He wore a dark suit, and carried a silk hat in his hand. The conventional dress made a great difference in his appearance; it always does when one is accustomed to see a man in the easy, becoming garb of the country. He looked older, more imposing; in the dim light it seemed to me that he was thinner too, had lost some of his deep tan.
I rose from my chair and bowed. He bowed too, and said:—
“Miss Harding, I believe?”
Long might he believe it! I waved him to a chair, and said suavely, “Pray sit down.”
“I—er—I called to ask if you would be kind enough to give me Miss Wastneys’ address. I believe her letters are sent to this address.”
“May I ask who gave you that information?”
“I’m sorry; but I’m not at liberty to say. It was a discovery which has given me considerable difficulty to make.”
“Excuse me, Mr—er—” I stopped short with an admirable air of inquiry.
“My name is Maplestone.”
“Thank you! I presume, Mr Maplestone, that you are aware of Miss Wastneys’ wish to keep her address private for the moment. Do you consider yourself justified in acting in direct opposition to her wishes?”
“I do,” he said sturdily. “I warned her that I would do everything in my power to find her. I am only sorry that I have been so long in doing it.”
“I am afraid she would not share your regret. In any case, I cannot take the responsibility of helping you any further.”
“You refuse to tell me where to find her?”
“I am sorry to appear discourteous, Mr Maplestone, but I have no choice.”
He looked at me, a cool, casual glance, and impatiently frowned. There was no flicker of recognition in his look. To him I was obviously a mere figure-head, an obstinate, elderly woman who stood as an obstacle in his path. He hesitated for a moment, and then said emphatically:—
“My business is imperative. It is absolutely necessary to see Miss Wastneys.”
“I think she must decide this point.”
“Madam!”—he glared at me reproachfully—“you are probably not aware that I have asked Miss Wastneys to be my wife?”
“I was not aware, Mr Maplestone, that Miss Wastneys had accepted that offer.”
“She has not. That is just the point. If she had, I should not need help. But she is going to! That is why I am so anxious to find her—to prevent further waste of time.”
Braced against my cushions, I gasped in mingled exasperation and dismay. That tone of certainty impressed me against my will. It required an effort to preserve an unruffled appearance.
“I cannot give you any help, Mr Maplestone. To the best of my belief, you are wrong in your expectations.”
“Evelyn—Miss Wastneys is your niece, I believe?”
I bowed, mentally quoting the orphan’s qualification:—
“Sort of!”
“May I ask if she has confided in you—told you the history of our acquaintance?”
For one moment I hesitated, then:—
“I think I may say that I know practically all that there is to tell.”
He leant forward suddenly, rested an arm on the table, and fixed me with eager eyes.
“Miss Harding, I want a friend! I want an ally. I came here to-day, hoping to find one in you. Will you be on my side?”
I drew back; but, before I had time to protest, he hurled another crisp, sharp question at my head:—
“Do you love your niece?”
The question appealed to me. I answered promptly, as it were mentally licking my lips:—
“I do! I may say I am much attached to Evelyn. She has faults (judicially), but she is a pleasant, well-meaning girl. She has been (unctuously) very kind to me.”
“She is kind to everyone,” he said shortly, “except myself! Of course she has faults! Plenty of them. You could not know her without seeing that.”
I glared, outraged. Oh, indeed! If my faults are so many and so obvious, why on earth does he—?
“You are very keen-sighted for a lover, Mr Maplestone,” I said coldly. “If I were Evelyn, I should prefer the idealism which is usual under the circumstances. But perhaps you do not pose as an ordinary lover.”
“I don’t know,” he said shortly—“I don’t know. This is a new experience to me. I can only say one thing”—his voice softened, swelled into deep, low notes—“she is my life. She means everything—the beginning and the end. I shall fight on and on until she is mine.”
Miss Harding coughed, and twitched at her shawl, and blinked at the ceiling, and feebly shook her grey head.
“It is a pity,” she said weakly, “to make too sure! In these matters force is—er—is out of place. Evelyn must decide. She should not be coerced. If I know her nature, coercion will do no good. She is inclined to obstinacy.”
“Coercion would fail, but love—Your niece is very feminine. She would be unhappy alone. She needs to be loved. I have love to give her—enough to satisfy any girl—more than enough! At the bottom of her heart she knows it. She ran away because she was afraid. Left no address.”
“Mr Maplestone, I am sorry to appear unkind, but Miss Wastneys’ plans were made before she guessed your wishes.”
That was true, and hit him hard. His face fell, and he looked so quelled, so dejected, that my heart ached with remorse. What foolish thing I might have said I don’t know, but at that moment the door burst open, and Winifred and Marion precipitated themselves into my arms. Taking no notice of the strange man, they proceeded to confide the adventures of their walk. It was “Miss Harding, this; darling Miss Harding, that; Miss Harding, dear, the other,” while I undid their mufflers, and smoothed their hair, and smiled in benevolent interest. What could be a finer testimony to Miss Harding’s verisimilitude than the blandishments of these sweet innocents?
