Wild, Wild Heart/Chapter 10

During the whole of the next week Ann sold only four hats, and was already beginning to question the wisdom of her venture. Her visions of a large and lucrative business were fading. Apparently money was no more to be her portion than love. At this rate she would be forced to retire from business at the end of the six months, and seek a position once more as governess or as lady-help.

But a few days before the Wairiri Jockey Club Meeting customers began to drift in. And Ann found that she was a good saleswoman. The old adage as to honesty being the best policy was true as far as this business was concerned. Ann would never tell a hesitating purchaser that the hat she was trying on suited her, if Ann herself was convinced it did not. She lost one or two sales in this way, but she gained far more than she lost. She had an eye for line and color. Knew the sort of hat which was most becoming to the wearer; and gradually her judgment was recognized.

“Go to Ann!” women said to one another. “She never tries to make you buy, but she knows what suits you—and she can bend or push a hat brim just ​to the right angle. She has the sweetest things. Not frightfully cheap, but not really expensive.”

And so the friend advised usually “went to Ann.” In fact, before the race meeting Ann’s stock was practically sold out. All the shops in the town closed early for the first day’s racing; and behind her locked door Ann and Mrs. Hill sat manufacturing a further supply of hats, from an early hour in the morning until after ten at night. That week-end Ann sent a letter-cable to her stepmother, asking her to despatch a few models from “Flora,” and a quantity of material of all kinds, immediately. Her stepmother adored picking up bargains at the sales—they’d still be on in London—and she knew ail about “Flora,” the establishment where Ann had studied millinery. Ann sent money by cable, and knew that even with the cost of the despatch, she would be saving a considerable sum in this way, as well as procuring something quite different to anything she could purchase in Wairiri. It would be six or seven weeks before the things arrived, but they would be winter goods, and in time for the winter season here.

For the Turf Club Meeting in February there was not such a rush of customers; and this Ann felt was rather fortunate, for to tell the truth both she and Mrs. Hill had been working at great pressure ever since the preparations for the shop had been begun.

They had taken over one hundred and twelve pounds in cash—Ann had no book debts—for their first month’s trading. With rent, wages, and materials she had spent barely seventy. Her personal living expenses were trifling, so that in four weeks she had almost paid for the initial outlay of fitting up her room and starting her business.

​Ann realized that she must not count on such good results during the next month or two; but she had secured an excellent circle of customers, and had no doubts as to the future.

All business premises would be closed as usual from 11:30 A.M. for the Turf Club races—no one in Wairiri thought of working on race days—and when Mrs. Ralston invited Ann to go out with them in their car, the newly-established milliner was very pleased to accept the invitation.

Her establishment, like the others, would be shut, and she would have the whole day on her hands.

So on the morning of the Turf Club Meeting, she put on her prettiest summer frock, and a special and most becoming “model,” and made her way down to the Imperial to join the Ralstons. Motor cars full of gayly dressed women were speeding through the streets; motor lorries with seats roughly arranged, and placarded with printed posters: “To the race course and back, 3s. 6d.”, were proceeding more slowly in order to pick up intending passengers; boys were shouting at street corners: “Card of the races—one shilling”; and there was a general air of gayety and expectancy about the passers-by. The wide roadway lay hot in the brilliant glare of the morning sunshine, under a clear blue sky. Ann, walking along the veranda-covered pavement, past the line of closed, or closing shops, was glad to think she wore a wide hat, and carried a parasol. It would probably be about 90 degrees in the shade out at the racecourse. She was looking forward to a cheery, pleasantly exciting day after the grind of her hard work; and for the moment her heart-ache was forgotten. Then suddenly, with a rush it all came back, for advancing ​towards her along the pavement, was Rodney Marsh! She could not tell whether it was pain or joy of which she was more vividly aware. Past pain of memory, and present joy in seeing him again, were queerly intermingled. Would he stop and speak to her? Or with cool nods, would they pass by? Slowly they drew near to one another, and Rodney’s eyes were fixed upon her. Simultaneously they halted—Marsh’s old felt hat was lifted, and then they were standing face to face.

“You’re off to the races I suppose,” he remarked, with an elaborate casualness.

