"Told her nothing—nothing," said the General; "that's your business."

Strangely, their words aroused little or no curiosity in her mind. What was it she had been told or not told, she did not know. Somehow she did not care. She saw a pair of pleading eyes, she saw the colour rise in a man's cheeks. She saw an outstretched hand, held pleadingly to her, and she had repulsed that hand in disdain.

But Mr. Rankin was talking.

"Your uncle, on his way back to this country, died on board ship. His only son was killed, poor fellow, in the War. There was no one else, the will leaves everything to you unconditionally. Through myself he had purchased the old place, Starden Hall, only a few months before his death, and it was his intention to live there. So the house and the money become yours, Miss Meredyth. There is Starden, and the income of roughly fifteen thousand a year, all unconditionally yours."

And listening, dazed for the moment, there came into her mind an unworthy thought—a thought that brought a sense of shame to her, yet the thought had come.

Did that man—last night—know of this, of this fortune when he had told her that he loved her?

A few days had passed, days that had found Joan fully occupied with the many matters connected with her inheritance.

To-day she and the old General were talking in the drawing-room of the General's house.

"Of course, if you prefer it and wish it, my dear."

"I do!" said Joan. "I see no reason why Lady Linden should be in any way interested in me and my affairs. I prefer that you should tell her nothing at all. I was very fond of Marjorie, she is a dear little thing, and Lady Linden was very kind to me once, that is why I wrote to her. But now I would sooner forget it all. I shall go down to Starden and live."

"Alone?"

"I have no one, so I must be alone! Mr. Rankin says that all the business formalities will be completed this week, and there will be nothing to keep me. Mrs. Norton, the housekeeper at Starden, says the house is all ready, so I thought of going down at the beginning of next week!"

"Alone?" the old man repeated.

"Since I am alone, I must go alone."

"My dear, I am an old fellow, and likely to be in the way, but if—my society—would—"

Joan smiled, and the smile transfigured her. It brought tenderness and sweetness to the young face that adversity had somewhat hardened.

"No, I won't be selfish, dear," she said gently. "You would hate it; you are at home here, and you have all you want. There you would be unhappy and uncomfortable; but I do thank you very, very gratefully."

"But you can't go alone, child. Why bless me, there's my niece Helen Everard. She's a widow, her husband's people live close to Starden at Buddesby. If only for a time, let me arrange with her to go with you."

"If you like," she said.

"I'll write to her at once," the General said, and Joan nodded, little dreaming what the sending of that letter might mean to her.



CHAPTER XIV

THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL

For a while the unrighteous may bask in the sunshine of prosperity, but there comes a time of reckoning, more especially in the City of London, and things were at this moment shaping ill for Mr. Philip Slotman.

He stood at the door of the general office and surveyed his clerks. There were five of them; at the end of the week there would be but two, he decided. Next week probably there would be only one.

"Hello, Slotman!" It was a business acquaintance, who had dropped in to discuss the financial position.

"Things all right?

"Nothing to complain about," said Slotman, who did not believe in crying stinking fish. Credit meant everything to him, and it was for that reason he wore very nice clothes and more jewellery than good taste warranted.

In Mr. Slotman's inner office he and his friend, Mr. James Bloomberg, lighted expensive cigars.

"So the pretty typist has gone, of course?" said Bloomberg.

Slotman started. "You mean—?"

"Miss Meredyth; I've heard about her."

"About her. What?"

Bloomberg drew at his cigar. "Of course you know she's come into money, a pot of money and a fine place down in the country. Uncle died, left a will—that sort of thing. Rankin acts for me, a sound man. I was talking to him the other day, and your name cropped up."

"Go on!" said Slotman. The cigar shook between, his finger and thumb. "My name cropped up?"

"And Rankin was interested, as a young lady he was acting for had just come into a pot of money and a fine place down in Kent, and he had heard that she used to be employed by you. Ah, ha!" Bloomberg laughed. "You oughtn't to have let her slip away, old man. She was as pretty as a peach, and now with some hundreds of thousands she will be worth while, eh?"

"I suppose so," Slotman said, apparently indifferently. "And did you hear the name of the place she had come into?"

"I did. Something—Den—all places in Kent are something or other—Den. Oh, Starden! That's it! Well, I must go. But tell me, what's your opinion about those Calbary Reef Preferentials?"

Ten minutes later Slotman was alone, frowning at thought. If it were true, then indeed the luck had been against him. Even without money he had been willing, more than willing to marry Joan, in spite of the past, of which he knew nothing, but suspected much. Yes, he would have married her.

"She got hold of me," he muttered, "and I can't leave off thinking of her, and now she is an heiress, and Heaven knows I want money. If I had a chance, if—" He paused.

For a long while Mr. Philip Slotman sat in deep thought. About Joan Meredyth there was a mystery, and it was a mystery that might be well worth solving.

"I'll hunt it out," he muttered. "I'll have to work back. Let me see, there was that old General—General—?"

He frowned, Ah! he had it now, for his memory was a good one.

"General Bartholomew! That was the name," Slotman muttered. "And that is where I commence my hunt!"



CHAPTER XV

"TO THE MANNER BORN"

Starden Hall was one of those half-timbered houses in the possession of which Kent and Sussex are rich. It was no great mansion, but a comfortable, rambling old house, that had been built many a generation ago, and had been added to as occasion required by thoughtful owners, who had always borne in mind the architecture and the atmosphere of the original, and so to-day it covered a vast quantity of ground, being but one storey high, and about it spread flower gardens and noble park-land that were delights to the eye.

And this place was hers. It belonged to her, the girl who a few short weeks ago had been earning three pounds a week in a City office, and whose nightmare had been worklessness and starvation.

Helen Everard watched the girl closely. "To the manner born," she thought. And yet there was that about Joan that she would have altered, a coldness, an aloofness. Too often the beautiful mouth was set and hard, never cruel, yet scornful. Too often those lustrous eyes looked coldly out on to a world that was surely smiling on her now.

"There's something—" the elder woman thought, for she was a clever and capable woman—a woman who could see under the surface of things, a woman who had loved and suffered, and had risen triumphant over misfortunes, which had been so many and so dire that they might have crushed a less valiant spirit.

General Bartholomew had explained briefly:

"The child is alone in the world. There is something I don't quite understand, Helen. It is about a marriage—" The old gentleman paused. "Look here, I'll tell you. I had a letter from Lady Linden, an old friend, and she begged me to find Joan and bring her and her young husband together again."

"Then she is married?"

"No, that is, I—I don't know. 'Pon my soul, I don't know—can't make head or tail of it! She says she isn't, and, by George! she isn't a girl who would lie; but if she isn't—well, I'm beaten, Helen. I can't make it out. At any rate, I did bring her and the lad, and a fine lad he is too, George Alston's son, together. And he left the house without seeing me, and afterwards the girl told me that he was practically a stranger to her, and that there had never been any marriage at all. At the same time she asked me not to write to Lady Linden, and she said that it was no business of hers, which was true, come to that. And so—so now she's come into this money, and she is utterly alone in the world, and wants to go to Starden to live—why, my dear—"

"I see," Helen said. "I shall be glad to go there for a time you know; it's Alfred's country."

"I remembered that."

"John Everard is living at Buddesby with his sister Constance. They are two of the dearest people—the children, you know, of Alfred's brother Matthew."