For some minutes Mr Maplestone’s presence was ignored, but when I looked at him again it was to realise with surprised curiosity that his bearing had undergone a startling change. His cheeks had flushed, the weary lines had disappeared, he looked young, brisk, assured. Nothing had happened to account for it; nothing had been said, bearing in the remotest sense on his affairs. I had made no slip of any kind, but had been laboriously elderly and restrained, and yet, there it was—an unmistakable air of satisfaction and relief.
He rose, held out his hand.
“I see you are busy. I won’t detain you longer. If you will allow me I will call again.”
“Mr Maplestone, excuse my want of hospitality, but it is quite useless.”
He retained my hand in his; he spoke in a pleading voice.
“I am a very lonely man. I have no one else to whom I can speak. It would be a pleasure just to see anyone who belonged—I will promise not to be a nuisance. Please let me come!”
“Well!” I said helplessly. “Well!”
Short of being absolutely brutal, what else could I say? Besides—it may be a pleasure to me, too!
That same evening a letter arrived from Charmion. Nothing like having all one’s excitements at the same time. It was good to see the dear writing again, and I was in the mood when I badly needed some words of comfort. I tore open the envelope, hoping to find them inside.
This is the letter:—
“Evelyn, Dear,—How is it faring with you, I wonder, in your grey London world, while I laze beneath Italian skies? It is a rest to know that you understand my silence, and don’t need to be reminded that it does not mean forgetfulness. That big heart of yours can be very patient and forbearing. I have good cause to know that, but I also know that no one in the world more keenly enjoys a word of love and appreciation, so here’s a confession for you, dear. Read it, lock it up in your heart, and never, never refer to it in words! This is it, then. During these last weeks, when I have been fighting the old battle of the last six years, I have discovered to my surprise, and—let me confess it—dismay, that my point of view has strangely altered. I still consider that I have been the victim of one of the cruellest deceptions which a woman could endure; I still believe that in that first ghastly hour of discovery, flight was justified and natural, but—Well, Evelyn, dear! I have been living for months in very close intimacy with a little girl who thinks no evil, and is always ready to find a good explanation for what may on the surface appear to be unkind, and it has had its effect.
“I keep asking myself, ‘In my place, what would Evelyn have done?’ and the answer disturbs my sleep. You are impulsive, my dear, and your temper is not beyond reproach. If you loved deeply you would be exacting, and would fiercely resent deceit. You would have run away even more impetuously than I did myself, but—but—you would not have kept up your resentment for six long years, or refused the offender a right to speak! If I know my Evelyn, before a month had passed her heart would have softened, and she would be turning special pleader in his defence, racking her brain for extenuating explanations. And if there had been none—I can imagine you, Evelyn, shouldering your burden with a set, gallant little face, going back to your husband, and saying to yourself, ‘Am I a coward to be daunted by the failure of one little month? He married me for my money—very well, he shall have his price! I will give it to him, freely and willingly, but I will give him other things too—companionship, interest, sympathy, so that in time to come he shall love me for myself! I am young and pretty and intelligent—I can do it if I care enough to be patient and unselfish. I married him for better or worse. With God’s help, I will turn this “worse” into “better” before our lives are done!’
“Oh, I assure you, my dear, I cut a poor figure in my own eyes, when I contrast my conduct with what yours would have been in my place. If we had met years ago things might have gone differently, but now it is too late. Too late for apologies and recantations, that is to say, for they would not be acceptable, even if I could bring myself to the point of offering them. This sounds as if your example had had no real effect after all, but it is not so. Outward circumstances may remain the same, but some of the inward bitterness has gone! Do you remember the old fairy story about the unfortunate king who had three iron bands clamped tightly round his heart? It was the result of a spell, of course, and the only thing which could break their hold was when some mortal did some really fine and noble deed, then with a great bang one of the bands broke loose and conveniently disappeared.
“Well, dear little girl, if your present crack-brained mission is not working out to your satisfaction, if your neighbours in the ‘Mansions’ (?) are unappreciative or appreciative in objectionable ways—comfort yourself with the reflection that your sweet example has burst one of Charmion’s iron bands. I think on reflection one might almost say two, and that she daily blesses you for the relief!
“I can’t send you an address. I have no idea where I am going next, but before very long you will see me again. I’ll burst in upon you some day, with a Paris hat on my head (and another in my box for a pretty friend!) and snatch you away from your fads and fancies, and carry you off to ‘Pastimes,’ to gloat over, all to myself! Don’t have anything to say to any presumptuous man who may try to lure you away. For the period of our lease you belong to me, and I am not going to give you up.
“Charmion.”
I smiled, wiped a furtive tear, and carefully folded up the sheet. It did comfort me to know that I had helped Charmion. I thought happily of seeing her again, of all the long interesting talks we would have together.
Incidentally I thought of our lease. If we paid a penalty, we could break it at three years.