“Yes, with the Ralstons,” answered Ann—equally casual.

They might have been two rather bored acquaintances meeting for a moment to exchange remarks about the weather.

“Is your leg all right again now?”

“A1.”

Ann longed to know what he was doing—if he were still at Tirau, or not.

“How’s Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

His face flushed a little. Her question brought back too vividly that last scene between them. But in Ann’s mind—innocent of any thought of wrong in connection with Holmes and herself—that incident appeared so trivial in comparison with the moment when Rodney told her that he did not want her to be his wife, that it was almost forgotten.

“He’s getting on all right, I think. I’m droving now. On my own.”

“You left him?”

“The bank cut down expenses on the place. I’d ​have stayed on for less money, but the boss thought I shouldn’t do that.”

All was well again between them then, Ann reflected; and she was glad.

She wondered if Rodney would apologize now for what he had said that morning. No, he wasn’t likely to do that. It was difficult—almost impossible—for him to admit, in so many words, that he was ever in the wrong. Stubborn and pig-headed, that’s what he was, Ann reflected; and yet, in spite of everything, how dear! As he stood before her in his old dusty riding clothes, she knew that even though she might some day be married to another man, just the name of Rodney would make her heart leap in her breast, as it had done this morning when she first caught sight of him.

But if in words he couldn’t express regret for his past conduct, his queer brusque manner—his awkward greeting—was an index to his thought.

“Got a race card?” he asked.

Ann shook her head. He pulled one out of his pocket.

“Take mine.”

“You’ll want it.”

“I can get another easy enough.”

“But you’ve marked this.”

“Yes. If you want to know what I’m going to back, they’re there—use the tips yourself if you like—but don’t give them away. Of course they mayn’t be any good—they’re only my fancy.”

“Thank you so much.”

They stood there facing one another, conversation at an end.

​“I’ll probably see you on the course,” said Ann at last.

“I don’t expect so. You’ll be with a different crowd to me.”

She had no reply to make to that, and she couldn’t stay here much longer. She might be keeping the Ralstons waiting.

After another moment she said good-by, and crossed over to the Imperial Hotel.

On the racecourse Ann was enjoying something of a succès fou. Her prettiness and gayety were attractive to men and women alike. But with the latter—who were for the most part very warm-hearted and hospitable to strangers—the novelty of her enterprise, and the authoritative position she now held in Wairiri as the supreme arbiter of fashion, created an added interest. Though quite unaware of it herself, Ann had charm. Not only the charm of an attractive appearance, but the charm of an un-self-centered nature. She was neither gushing, nor shy, but perfectly natural, and quite frankly interested in her fellow creatures.

The Wairiri Turf Club Meeting, Ann found, was very much like the first one she had attended, but bigger, gayer, and more sophisticated. A brass band played on the green turf of the lawn amongst the flower beds; the dresses in the grand stand were decidedly more elaborate than those worn at Omoana; the totalisator was much larger; and the entries for the races more numerous. But, as at Omoana, luncheon was a huge picnic shared by the visitors from the ​coast and their Wairiri friends. They gathered under the shady willows at the back of the stand after the second race—hampers were brought out from the cars, and everybody was very gay and very jolly. Ann, being young and of a naturally happy disposition, couldn’t help enjoying herself. Rodney was on the course. She had caught sight of him in the distance, and perhaps—though she would not admit this to herself—the thought that she might see and speak to him again before the afternoon was over enhanced the radiance of the day. But as the shadows lengthened, and still he did not seek her out, her spirits drooped a little. What was the use of going on thinking in this silly sentimental fashion of a man who had plainly told her that his affection for her was not serious or a lasting one? Yet how could she help thinking of him, she mentally defended herself, seeing that she held his race card in her hands, and by steadily following his tips was amassing quite a little fortune? And her feeling was not that of a stupidly romantic schoolgirl. With a quick surge of passionate resentment she found herself wishing that it were—that it might be the ephemeral, unreal fancy of the jeune fille, instead of this sure and bitter realization that Rodney Marsh was the only man she would ever love in quite this way with every fiber of her being. Her thoughts continually hovered about him. Whom was he with? Had he followed the tips he had given her? and if so how much had he won today? She herself had only invested one pound on each race, and after the sixth event found that she had backed four winners and an outsider, who paid a big dividend for second place.