"Yes—yes, to be sure," said the old gentleman, who was not in the slightest degree interested.

"And they will be nice for your Joan Meredyth to know," said Mrs. Everard.

"That's it, that's it! Take her about; let her see people, young people. Make her enjoy herself, and forget the past. I don't know what the past held. Joan is not one to make confidants; but I fancy that her past, poor child, has held more suffering than she cares to talk about. So try and make her forget it. Get the Everards over from Buddesby, or take her there; let her see people. But you know, you know, my dear. You're a capable woman!"

Yes, she was a capable woman, far more capable than even General Bartholomew realised. Clever and capable, kindly and generous of nature, and the girl interested her. It was only interest at first. Joan was not one to invite a warm affection in another woman at the outset. Her manner was too cold, too uninviting, and yet there was nothing repellent about it. It was as if, wounded by contact with the world, she had withdrawn behind her own defences. She, who had suffered insult and indignity, looked on all the world with suspicious, shy eyes.

"I will break down her reserve. I think she is lovable and sweet when once one can force her to throw aside this mask," Helen Everard thought.

So they had come to Starden together.

Joan had said little when she had first looked over the place; but Helen, watching her, saw a tinge of colour come into her cheeks, and her breast rise and fall quickly, which proved that Joan was by no means so unmoved as she would appear.

It was her home, the home of her people. It was to-day almost as it had been a hundred years ago, and a hundred years before that, and even a hundred years earlier still.

The low-pitched, old-fashioned rooms, with the mullioned windows, the deep embrasures, the great open, stone-slabbed hearths, with their andirons and dog-grates, the walls panelled with carved linen-fold oak, darkened by age alone and polished to a dull, glossy glow by hands that would work no more.

Through these rooms, each redolent of the past, each breathing of a kindly, comfortable home-life, the girl went, looking about her with eyes that saw everything and yet seemed to see nothing.

"You like it, dear?" Helen asked.

"It is all wonderful, beautiful!" Joan said, and yet she spoke with a touch of sadness in her voice.... "How—how lonely one might be here!" she added.

"You—you must not think of loneliness; you will never be lonely, my dear. If you are, it will be of your own choice!"

"Who knows?" Joan smiled sadly. She was thinking of a man who had told her that he loved her. There had been more than one, but the one man stood out clear and distinct from all others; she could even remember the words he had used.

"If, in telling you that I love you, I have sinned past all forgiveness, I glory in it, and I take not one word of it back."

Yet how could he love her? How could he, when he had insulted her, when he had used her name, as he had, when he had humiliated and shamed her, how could he profess to love her? And they had met but three times in their lives.

"Joan, dear," Helen Everard said, "Joan!"

"Yes? I am sorry, I—I was thinking." Joan looked up.

Helen had come into the room, an open letter in her hand.

"I wrote to John and Constance Everard, my nephew and niece," Helen said. "I told them I was here with you, and asked them to come over. They are coming to-morrow, dear. I think you will like them."

"I am sure I shall," Joan said; but there was no enthusiasm in her voice, only cold politeness that seemed to chill a little.

"I glory in it," she was thinking, "and take not one word of it back." She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and turned away.

"What time will they be coming, Helen?" she asked, for she had made up her mind. She would think no more of this man, and remember no more of his speeches. She would wipe him out of her memory. Life for her would begin again here in Starden, and the past should hold nothing, nothing, nothing!



CHAPTER XVI

ELLICE

Buddesby, in the Parish of Little Langbourne, was a small place compared with Starden Hall. Buddesby claimed to be nothing more than a farmhouse of a rather exalted type. For generations the Everards had been gentlemen farmers, farming their own land and doing exceedingly badly by it.

Matthew, late owner of Buddesby, had taken up French gardening on a large scale, and had squandered a great part of his capital on glass cloches, fragments of which were likely to litter Buddesby for many a year to come.

John, his son, had turned his back on intensive culture and had gone back to the old family failing of hops. The Everard family had probably flung away more money on hops than any other family in Kent.

The Everards were not rich. The shabby, delightful old rooms, the tumble-down appearance of the ancient house, the lack of luxuries proved it, but they were exceedingly content.

Constance was a slim, pale, fair-haired girl with a singularly sweet expression and the temper, as her brother said often enough, of an angel. John Everard was big and broad, brown-haired, ruddy complexioned. He regarded every goose as a swan, and had unlimited belief in his land, his sister, and the future. There was one other occupant of Buddesby, a slight slender, dark-haired girl, with a thin, olive face, a pair of blazing black eyes, and a vividly red-lipped mouth.

Eight years ago Matthew Everard had brought her home after a brief visit to London. He had handed her over to eighteen-year-old Constance.

"Look after the little one, Connie," he had said. "There's not a soul in the world who wants her, poor little lass. Her father's been dead years; her mother died—last week." He paused. "I knew them both." That was all the information he had ever given, so Ellice Brand had come to Buddesby, one more mouth to feed, one more pair of feet to find shoes for.

She had many faults; she was passionate and wilful, defiant and impatient of even Connie's gentle authority. But there was one who could quell her most violent outburst with a word—one who had but to look at her to bring her to her sane senses, one whom she would, dog-like, have followed to the end of the world, from whom she would have accepted blows and kicks and curses without a murmur, only that Johnny Everard was not in the habit of bestowing blows and curses on young ladies.

Constance was twenty-six, John, the master of Buddesby, was a year younger, and Ellice was eighteen, her slender body as yet childish and unformed, her gipsy-like face a little too thin. But there was beauty there, wonderful and startling beauty that would one day blossom forth. It was in the bud as yet, but the bud was near to opening.

They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at Buddesby. It was eight o'clock, and John had been afield for a couple of hours and had come back with his appetite sharp set.

They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely duties since soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing of the breakfast-bell.

"A letter from Helen," Constance said.

"Helen? Oh, she's got to Starden then?" said John.

"And wants us to come over, dear."

"Of course! We'll go over next week some time. I'm busy now with—"

"It wouldn't be kind not to go at once."

"Who is Helen?" demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and then at John. "Who is she?" A tinge of colour came into her cheeks.

Connie saw it, and sighed a little. She knew this girl's secret, knew it only too well. Many an hour of anxiety and worry it had caused her.

"Helen is our aunt by marriage," she said.

"Oh!" Ellice said, "I thought—"

John laughed. He had a jolly laugh, a great hearty laugh that did one good to hear.

"What did you think she was, gipsy girl?" he asked, for "gipsy" was his pet name for the little dark beauty.

"Did you think she was some young and lovely damsel who was eager to meet me again?"

"I should hate her if she was!" the girl said, whereat John laughed again.

"Write to Helen, Con," he said as he rose from the table, "and say we'll come over to-morrow." He paused, frowning, at thought. "I'll manage it somehow. I'll drive you over in the trap. It would be useful to have a car; I don't know why I put off getting one."

Constance did, and she smiled. "Wait till next year, dear."

He nodded. "Yes, next year we'll get one. Meanwhile write to Helen, and tell her we'll be over to-morrow afternoon."

"And I?" Ellice asked.

John looked at her. "Why—no, child, you'll stop at home and look after the house, eh?" He nodded to them and went out.

"Is she there—alone?" Ellice asked.

"Who, dear?"

"This Helen, your aunt. Is it usual to call your aunt just plain Helen?"

