The Imaginary Marriage Part 44

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 G.o.d! I am not worthy of that! I am not worthy of that!"

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

"THE PAYING"

Once again Mr. Philip Slotman was tainting the fragrant sweetness and freshness of the night with the aroma of a large and expensive J.S.

Muria.

Once again the big shabby old car stood waiting in the shadows, a quarter of a mile down the road, while he who hired it leaned against the gate under the shadow of the partly ruined barn.

He had not the smallest doubt but that she would come. It was full early yet; but she would come, though, being a woman, she would in all probability be late.

And she would pay, she dared not refuse him. Yet he needed more than the money, he thought, as he leaned at his ease against the gate and smoked his cigar.

And now she was coming. He flung the half-smoked cigar away and waited as the dark figure approached him in the night.

"You are early to-night, Joan." He endeavoured to put softness and tenderness into his voice.

"I am here at the time I appointed."

"To give me my answer--yes, but we won't discuss that now. I want to speak to you about something else."

"Something other than money?"

"Yes, do you think I always put money first?"

"I had thought so, Mr. Slotman."

"You do me a wrong--a great wrong. There is something that I put far ahead of money, of gold. It is you--Joan, listen! you must listen!" He had gripped her arm and held tightly, and as before she did not struggle nor try to win free of him.

"You shall listen to me. I have told you before many times that I love you."

He tried to drag her closer to him. And now she wrenched herself free.