“How on earth do you do it?” asked Mrs. Ralston. ​“It’s uncanny. You won at Omoana too, didn’t you? And you say you don’t know anything about racing.”

“Beginner’s luck, I suppose,” answered Ann, who was already nearly forty pounds to the good on the day.

It was just before they had afternoon tea, beside the cars under the willows, that Ann came face to face with Dick Holmes.

“What in the world are you doing here?” she asked.

“I came to find you,” he answered.

Nell Brunton, with whom Ann was walking, moved on to another group of friends, and Holmes and Ann were left together.

“Stroll down to the rails—there—overlooking the course,” he said.

She moved beside him across the lawn, a little startled by his appearance, and his tone. That something had happened to disturb him was very evident. But when they reached the rails he was still silent.

“What is it?” asked Ann.

“I came down this morning from Tirau, and went to your shop, but it was closed. They told me at the Imperial that you were here. I’m still a member of the Turf Club and I... got a lift out to the course.”

“You’ve had news?"

“Yes.”

“Nothing has happened to...to Mrs. Holmes?”

He gave a sudden, rather bitter laugh.

“As far as I know she’s all right.”

“The children...?”

“They’re as fit as fiddles.”

“There’s something else?"

He nodded.

​“Is it important that I should know what it is?”

“Yes.”

She waited for him to continue, but at last he said:

“I can’t tell you here. It’s too... too difficult. Can I see you somewhere this evening?”

“Come round to my rooms.”

“About eight-thirty?”

“Yes—that’ll be all right.”

“Have you had any tea?”

“I was just going with Nell Brunton to the Ralstons’ car.”

“I’ll come with you.”

They moved back across the lawn, and steered their way through the shifting crowd towards the rear of the stand. Scraps of conversation came to Ann, and once, wedged behind a small group of smartly dressed women who had formed part of the luncheon picnic, Ann heard the discussion of a pending divorce case—whose she didn’t know.

“Phil is in Miller’s office—he saw the divorce papers—citation he called it. She’s mentioned, I tell you, as co-respondent.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. Phil told me today. I know they’ve often been together. I was with Nell one morning and saw him coming away from her place.”

Ann and Holmes at last reached the parked cars, and the unpacked tea-hampers; and here Holmes was greeted with some surprise, but with decided cordiality by all the men, and most of the women. The fact of a farmer’s failure in the Wairiri district had always the effect of arousing the ready sympathy of his more fortunate friends.

​And yet Ann fancied that she herself was not as warmly welcomed by the women as she had been earlier in the day. Why was that? Had her facility for picking winners annoyed them? Or did they disapprove of her appearing amongst them all, accompanied by a married man whose wife was spending a holiday in Australia? Ann told herself that this attitude on their part would be absurd. One wasn’t compromised so easily by chatting in a friendly fashion to married men. But suddenly back to her mind came the memory of Mrs. Pratt’s indignant departure from Tirau. Was it possible that such a silly story could have suddenly gained credence amongst the Wairiri women? Ridiculous! They had too much common sense. She dismissed the idea, and told herself that she was becoming self-conscious, and imagining herself slighted because she wasn’t again treated as the “star turn” of the party. “Wonderful how quickly one’s head can swell,” she reflected, with a little smile at her own expense.

So after tea, she strolled again with Holmes down towards the totalisator, to make her seventh investment. He talked of the children, whom he had seen for a short time that afternoon, and who appeared to be quite happy and contented with Mrs. Marley; mentioned current matters connected with Tirau; and remarked that he had received a very decent letter from Waring offering to help him financially. Ann glanced at him quickly as he said this. No, she decided, there was still no suspicion in his mind with regard to Vera and his friend. What was it then that was troubling him? But she would not ask him. He had told her that he wished to defer his explanation, and she would wait until the evening. Standing to​gether in front of the totalisator, watching the crowd pressing in to the ticket offices, the numbers altering quickly as the money was rung on the different horses, she heard Holmes say:

“Hallo, Rodney! How are things going with you?”