"No, I suppose it isn't, and she is not there alone, as you ask. She is living with a girl who has just come into a great deal of money—Miss Joan Meredyth."

"What is she like?" the girl asked quickly.

Constance smiled.

"I don't know, dear. You see, I have never seen her."

"Then I hope," Ellice said between her clenched teeth, "I hope she is ugly, ugly as sin!"

"I think," said Constance gently, "that you are very silly and foolish!"

Yet when the morrow came it was Ellice and not Constance who sat beside John in the trap, and was driven by him the six odd miles to Starden. For Constance had one of "her headaches." It was no imaginary ailment, but a headache that prostrated her and filled her with pain, that made every sound an agony. She lay in her room, the blinds drawn, and all the household hushed.

"I'll write that we'll go to-morrow, dear," John said.

"No, go to-day. I should be glad, Johnny. Go to-day and take Ellice, I am so much better alone; and by the time you come home perhaps I shall have been able to sleep it off."

So Johnny Everard drove Ellice over to Starden that afternoon.

Helen Everard received them in the drawing-room. She was fond of Johnny Everard and his sister. This dark-faced girl she did not know, though she had heard of her. And now she looked at her with interest. It was an interesting face, such a face as one does not ordinarily see.

"One day, if she lives, she will be a beautiful woman," Helen thought. "To-day she is a gawky, passionate, ill-disciplined child; and I am afraid, terribly afraid, she is very much in love with that great, cheery, good-looking nephew of mine."

"Come," she said, "Joan is in the garden. I promised that when you came I would take you to her. You have heard about her of course?" Helen added to John.

"Only a little, that she is an heiress, and has come into Starden."

"She was very poor, poor child, and I think she had a hard and bitter time of it. Then the wheel of fortune took a turn. Her uncle died, and left her Starden and a great deal of money. So here she is."

Helen felt a hand grip her arm, and turned to look down into a thin face, in which burned a pair of passionate eyes.

"Is she—pretty?" the girl asked.

"I think," Helen said slowly, "that she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

Unlike his usual self, John Everard was very silent and thoughtful as he drove home later that evening. Helen had said that Joan Meredyth was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. He agreed with her whole-heartedly. She had received him and Ellice kindly, yet without much warmth, and now as he drove home in the light of the setting sun Johnny Everard was thinking about this girl, going over all that had happened, remembering every word almost that she had uttered.

"She is very beautiful, wonderfully beautiful," he thought. And perhaps he uttered his thoughts aloud, for the girl, as silent as himself, who sat beside him, started and looked up into his face, and into the passionate, rebellious heart of her there came a sudden wave of jealous hatred.



CHAPTER XVII

UNREST

Lady Linden patted the girl's small white hand.

"Yes, child," she said comfortably, "Colonel Arundel and I had a nice long talk last night, and you may guess what it was about. He and I were boy and girl together, there's no better blood in the kingdom than the Arundel's—what was I saying? Oh yes, we decided that it would be a good plan to have a two years' engagement, or better still, none for eighteen months, and then a six months' engagement. During that time Tom can study modern scientific farming and that sort of thing, you know, and then when you and he are married, he could take over these estates. I am heartily sick of Bilson, and I always fancy he is robbing me—what did you say, child?"

"Nothing, auntie."

"Well, you ought to be a very happy little girl. Run away."

But Marjorie lingered. "Aunt, you haven't heard anything of—of Hugh?" she asked.

"Hugh—Hugh Alston? Good gracious, no! You don't think I am going to run after the man? I am disgusted with Hugh. His duplicity and, worse still, his obstinate, foolish, unreasoning behaviour, have annoyed me more than anything I ever remember. But there, my dear child, it is nothing to do with you. I have quite altered my opinion of Hugh Alston. You were right and I was wrong. Tom Arundel will make you a better husband, and you will be as happy as the day is long with him."

"I shan't!" Marjorie thought as she turned away. It was wrong, and it was unreasonable, and she knew it; but for the last four or five days there had been steadily growing in Marjorie's brain, an Idea.

Stolen fruits are sweetest, stolen meetings, moonlit assignations, shy kisses pressed on ardent young lips, when the world is shrouded in darkness and seems to hold but two. All these things make for romance. The silvery moonlight gives false values; the knowledge that one has slipped unseen from the house to meet the beloved one, and that the doing of it is a brave and bold adventure, gives a thrill that sets the heart throbbing and the young blood leaping—the knowledge that it is forbidden, and, being forbidden, very sweet, appeals to the young and romantic heart.

But when that same beloved object, looking less romantic in correct evening dress, is accepted smilingly by the powers that be, and is sate down to a large and varied, many coursed dinner, then Romance shrugs her disgusted shoulders and turns petulantly away.

It was so with Marjorie. When the idea first came to her, she felt shocked and amazed. It could not be! she said to herself. "I love Tom with all my heart and soul, and now I am the happiest girl living."

But she was not, and she knew it. It was useless to tell herself that she was the happiest girl living when night after night she lay awake, staring into the darkness and seeing in memory a face that certainly did not belong to Tom Arundel.

Hugh Alston had commenced work on the restoration of certain parts of Hurst Dormer. He had busied himself with the work, had entered whole-heartedly into all the plans, had counted up the cost, and then, realising that all his enthusiasm was only forced, that he was merely trying to cheat himself, he lost interest and gave it up.

"I'll go to London," he said. "I'll go and see things, and try and get thoughts of her out of my mind." So he went, and found London even more uninteresting than Hurst Dormer.

He had promised that he would never molest her, never annoy her with his visits or his presence, and he meant religiously to keep his word, and yet—if he could just see her! She need not know! If he could from a distance feast his eyes on her for one moment, on a sight of her, what harm would he do her or anyone?

Hugh Alston did not recognise himself in this restless dissatisfied, unhappy man, who took to loitering and wandering about the streets, haunting certain places and keeping a sharp lookout for someone who might or might not come.

So the days passed. He had gladdened his eyes three times with a view of old General Bartholomew. He had seen that ancient man leaning on his stick, taking a constitutional around the square.

And that was all! He passed the house and watched, yet saw no sign of her. He came at night-time, when tell-tale shadows might be thrown on the blinds, but saw nothing, only the shadow of the General or of his secretary, never one that might have been hers.

And then he slowly came to the conclusion that Joan Meredyth could no longer be there. It had taken him nearly a week to come to that decision.

That Joan had left General Bartholomew's house he was certain, but where was she? He had no right to enquire, no right to hunt her down. If he knew where she was, how could it profit him, for had he not promised to trouble her no more?

Yet still for all that he wanted to know, and casting about in his mind how he might find her, he thought of Mr. Philip Slotman.

It was possible that if she had left the General's she had gone back to take up her work with Slotman again.

"I'll risk it," he thought, and went to Gracebury and made his way to Slotman's office.

It was a sadly depleted staff that he found in the general office. An ancient man and a young boy represented Mr. Philip Slotman's one-time large clerical staff.

"Mr. Slotman's away, sir, down in the country—gone down to Sussex, sir," said the lad.

"To Sussex? Will he be away long?"

"Can't say, sir; he may be back to-morrow," the boy said. "At any rate, he's not here to-day."

"I may come back to-morrow. You might tell him that Mr. Alston called." And Hugh turned away.

Another disappointment. He realised now that he had built up quite a lot of hope on his interview with Slotman.

