Chapter 22

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.”