Ann turned quickly. She was convinced that Marsh had already seen her, but he avoided looking at her directly. He nodded curtly to Holmes:

“Well enough,” he answered, and moved away.

Holmes remained gazing after him in a slightly puzzled fashion. It was evident that he was a trifle nonplussed by the young man’s abrupt departure.

“Rodney’s in a hurry to get his money on,” he remarked. “Let’s go back to the stand.”

On the lawn the band was playing “The Londonderry Air,” as Holmes and Ann made their way up the wooden steps of the grand stand. The wide circle of the hills beyond the course was already hazed and purple in the mellowing afternoon sunshine; and in the midst of the gay crowd Ann felt suddenly the sadness of departing day, and the eternal solitariness of the human soul. Nothing ever bridged that gulf between one’s inner self and the outer world. Love could help. Love between man and woman. That—in its highest expression—could enable one to reach a little beyond the narrow limits of one’s own personality—to become to some extent merged with another’s soul and spirit. For the rest—the excitement of pleasure—the amusement of this day, for instance—the races, winning money, dressing up—what were they all but games that children play? Something to pass the time before the darkness came. They weren’t realities—only the things of the spirit were real. Truth, affection, loyalty. And love must combine all ​those or it was worthless. So Ann sat still, and silent by Dick Holmes’s side while the seventh race was run. She won once more, but somehow the excitement of collecting dividends had lost its savor. She would not see Rodney again this afternoon she felt convinced. And of what use was it to see him? Better try to put all thought of him for ever out of her heart. She had lost interest in the day, and did not even trouble to invest her usual pound on the eighth and last race. But even here her luck held; for the horse which Rodney had tipped finished nowhere. The band played “God Save the King,” and put away their instruments; and the Ralstons and their friends, together with all the race-goers, prepared to make for home.

Ann, busy with her own sad thoughts during the drive home, did not notice that the Ralstons and Nell Brunton were equally disinclined for conversation. But when they put her out at the corner of her own block, her warm little speech of thanks to them for their kindness in taking her seemed to meet with no very enthusiastic reply. As they drove off Ann suddenly realized that her popularity had been exceedingly short-lived. For some reason the Ralstons were not as friendly at the end of the day as they had been at the beginning.

She changed her frock, then made herself a cup of tea, and nibbled a small slice of bread and butter. She had no appetite for dinner, and decided to wait quietly in her room until Dick Holmes arrived.

What was it he wished to say? If gossip concerning ​her had been started by Mrs. Pratt, probably it was that which was upsetting him. But surely these idle rumors of scandal were not of sufficient importance to bring him forty miles down the coast from Tirau?

Continually her thoughts turned back to Rodney Marsh, and each time as she realized this she resolutely forced her mind to the contemplation of her work—her future plans. The little love dream was at an end; and it was far better that it should be so; she told herself that a marriage of this sort might very easily end in disaster, and yet her heart cried out against this conventional pronouncement. Was life to be lived solely by the light of practical common sense? Was every situation that was difficult to be evaded? Must one never hazard anything? Never take the chance of a fall? Surely that would rule out all adventure—all romance.

Again she pulled herself up sharply. As Rodney Marsh had no intention of asking her to be his wife, these reflections were superfluous. Marriage wasn’t for her—she would be a successful business woman, leading a busy, independent life, and finding happiness in her work, her friendships, and her books.

She gave a quick little sigh, and glanced at her watch. Nearly eight o’clock! Dick Holmes should be here directly—and as the thought came to her a knock sounded at the outer door.

She passed through the shop to answer it, and found outside, not Holmes, but a boy with a note. “Mr. Holmes told me to bring it to you,” he said, and the next moment he was gone.