"Shall I wait till to-morrow, or shall I go back to-day?" Hugh wondered. "This is getting awful. I don't seem to have a mind of my own, I can't settle down to a thing. I've got to get a grip on myself. How does the old poem go: 'If she be fair, but not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?' That's all right; but I do care, and I can't help it!"

He had made his aimless way back to the West End of London. It was luncheon time, and he was hesitating between a restaurant and an hotel.

"I'll go back to the hotel, get some lunch, pack up and leave by the five o'clock train for Hurst Dormer," he decided, and turned to hail a taxicab.

And, turning, he came suddenly face to face with the girl who was ever in his thoughts.

She had been helping a middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman out of a cab, and then, as she turned, their eyes met, and into Joan Meredyth's cheeks there flashed the tell-tale colour that proved to him and to all the world that this chance meeting with him meant something to her after all.



CHAPTER XVIII

"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.



CHAPTER XIX

THE INVESTIGATIONS OF MR. SLOTMAN

"And who the dickens," said Lady Linden, "is Mister—Philip what's-his-name? I can't see it—what's his name, Marjorie?" Lady Linden held out the card to the girl.

"It—it is—Slotman, auntie," Marjorie said.

"Don't sniff, child. You've got a cold; go up to my room, and in the medical—"

"I haven't a cold, auntie."

"Don't talk to me. Go and get a dose of ammoniated tincture of quinine. As for this Mr. Slotman—unpleasant name—what the dickens does he want of me?"

Marjorie did not answer.

Slotman was being shewn into the drawing-room a few moments later. He was wearing his best clothes and best manner. This Lady Linden was an aristocratic dame, and Mr. Slotman had come for the express purpose of making himself very agreeable.

"Oily-looking wretch!" her ladyship thought. "Well?" she asked aloud.

"I am grateful to your ladyship for permitting me to see you."

"Well, you can see me if that's all you have come for."

"No!" he said. "If—if I—" He paused.

"Oh, sit down!" said Lady Linden. "Well, now what is it you want? Have you something to sell? Books, sewing machines?"

"No, no!" He waved a deprecating hand. "I am come on a matter that interests me greatly. I am a financier, I have offices in London. Until lately I was employing a young lady on my staff."

"Well?"

"Her name was Meredyth, Miss Joan Meredyth."

"I don't want to hear anything at all about her," said Lady Linden. "Why you come to me, goodness only knows. If you've come for information I haven't got any. If you want information, the right person to go to is her husband!"

"Her—her husband!" Mr. Slotman seemed to be choking.

"You seem surprised," said Lady Linden. "Well, so was I, but it is the truth. If you are interested in Miss Meredyth, the proper person to make enquiries of is Mr. Hugh Alston, of Hurst Dormer, Sussex. Now you know. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Slotman passed his hand across his forehead. This was unexpected, a blow that staggered him.

"You—you mean, your ladyship means that Miss Meredyth is recently married."

"Her ladyship means nothing of the kind," said Lady Linden tartly. "I mean that Miss Meredyth has for some very considerable time been Mrs. Hugh Alston. They were married, if you want to know—and I don't see why it should any longer be kept a secret—three years ago, in June, nineteen eighteen at Marlbury, Dorset, where my niece was at school with Miss Meredyth. Now you know all I know, and if you want any further information, apply to the husband."

"But—but," Slotman said, "I—" He was thinking. He was trying to reconcile what he had heard in his own office when he had spied on Hugh Alston and Joan, when on that occasion he had heard Hugh offer marriage to the girl as an act of atonement. How could he offer marriage if they were already married? There was something wrong, some mistake!

"But what?" snapped her ladyship, who had taken an exceeding dislike to the perspiring Mr. Slotman.

"Is your ladyship certain that they were married? I mean—" he fumbled and stammered.

Lady Linden pointed to the door. "Good afternoon!" she said. "I don't know what business it is of yours, and I don't care. All I know is that if Hugh Alston is a fool, he is not a knave, so you have my permission to retire."

Mr. Slotman retired, but it was not till some hours had passed that he finally left the neighbourhood of Cornbridge. He had been making discreet enquiries, and he found on every side that her ladyship's story was corroborated.

For Lady Linden talked, and it was asking too much of any lady who was fond of a chat to expect her to keep silent on a matter of such interest. Lady Linden had discussed Hugh Alston's marriage with Mrs. Pontifex, the Rector's wife, who in turn had discussed it with others. So, little by little, the story had leaked out, and all Cornbridge knew it, and Mr. Slotman found ample corroboration of Lady Linden's story.

Not till he was in the train did Mr. Slotman begin to gather together all the threads of evidence. "I should not describe Lady Linden as a pleasant person," he decided, "still, her information will prove of the utmost value to me. On the whole I am glad I went." He felt satisfied; he had discovered all that was discoverable, so far as Cornbridge was concerned.

"Married in eighteen, June of eighteen," he muttered, "at Marlbury, Dorset. I'll bet she wasn't! She may have said she was, but she wasn't!" He chuckled grimly. He was beginning to see through it. "I suppose she told that tale, and then it got about, and then the fellow came and offered her marriage as the only possible way out. I'd like to choke the brute!"

Slotman slept that night in London, and early the following morning he was on his way to Marlbury. He found it a little quiet country town, where information was to be had readily enough. It took him but a few minutes to discover that there was a school for young ladies, a school of repute, kept by a Miss Skinner. It was the only ladies' school in or near the town, and so Mr. Slotman made his way in that direction, and in a little time was ushered into the presence of the headmistress.

"I must apologise," he said, "for this intrusion."

Miss Skinner bowed. She was tall and thin, angular and severe, a typical headmistress, stern and unyielding.

"I am," Slotman lied, "a solicitor from London, and I am interested in a young lady who a matter of three years ago was, I believe, a pupil in this school."

"Indeed?"

"Miss Joan Meredyth," said Slotman.

"Miss Meredyth was a pupil here at the time you mention, three years ago. It was three years ago that she left."

"In June?" Slotman asked.

"I think so. Is it important that you know?"

"Very!"

"I will go and look up my books." In a few minutes Miss Skinner was back.

"Miss Meredyth left us in the June of nineteen hundred and eighteen," she said.

"Suddenly?"

"Somewhat—yes, suddenly. Her father was dead; she was leaving us to go to Australia."

"So that was the story," Slotman thought, "to go to Australia."

"During the time she was here, may I ask, did she have any visitors? Did, for instance, a Mr. Hugh Alston call on her?"

"Mr. Alston, I remember the name. Certainly he called here, but not to see Miss Meredyth. He came to see Miss Marjorie Linden, who was, I fancy, distantly related to him. I am not sure, Mr. Alston certainly called several times."

"And saw Miss Meredyth?"

"I think not. I have no reason to believe that he did. Miss Linden and Miss Meredyth were close friends, and of course Miss Linden may have introduced him. It is quite possible."

"Thank you!" said Slotman. He had found out all that he wanted to know, yet not quite.

For the next few hours Philip Slotman was a busy man. He went to the church and looked up the register. No marriage such as he looked for had taken place between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in June, nineteen eighteen, nor any other month immediately before or after. No marriage had taken place at the local Registrar's office. But he was not done yet. Six miles from Marlbury was Morchester, a far larger and more important town. Thither went Philip Slotman and pursued his enquiries with a like result.

