it
strongly, and looked down into her eyes.
What did he see there? What tale did they in their honesty tell him,
that hers lips must never utter? Was he less blind at this moment than
ever before in his life? Johnny Everard never rightly understood.
“Good night,” he said, “Gipsy, good night,” and would have drawn her to
him to kiss her—as usual, but she resisted.
“Please, please don’t!” she said, and looked at him.
Her lips were quivering, there was a glorious flush in her cheeks; and
in her eyes, a kind of fear. So he let her go, and opened the door for
her and stood listening to the soft swish of her draperies as she sped
up the dark stairs.
Then very slowly Johnny Everard came back to his chair. He picked up
his pipe and stared at it, yet did not see it. He saw a pair of eyes
that seemed to burn into his, eyes that had betrayed to him at last the
secret of her heart.
“I didn’t know—I didn’t know,” Johnny Everard said brokenly. “I didn’t
know, and oh, my God! I am not worthy of that! I am not worthy of
that!”