In the twilight of her showroom, Ann tore open the envelope:

​

“Dear Miss Merrill,” she read,

“After I left you this afternoon it struck me that it would be unwise, under the circumstances, for me to call on you this evening. Perhaps, too, there’s an undercurrent of cowardice in my mind. It’s easier to tell you in a letter what I have to than to say it directly. It’s so damned horrible. When I think of your sweetness and your kindness to me that last night at Tirau, the thought that you should suffer for it in this way makes me wish you’d never taken that revolver out of my hand. I can’t see any way out now to save you from a situation that’s infernally unfair and unjust. I’ve already written to Vera, and told her the whole truth of the affair. But it passes my comprehension how she could ever have believed such a thing of you or of me. It isn’t as though you were a stranger to her. She knew you well enough to be quite certain that you were as straight as any girl who ever lived. I don’t even know her address in Sydney, but I’ve sent the letter c/o Frank Miller, the Wairiri solicitor, whom she’s instructed to take proceedings. After she gets my letter, I don’t think she can possibly go on with the case. But all the same you’d better see Ford tomorrow and act on his advice. He isn’t my lawyer, but he’s a very old friend, and will do all he can for you.

“This thing that I’ve been trying to tell you is that Vera is suing me for divorce, and has named you as co-respondent. In some way it must have got out that you were with me in my room that last night at Tirau—and, the world being what it is, the inference is not that you were an angel of mercy and of pity then—one of the pluckiest and ​sweetest little girls God ever made—but something different. Well, I suppose it’s natural to think the worst and not the best of human nature. But it’s so damned disgusting that your unselfish kindness should have brought this on your head that when I think of it I can’t go on writing. The words I want to use aren’t fit for you to read. Ford told me this evening that it would be better for me not to see you at all at present; and better that you shouldn’t go to my solicitor. Ford is a good chap and if you go to see him tomorrow—his office is in Field’s Buildings in Wells Street—he’ll tell you what to do.

“I’m leaving for Tirau by the service car at seven in the morning. To think that it’s through me your name should be dragged in the mud like this makes me feel—no, I can’t tell you what I feel—it’s beyond telling. It doesn’t seem possible that the case will ever come into Court. But in a place like Wairiri, rumors of it are sure to get about, and it’s bound to injure you. When I think of that—well shooting myself now wouldn't do any good—I’d only make matters worse. And I gave you my promise too about that. I’m not good at expressing my thoughts, but that night to me you were like my mother and my child and the Virgin Mary.

Ann read this letter through to the end, standing near the window in the fading light. Then she drew the curtains, switched on the electric light, and pulling her chair up to one of the tables, pushed the hat stands n one side, laid the closely covered sheet of ​paper out before her, and read it through again. She knew now the reason for the slight coolness shown to her by the Ralstons, and some of the other race-goers, that afternoon; knew that the divorce case she had heard discussed was this one—that the co-respondent mentioned was herself. Scandal in Wairiri was like a bush fire after a dry, hot summer—it spread as quickly. Well, even if the case never came into the Court—and it was impossible to believe that there was the remotest chance of its doing so, still, the mere fact of her having been cited in the case might handicap her newly-started business. As far as her personal reputation was concerned, she did not care so much. If people could believe that of her after they had heard the true story, they weren’t worth considering. After all, she had no real friends to lose in Wairiri. Yet, suddenly realizing what the case might mean to her if by some unthinkable chance it did reach the Court, she saw herself in the witness-box being asked horrible, intimate questions—saw the eager sightseers in the gallery! Heard the badgering cross-examination!

Ann buried her face in her hands. How could she ever find courage enough to carry her through such an ordeal? For a moment she sat quite still. Then the wave of crimson which had surged up into her pale face receded, leaving her whiter than before. She must write to Vera at once. It wasn’t possible that Vera could bring this case. She knew the charge was false!

Even now Ann’s predominant feeling was not so much pity for herself, as pity for Dick Holmes. To be aware that he had unwittingly brought trouble on a friend would mean to Holmes very real suffering. ​Oh, Vera couldn’t be so cruel as to do this thing—she couldn’t!

Ann rose and crossed to the writing-table in the corner—she wouldn’t lose a minute—she’d write at once!

But as she pulled out notepaper and envelopes, again the knocker sounded. Had Holmes changed his mind and come to see her after all? She hoped that he had not, for what had they to say to one another? He had told her everything in his letter.