Neither at Marlbury, nor at Morchester had any marriage been registered in the name of Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth in the year nineteen eighteen; and having discovered that fact beyond doubt, Philip Slotman took train for London.



CHAPTER XX

"WHEN I AM NOT WITH YOU"

A fortnight had passed since Johnny Everard's first visit to Starden, and during that time he had been again and yet again. He had never taken Ellice with him since that first time.

Two days after the first visit he had driven Constance over, and Constance and Joan Meredyth had become instant friends.

"You'll come again and often; it is lonely here," Joan had said. "I mean, not lonely for me, that would be ungrateful to Helen, but I know she is very fond of you, and she will like you to come as often as possible, you and your brother."

"Con," Johnny said as he drove her home that evening, "don't you think we might run to a little car, just a cheap two-seater? It would be so useful. Look, we could run over to Starden in less than half an hour. We can be there and back in an hour if we wanted to, and Helen would be so jolly glad, don't you think?"

Constance smiled to herself.

"We haven't much money now, Johnny," she said. "Last year's hops were—awful!"

"They are going to be ripping this year. I've got that blight down all right," he said cheerily.

"Yes, dear; well, if you think—" She hesitated.

"Oh, we can manage it somehow," he said hopefully.

Constance looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

"It will be useful for you to run over to Starden to see Helen—won't it?"

"Yes, to see Helen. She's a good sort, one of the best, dear old Helen! Isn't it ripping to have her near us again?"

"She could always have come to Buddesby if she had wanted to."

"Oh, there isn't much room there!"

"But always room enough for Helen, Johnny. You haven't told me what you think of Joan Meredyth."

She watched him out of the corners of her eyes. He stared straight ahead between the ears of the old horse.

"Joan Meredyth," he repeated, and she saw a deep flush come stealing under the tan of his cheeks. "Oh, she's handsome, Con. She almost took my breath away. I think she is the loveliest girl I ever saw."

"Yes, and do you—"

"And do I admire her? Yes, I do, but I could wish she was just a little less cold, a little less stately, Con."

"Perhaps it is shyness. Remember, we are strangers to her; she was not cold and stately to me, Johnny."

"Ah!" Johnny said, and went on staring straight ahead down the road.

"Did Helen say much to you, Con?"

"Oh, a good deal!"

"About"—Johnny hesitated—"her?"

"Yes, a little; she thinks a great deal of her. She says that at first Joan seemed to hold her at arm's length. Now they understand one another better, and she says Joan has the best heart in the world."

"Yet she seems cold to me," said Johnny with a sigh.

Still, in spite of Joan's coldness, he found his way over to Starden very often during the days that followed. He had picked up a small secondhand car, which he strenuously learned to drive, and thereafter the little car might have been seen plugging almost daily along the six odd miles of road that separated Buddesby from Starden.

And each time he got the car out a pair of black eyes watched him with smouldering anger and passion and jealousy. A pair of small hands were clenched tightly, a girl's heart was aching and throbbing with love and hate and undisciplined passions, as though it must break.

But he did not see, though Constance did, and she felt troubled and anxious. She had understood for long how it was with Ellice. She had seen the girl's eyes turned with dog-like devotion towards the man who was all unconscious of the passion he had aroused. But she saw it all in her quiet way, and was anxious and worried, as a kindly, gentle, tender-hearted woman must be when she notices one of her own sex give all the love of a passionate heart to one who neither realises nor desires it.

So, day after day, Johnny drove over to Starden, and when he came Helen would smile quietly and take herself off about some household duty, leaving the young people together. And Joan would greet him with a smile from which all coldness now had gone, for she accepted him as a friend. She saw his sterling worth, his honour and his honesty. He was like some great boy, so open and transparent was he. To her he had become "Johnny," to him she was "Joan."

To-day they were wandering up and down the garden paths, side by side.

The garden lay about them, glowing in the sunshine of the early afternoon. Beyond the high bank of hollyhocks and the further hedge of dark yew, clipped into fantastic form, one could catch a glimpse of the old house, with its steep sloping roof, its many gables, its whitened walls, lined and crossed by the old timbers. The hum of the bees was in the air, heavy with the fragrance of many flowers.

And Joan was thinking of a City office, of a man she hated and feared, a man with bold eyes and thick, sensual lips. And then her thoughts drifted away to another man, and she seemed to hear again the last word he had spoken to her—"Ungenerous." And suddenly she shivered a little in the warm sunlight.

"Joan, you are not cold. You can't be cold," Johnny said.

She laughed. "No, I was only thinking of the past. There is much in the past to make one shiver, I think, and oh, Johnny, I was thinking of you too!"

"Of me?"

She nodded. "Helen was telling me how keen and eager you were about your farm, how difficult it was to get you to leave it for an hour." She paused. "That—that was before you came here, the first time—and since then you have been here almost every day. Johnny, aren't you wasting your time?" She looked at him with sweet seriousness.

"I am wasting my time, Joan, when—when I am not with you!" he said, and his voice shook with sudden feeling, and into his face there came a wave of colour. "To be near you, to see you—" He paused.

Down the garden pathway came a trim maidservant, who could never guess how John Everard hated her for at least one moment of her life.

"A gentleman in the drawing-room, miss, to see you," the girl said.

"A gentleman to see me? Who?"

"He would not give a name, miss. He said you might not recognise it. He wishes to see you on business." Joan frowned. Who could it be? Yet it was someone waiting, someone here.

"I shall not be long," she said to Johnny, and perhaps was glad of the excuse to leave him.

"I will wait till you come back, Joan."

She smiled and nodded, and hastened to the house and the drawing-room, and, opening the door, went in to find herself face to face with Philip Slotman.

* * * * *

Philip Slotman, of all living people! She stared at him in amaze, almost doubting the evidence of her sight. What did he here? How dared he come here and thrust himself on her notice? How dared he send that lying message by the maid, that she might not recognise his name?

"You've got a nice place here, Joan," he said with easy familiarity. "Things have looked up a bit for you, eh? I notice you haven't said you are glad to see me. Aren't you going to shake hands?"

"Explain," she said quietly, "what you mean by coming here."

If she had given way to senseless rage, and had demanded how he dared—and so forth, he would have smiled with amusement; but the cool deliberation of her, the quiet scorn in her eyes, the lack of passion, made him nervous and a little uncomfortable.

"I came here to see you—what else, Joan?"

"Uninvited," she said. "You have taken a liberty—"

"Oh, you!" he shouted suddenly. "You're a fine one to ride the high horse with me! Who the dickens are you to give yourself airs? You can stow that, do you hear?" His eyes flashed unpleasantly. "You can stow that kind of talk with me!"

"You came here believing, I suppose, that I was practically friendless. You knew that I had no relatives, especially men relatives, so you thought you would come to continue your annoyance of me. Would you mind coming here?"

He went to the window wonderingly. The window commanded a wide view of the garden. Looking out into the garden he could see a man, a very tall and very broad young man, who stood with muscular arms folded across a great chest. The young man was leaning against an old rose-red brick wall, smoking a pipe and obviously waiting. The most noticeable thing about the young man was that he was exceptionally big and of powerful build and determined appearance. Another thing that Slotman noticed about him was that he was not Mr. Hugh Alston, whom he remembered perfectly.

"Well?"

"That gentleman is a friend of mine, related to the lady who lives with me. If I call on him and ask him to persuade you to go and not return, he will do so."

"Oh, he will, and what then?"