She moved across the room, and into the narrow passage at the entrance. Throwing open the door she saw, not Holmes, but Rodney Marsh standing on the pavement.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Come in then.”

She closed the outer door, and he followed her back into her showroom. He had taken off his hat; and his rumpled hair, and something in his eyes—a wild, strained look—accentuated the untamed air, which in her first vision of him had been so apparent.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “Perhaps I shall... later. I had to see you first.”

“Why?”

He came close to her, where she stood by the table under the light.

“They’re saying things—coupling your name with Holmes.”

“Well?”

“Tell me it isn’t true—what they’re saying.”

​“Why should I tell you anything? What business is it of yours?”

He sat down suddenly, and putting his elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands.

“I’m in hell,” he said.

“Then it’s a hell of your own making.”

He made no reply, and after a moment Ann sat down at the other side of the table opposite to him.

“Rodney,” she said quietly, “we’d better have this out, once and for all. You’ve said that you love me, but you don’t love me well enough to want me as your wife. Well, you’ve been honest at least, and I’ll try to be honest with you—to tell you everything that is in my heart.”

“Tell me that what they say isn’t true.”

“What do they say?”

“That Mrs. Holmes is bringing a case for divorce against the boss and... you.”

“That is quite true.”

He looked up at her for one moment with wild and haggard eyes. Then his face dropped mto his hands again.

“So it’s too late now, anyhow,” he muttered.

“Too late for what?”

He was silent and she went on:

“Do you mean it’s too late for you to ask me to marry you?” Again he did not answer, and she continued steadily: “Why should you think that I would accept your proposal? What have you to offer me? Is it a very exalted position to be the wife of a drover?”

“I’m not going to be a drover always. If I made ​up my mind to it, I could have my own place. I won more today than I won at Omoana.”

“And you’ll probably gamble it away again,” she returned contemptuously. “Money got like that isn’t often kept. It’s only the money earned by hard work that’s much use.”

“Who says I can’t work hard?”

“We’re getting away from the point. It isn’t a question of money—that wouldn’t count much with me in marriage—but do you think I should be making a very brilliant match in marrying you?”

“I’m not good enough?”

“I don’t know about not being good enough, but you’ve been brought up with a different standard of life and education.”

“If you loved me, that wouldn’t matter.”

“I think it would make life together difficult.”

“Are you going to marry the boss after the divorce?” he asked fiercely.

“As far as I know, I’m not going to marry at all. Two men—men who have far more in the way of worldly possessions than you are ever likely to have, men more accustomed to the world in which I’ve been brought up—have asked me to marry them in the last six months. I refused them both.”

“Would either of them ask you again—after...this?”

“Yes, I think both of them would—if they thought there was any chance of my accepting them. At any rate, they would have sense enough to believe that I was innocent of what you seem to imagine is true.”

“You’ve told me that it is.”

“I’ve told you that Mrs. Holmes is bringing an action for divorce.”

​“She must have grounds for that, mustn’t she?”

“She may believe she has grounds for it.” She paused for a moment, “And would you never forgive a woman for a...a fault—a sin if you like—of that sort? Has your life been altogether free from...from any moments of...of passion?”

“A man and a woman are different.”

“You’re mistaken,” she answered swiftly. “A woman has her temptations as well as a man. They may not be as many or as frequent—the penalty for giving way is greater. That is a safeguard in many cases. But a woman is as likely to be swept away by physical feelings as a man—she’s only a human being just as he is. I’ve known one man who might have...have influenced me in this way, though I had no affection, no real admiration for him.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“I’m trying to be honest. Because I know that about myself, I’m at least more charitable to other women. And I’d want the man I married not to have one standard of morality for himself, and another for me.”

“Are you making excuses for yourself?”

She shook her head.

“No, there’s no need. I haven’t been guilty of this...this sort of error. I mean to remain what men call...straight.”

“But you've admitted———”

“I’ve admitted nothing beyond the fact that Mrs. Holmes is bringing this action. She is...mistaken, that’s all.”

“That night at Tirau———”

“I went into Mr. Holmes’s room because I saw his shadow on the blind, and he held a revolver in ​his hand. He meant to kill himself. I stopped him. I hadn’t the faintest thought in my mind of any consequences to myself. Even if that thought had come to me, I’d have acted in the same way. He was in great trouble—in desperate need of help. I did what I could—that’s all. Read this.”