"I don't understand you—what then? Why did you come here uninvited? Why did you send an untruthful message by my servant—that I would not recognise your name?"

"Trying to bluff me, aren't you?" Slotman said. He looked her in the eyes. "But it won't come off, Joan; no, my dear, I've been too busy of late to be taken in by your airs and defiance!" He laughed. "I've been making quite a round, here, there, and everywhere, and all because of you, Joan—all because of you! Among other places I've been to," he went on, seeing that she stood silent and unmoved, "is Marlbury You remember it, eh? A nice little town, quiet though. I had a long talk with Miss Skinner—remember her, don't you, Joany?"

Her eyes glittered. "Mr. Slotman, I am trying to understand what this means. Is it that you are mad or intoxicated? Why do you come here to me with all these statements? Why do you come here at all?"

"Marlbury," he continued unmoved, "a nice, quiet little place. I spent some time in the church there, and at the Council offices, looking for something, for something I didn't find, Joany—and didn't expect to find either, come to that, ha, ha!" He laughed. "No, never expected to find, but, to make dead sure, I went to Morchester, and hunted there, Joany, and still I didn't find what I was looking for and knew I shouldn't find!"

"Mr. Slotman!"

"You aren't curious, are you? You won't ask what I was looking for, perhaps you can guess!" He took a step nearer to her. "You can guess, can't you, Joany?" he said.

"I am not attempting to guess. I can only imagine that you are not in your sane senses. You will now go, and if you return—"

"Wait a moment. What I was looking for at Marlbury and Morchester and did not find—was evidence of a marriage having taken place in June, nineteen eighteen, between Hugh Alston and Joan Meredyth. But there's no such evidence, none! Ah, that touches you a bit, don't it? Now you begin to understand why I ain't taken in by your fine dignity!"

"You—you have been looking for—for evidence of a marriage—my marriage with—what do you mean?"

Her face was flushed, her eyes brilliant with anger.

"I mean that I am not a fool, though I was for a time. You took me in—I am not blaming you"—he paused—"not blaming you. You were only a girl, straight out of school. You didn't understand things, and the man—"

"What—do—you—mean?" she whispered.

"You left Miss Skinner's, said you were going to Australia, didn't you? But you didn't go. Oh no, you didn't go! You know best where you went, but there's no proof of any marriage at Marlbury or Morchester. Now—now do you begin to understand?"

She did understand, a sense of horror came to her, horror and shame that this man should dare—dare to think evil of her! She felt that she wanted to strike him. She saw him as through a mist—his hateful face, the face she wanted to strike with all her might, and yet she was conscious of an even greater anger, a very passion of hate and resentment against another man than this, against the man who had subjected her to these insults, this infamy. She gripped her hands hard.

"You—you will leave this house. If you ever dare to return I will have you flung out—you hear me? Go, and if you ever dare—"

"No, no you don't!" he said. "Wait a moment. You can't take me in now!" He laughed in her face. "If I go I'll go all right, but you'll never hear the end of it. You're someone down here, aren't you? I have heard about you. You're a Meredyth, and the Meredyths used to hold their heads pretty high about here. But if you aren't careful I'll get talking, and if I talk I'll make this place too hot to hold you. You know what I mean. I hate threatening you, Joan, only you force me to do it." His voice altered. "I hate threatening, and you know why. It is because I love you, and I am willing to marry you—in spite of everything, you understand? In spite of everything!"

Joan threw out her hand and grasped at the edge of the table.

"My friend out there—am I to call for him? Are you driving me to do that? Shall I call him now?"

"If you like," Slotman said. "If you do, I'll have something to tell him of a marriage that never took place in June, nineteen eighteen, and of a man who came to my office to see you, and offered to marry you—as atonement. Oh yes, I heard—trust me! I don't let interviews take place in my offices that I don't know anything about!"

He was silent suddenly. There was that in her face that worried him, frightened him in spite of himself—a wild, staring look in her eyes; the whiteness of her cheeks, the whiteness even of her lips. There was a tragic look about her. He had seen something like it on the stage at some time. He realised that he might be goading her too far.

"I'll go now," he said. "I'll go and leave you to think it all out. You can rely on me not to say anything. I shan't humble you, or talk about you—not me! A man don't run down the girl he means to make his wife, and that's what I mean—Joan! In spite of everything, you understand, my girl?" He paused. "In spite of everything, Joan, I'll still marry you! But I'll come back. Oh, I'll come back, I—" He paused. He suddenly remembered the denuded state of his finances, yet it did not seem an auspicious moment just now to ask her for financial help.

"I'll write," he thought. He looked at her.

"Good-bye, Joan. I'll come back; you'll hear from me soon. Meanwhile, remember—not a word, not a word to a living soul. You're all right, trust me!"

Meanwhile Johnny Everard wandered about the sweet, old-world garden, and did not appreciate its beauties in the least. He was waiting, and there is nothing so dreary as waiting for one one longs to see and who comes not.

But presently there came a maid, that same maid who had earned Johnny's temporary hatred.

"Miss Meredyth wished me to say, sir, that she would be very glad if you would excuse her. She's been taken with a bad headache, and has had to go to her own room to lie down."

"Oh!" said Johnny. The sun seemed to shine less brightly for him for a few moments. "I'm sorry. All right, tell her I am very sorry, and—and shall hope to see her soon!"

Ten minutes later Johnny Everard was driving back along the hot high-road, utterly unconscious that the car was running very badly and misfiring consistently.

In her own room Joan sat, her elbows on the dressing-table, her eyes staring unseeingly out into a garden, all glowing with flowers and sunlight.

She was not thinking of Johnny Everard; his very existence had for the time being passed from her memory. She was thinking of that man, and of what he had said, the horror and the shame of it. And that other man—Hugh Alston—had brought this upon her—with his insulting lie, his insolent, lying statement, he had brought it on her! Because of him she was to be subjected to the shame and humiliation of such an attack as Slotman had made on her just now.

"Oh, what—what can I do?" she whispered. "And he—he dared to call me—me ungenerous! Ungenerous for resenting, for hating him for the position he has put me into. Why did he do it? Why, why, why?" she asked of herself frantically, and receiving no answer, rose and for a time paced the room, then came back to the table and sat down once again.

Slotman had said he would return, that she would hear. She could imagine how that the man, believing her good name in his power, and at his mercy, would not cease to torment and persecute her.

What could she do? To whom could she turn? She thought of Johnny Everard for a fleeting moment. There was something so big and strong and honest about him that he reminded her of some great, noble, clean dog, yet she could not appeal to him. Had he been her brother—that would have been different—but how explain to him? No, she could not. Yet she must have protection from this man, this Slotman. Lady Linden, General Bartholomew, Helen Everard, name after name came into her mind, and she dismissed each as it came. To whom could she turn? And then came the idea on which she acted at once. Of course it must be he!

She rose and sought for pen and paper, and commenced a letter that was difficult to write. She crushed several sheets of paper and flung them aside, but the letter was written at last.

"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. I feel that I have a right to appeal to you for some protection against the insults to which your conduct has exposed me. I write in the hope that you may possibly possess some of the generosity which you have several times denied that I can lay claim to. I will keep whatever appointment you may make at any time and any place,

"JOAN MEREDYTH."

And this letter she addressed to Hugh Alston at Hurst Dormer, and presently went out, bareheaded, into the roadway, and with her own hands dropped it into the post-box.



CHAPTER XXI

"I SHALL FORGET HER"

Restless and unhappy, Hugh Alston had returned to Hurst Dormer, to find there that everything was flat, stale, and unprofitable. He had an intense love for the home of his birth and his boyhood, but just now it seemed to mean less to him than it ever had before. He watched moodily the workmen at their work on those alterations and restorations that he had been planning with interested enthusiasm for many months past. Now he did not seem to care whether they were done or no.

"Why," he demanded of the vision of her that came to him of nights, "why the dickens don't you leave me alone? I don't want you. I don't want to remember you. I am content to forget that I ever saw you, and I wish to Heaven you would leave me alone!"

But she was always there.

He tried to reason with himself; he attempted to analyse Love.

"One cannot love a thing," he told himself, "unless one has every reason to believe that it is perfection. A man, when he is deeply in love with a woman, must regard her as his ideal of womanhood. In his eyes she must be perfection; she must be flawless, even her faults he will not recognise as faults, but as perfections that are perhaps a little beyond his understanding—that's all right. Now in the case of Joan, I see in her nothing to admire beyond the loveliness of her face, the grace of her, the sweet voice of her and—oh, her whole personality! But I know her to be mean-spirited and uncharitable, unforgiving, ungenerous. I know her to be all these, and yet—"

"Lady Linden, sir, and Miss Marjorie Linden!"

They had not met for weeks. Her ladyship had driven over in the large, comfortable carriage. "Give me a horse or, better still, two horses—things with brains, created by the Almighty, and not a thing that goes piff, piff, piff, and leaves an ungodly smell along the roads, to say nothing of the dust!"

So she had come here behind two fine horses, sleek and overfed.

"Hello!" she said.

"Hello!" said Hugh, and kissed her, and so the feud between them was ended.

"You are looking," her ladyship said, "rotten!"

"I am looking exactly as I feel. How are you, Marjorie?" He held the small hand in his, and looked kindly, as he must ever look, into her pretty round face. Because she was blushing with the joy of seeing him, and because her eyes were bright as twin stars, he concluded that she was happy, and ascribed her happiness, not unnaturally considering everything, to Tom Arundel.

"As the cat," said Lady Linden, "wouldn't go to Mahomed—"

"The mountain, you mean!" Hugh said.

"Oh, I don't know. I knew it was a cat, a mountain or a coffin that one usually associates with Mahomed. However, as you didn't come, I came—to see what on earth you were doing, shutting yourself up here in Hurst Dormer."

"Renovations."

"They don't agree with you. I expect it's the drains. You're doing something to the drains, aren't you?"

"Yes, I believe—"

"Then go and get a suitcase packed, and come back with us to Cornbridge."

He would not hear of it at first; but Lady Linden had made up her mind, and she was a masterful woman.

"You'll come?"

"Really, I think I had better—not. You see—"

"I don't see! Marjorie, go out into the garden and smell the flowers. Keep away from the drains.... You'll come?" she repeated, when the girl had gone out.

"Look here, I know what is in your mind; if I come, it will be on one condition!" Hugh said.

"I know what that condition is. Very well, I agree; we won't mention it. Come for a week; it will do you good. You're too young to pretend you are a hermit!"

"You'll keep that condition; a certain name is not to be mentioned!"

"I am no longer interested in the—young woman. I shall certainly not mention her name. I think the whole affair—However, it is no business of mine, I never interfere in other people's affairs!" said Lady Linden, who never did anything else.

"All right then, on that condition I'll come, and it is good of you to ask me!"

"Rot!"

Hugh sent for his housekeeper.

"I am going to Cornbridge for a few days. I'll leave you as usual to look after everything. If any letters—come—there will be nothing of importance, I may run over in a couple of days to see how things are going on. Put my letters aside, they can wait."

"Very good, sir!" said Mrs. Morrisey. And the first letter that she carefully put aside was the one that Joan Meredyth had written, after much hesitation and searching of mind, in her bedroom that afternoon at Starden.

And during the days that followed Joan watched the post every morning, eagerly scanned the few letters that came, and then her face hardened a little, the curves of her perfect lips straightened out.

She had made a mistake; she had ascribed generosity and decency to one who possessed neither. He had not even the courtesy to answer her letter, in which she had pleaded for a meeting. She felt hot with shame of herself that she had ever stooped to ask for it. She might have guessed.

A week had passed since Slotman's visit, and since she had with her own hands posted the letter to Hugh Alston. A week of waiting, and nothing had come of it! This morning she glanced through the letters. Her eyes had lost their old eagerness; she no longer expected anything.

As usual, there was nothing from "Him," but there was one for her in a handwriting that she knew only too well. She touched it as if it were some foul thing. She was in two minds whether to open and read it, or merely return it unopened and addressed to Philip Slotman, Esq., Gracebury, London, E.C. But she was a woman. And it takes a considerable amount of strength of will to return unopened and unread a letter to its sender, especially if one is a woman.

What might not that letter contain? Apology—retraction, sorrow for the past, or further insolent demands, veiled threats, and a repetition of proposals refused with scorn and contempt—which was it? Who can tell by the mere appearance of a sealed envelope and the impress of a postmark?

Joan put the letter into her pocket. She would debate in her mind whether she would read it or no.

"A letter from Connie, dear," said Helen. "She is coming over this afternoon and bringing Ellice Brand with her. Joan, it is a week or more since Johnny was here."

"Yes, about a week I think," said Joan indifferently. She was thinking meanwhile of the letter in her pocket.

Helen looked at her. She wanted to put questions; but, being a sensible woman, she did not. She had a great affection for Johnny. What woman could avoid having an affection and a regard for him? He was one of those fine, clean things that men and women, too, must like if they are themselves possessed of decency and appreciation of the good.

Yes, she was fond of Johnny, and she had grown very fond of late of this girl. She looked under the somewhat cold surface, and she recognised a warm, a tender and a loving nature, that had been suppressed for lack of something on which to lavish that wealth of tenderness that she held stored up in her heart.

Quite what part Hugh Alston had played in the life of Joan, Helen did not know. But she hoped for Johnny. She wanted to see these two come together. She was not above worldly considerations, for few good women are. It would be a fine thing for Johnny, with his straitened income and his habit of backing losers—from an agricultural point of view; but the main thing, as she honestly believed, was that these two could be very happy together. So she wondered a little, and puzzled a little, and worried a little why Johnny Everard should suddenly have left off paying almost daily visits to Starden.

"I like Connie, and I shall be glad to see her," said Joan.

"I wish Johnny were coming instead of—"

"So do I!" said Joan heartily. "I like him, I think, even more than I like Connie. There is something so—so honest and straight and good about him. Something that makes one feel, 'Here is a man to rely on, a man one can ask for help when in distress.' Sometimes—" She paused, then suddenly she rose, and with a smile to Helen, went out.

So there had been no quarrel, why should there have been? Certainly there had not been. Joan had spoken handsomely of Johnny, and she had said only what was true.

"I shall tell Connie exactly what Joan said, and probably Connie will repeat it to Johnny," Helen thought, which was exactly what she wished Connie would do.

In her own room Joan hesitated a moment, then tore open the envelope, and drew out Mr. Philip Slotman's letter.

"MY DEAR JOAN (her eyes flashed at the insolent familiarity of it). Since my visit of a week ago, when you received me so charmingly, I have constantly thought of you and your beautiful home, and you cannot guess how pleased I am to feel that the wheel of fortune had taken a turn to lift you high above all want and poverty."

She went on reading steadily, her lips compressed, her face hard and bitter.

"Unfortunately of late, things have not gone well with me. It is almost as if, when you went, you took my luck away with you. At any rate, I find myself in the immediate need of money, and to whom should I appeal for a timely loan, if not to one between whom and myself there has always been warm affection and friendship, to say the least of it? That I am in your confidence, that I know so much of the past, and that you trust in me so completely to respect all your secrets, is a source of pleasure and pride to me. So knowing that we do not stand to one another in the light of mere ordinary friends, I do not hesitate to explain my present embarrassment to you, and ask you frankly for the loan of three thousand pounds, which will relieve the most pressing of my immediate liabilities. Secure in the knowledge that you will immediately come to my aid, as you know full well I would have come to yours, had the positions been reversed, I am, my dear Joan,

"Yours very affectionately, "PHILIP SLOTMAN."

The letter dropped from her hands to the carpet. Blackmail! Cunningly and cleverly wrapped up, but blackmail all the same, the reference to his knowledge of what he believed to be her past! He knew that she was one who would read and understand, that she would read, as is said, between the lines.

Three thousand pounds, to her a few short weeks ago a fortune; to her now, a mere row of figures. She could spare the money. It meant no hardship, no difficulty, and yet—how could she bring herself to pay money to the man?

She would not do it. She would return the letter, she would write across it some indignant refusal, and then—No, she would think it over, take time, consider. She was strong, and she was brave—she had faced an unkindly world without losing heart or courage. Yet this was an experience new to her. She was, after all, only a woman, and this man was assailing that thing which a woman prizes beyond all else—her good name, her reputation, and she knew full well how he might circulate a lying story that she would have the utmost difficulty in disproving now. He could fling mud, and some of it must stick!

Charge a person with wrongdoing, and even though it be definitely proved that he is innocent, yet people only remember the charge, the connection of the man's name with some infamy, and forget that he was as guiltless as they themselves.

Joan knew this. She dreaded it; she shuddered at the thought that a breath should sully her good name. She was someone now—a Meredyth—the Meredyth of Starden. Three thousand pounds! If she paid him for his silence—silence—of what, about what? Yet his lies might—She paced the room, her brain in a whirl. What could she do? Oh, that she had someone to turn to. She remembered the unanswered letter she had sent to Hugh Alston, and then her eyes flashed, and her breast heaved.

"I think," she said, "I think of the two I despise him the more. I loathe and despise him the more!"



CHAPTER XXII

JEALOUSY

Joan and Constance Everard had taken a natural and instinctive liking for one another. But to-day it seemed to Connie that Joan was silent, less friendly, more thoughtful than usual. Her mind seemed to be wondering, wrestling perhaps with some problem, of which Constance knew nothing, and so it was.

"What shall I do? Shall I send this man the money he demands, or shall I refuse? And if I refuse, what then?"

She knew that mud sticks, and she dreaded it, feared it. A threat of bodily pain she could have borne with a smile of equanimity, but this was different. She was so sensitive, so fine, so delicate, that the thought of scandal, of lies that might besmirch her, filled her with fear and shame and dread. It was weak perhaps, it was perhaps not in accord with her high courage, and yet frankly she was afraid.

"I shall send the money." She came to the decision suddenly. Connie was speaking to her, about her brother, Joan believed, yet was not certain. Her thoughts were far away with Slotman and his letter and his demand.

"I shall send the money." And having made up her mind, she felt instant relief. Yes, cowardly it might be, yet would it not be wiser to silence the man, to pay him this money that she might have peace, that scandal and shame might not touch her?

"I wanted him to come with us this afternoon, but he could not. It is the hops!" Connie sighed. "You don't know what a constant dread and worry hops can be, Joan. There is always the spraying. Johnny is spraying hard now. Of course we are not rich, and a really bad hop season is a serious thing."

"Of course!" Joan said. Yes, she would send the money. She would send the man a cheque this very day, as soon as the visitors were gone.

"I think she is worried about something," Connie thought. "It cannot be that she and Johnny have had a disagreement, yet for the last week he has been worried, different—so silent, so quiet, so unlike himself. I wonder—?"

She had brought the dark-eyed slip of a girl with her to-day, and from a distance Ellice sat watching the girl whom she told herself she hated—this girl who had in some strange way affected and bewitched Johnny, Johnny who belonged to her, Johnny whom she loved with a passionate devotion only she herself could know the depth of. How she hated her, she thought, as she sat watching the calm, beautiful, thoughtful face, with its strange, dreamy, far-away look in the big grey eyes.

She realised her beauty; she could not blind herself to it. She felt she must admire it because it was so apparent, so glowing, so obtrusive; and because she did admire it, she felt that she hated the owner of it the more.

"Why can't she leave Johnny alone? I've known him all these years, and it seems as if he had belonged to me. He never looked at any other girl, and now—now—she is here with all her money and her looks—and he is bewitched, he is different."

Helen rose; she wanted a few quiet words with Connie.

"I want to show you something in the garden, Connie," she said. "I know Joan won't mind." And so the two went out and left Joan alone with the girl, who watched her silently.

Out in the garden Helen and Constance had what women love and hold so dear—a heart-to-heart talk, an exchange of secrets and ideas.

"Do you think she cares for him?"

"I don't know, dear; but do you think he cares for her?"

"I am certain of it!"

"She spoke of him very nicely to-day. She said—" Helen repeated Joan's exact words.

So they talked, these two in the garden, of their hopes and of what might be, unselfish talk of happiness that might possibly come to those they loved, and in the drawing-room Ellice Brand eyed this girl, her rival, whom she hated.

"Will you excuse me?" Joan said suddenly. "There is a letter I must write. I have just remembered that the post goes at five, so—"

"Of course!"

She laughed sharply when Joan had gone out. "If he were here, it would be different. She would be all smiles and graciousness, but I am not worth while bothering about."

Joan wrote the cheque. It was for a large sum, the largest cheque not only that she had ever drawn, but that she had ever seen in her life. But it would be money well spent; it would silence the slanderous tongue.

"I am sending you the money you demand. I understand your letter thoroughly. I am neither going to defend myself, nor excuse myself to you. I of course realise that I am paying blackmail, and do so rather than be annoyed and tormented by you. Here is your money. I trust I shall neither hear of you nor see you again.

"JOAN MEREDYTH."

And this letter Joan posted with her own hand in the same post-box into which she had dropped that letter more than a week ago, the letter to a man who was without chivalry and generosity. She thought of him at the moment she let this other letter fall.

Yes, of the two she despised him and hated him the more.

And then when the letter was posted and gone beyond recall, again came the self-questionings. Had she done right? Had she not acted foolishly and weakly, to pay this man money that he had demanded with covert threats? And too late she regretted, and would have had the letter back if she could.

"I have no one, not a soul in the world I can turn to. Even Helen is almost a stranger," the girl thought. "I cannot confide in her. I seem to be so—so alone, so utterly alone." She twisted her hands together and stood thoughtful for some moments in the roadway where she turned back through the garden gate to the house.

"I feel so—so tired," she whispered, "so tired, so weary of it all. I have no one to turn to."



CHAPTER XXIII

"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!