She handed him the letter she had just received, and in silence Rodney Marsh read it from beginning to end.

“At any rate, it shows he loves you,” he said at last.

“I hope he does, for I love him.”

He looked up at her again—with scowling, jealous brows.

“No, not in the way you seem to think,” she went on. “My love for him is like the affection which I think he has for me. It has nothing in it which one may not rightly feel for the husband of another woman.”

There was a long silence between them, and at last he rose.

“Are you going to stay on here—in Wairiri?”

“Certainly. Why not? There’s no reason for me to run away.”

She had risen too, and now moved slowly towards the door beside him.

“You were going to be honest with me, to tell me everything in your heart,” he said abruptly.

“I’ve tried to be honest.”

“Do you...love me?”

“You’ve no right to ask me that.”

He turned suddenly, and with a queer, inarticulate sound that was almost a groan took her in his arms, holding her closely as he pressed his face down against her smooth white neck. For a few seconds ​they stood immovable, then without a word Ann put her two hands against his breast, and stepped back. His grip relaxed, and his hands released her.

“Very well, I will be honest,” she said quietly. “Many times before you made it plain to me that you did not want me, I debated in my mind the...the question of marriage with you. You aren’t the sort of man I should willingly have chosen to... love. Class consciousness is a stupid overworked phrase, and yet we’re all class conscious—we can’t help it. There are little differences between us—between you and me. They might be quite enough to wreck our happiness—I don’t know. We should each need to be patient with the other. And I think we neither of us are very patient. You are self-willed, and though you’re ignorant in many ways, that doesn’t diminish your pride and arrogance.”

“Haven’t you any faults?”

“Very many, but they aren’t quite the same as yours, and therefore I might not be tolerant enough with you. And yet—I made up my mind that if you wanted me...to be your wife, I’d say—yes, because”—she hesitated for a moment and then went on bravely—“I think I could have learnt to love you more than I could ever love another man.”

He made a movement as though to take her in his arms again, but she held up her hand.

“No, you’re not to do that any more. Even now, though you want me, marriage seems a tie—a bondage to you. I wouldn’t marry any man who felt like that, for there’s no bondage in marriage if people are truly mated. You show me that we shouldn’t be.”

She opened the outer door, and he moved slowly towards it. In the entrance he turmed once more. ​She thought he meant to speak, but no words came. Then, after a pause, with a brief “good night,” he passed out on to the dimly-lighted pavement.

So that was over! Ann came back into the showroom, and took up Dick Holmes’s letter which lay open on the table amongst the disordered hat-stands.

She was very tired. The scene with Rodney seemed to have bereft her of all vitality. But she went back to her writing-table to begin her letter to Vera Holmes. For a long time she sat gazing down at the blank sheet of paper before her. How difficult to express in words all that she wished to say! It was true, as she had told Rodney, that she was not uncharitable in her thoughts of other women. Young as she was, she realized the latent power of passion in herself, and though she turned with a sense of sick distaste from the contemplation of Vera’s secret, yet she understood a little the strength of the temptation to which the older woman had yielded in beginning this intrigue with Gerald Waring. Vera had not married the right man. She needed a strong, ruthlessly masculine mate to dominate, and hold her. Holmes was too sensitive and self-effacing to interest her for long. His finer qualities—the gentle consideration for others—she had unconsciously grown to despise as weakness. But though she recognized this, Ann still was of stern enough stuff to hate the sin of disloyalty of which Vera had been guilty. Disloyalty, not only to her husband, but to her children, and in a lesser degree to Ann herself. To hurt others—to betray them—that seemed to Ann the essence of immorality.

​“My dear Mrs. Holmes,” she began, and then sat again for a long time with her pen poised above the paper. Well, her letter might be muddled—her meaning not clearly expressed—but she must do the best she could, and so she continued:

“Mr, Holmes has written to me to say that you are bringing an action for divorce against him, and that you are using my name in order to try and obtain your freedom. I don’t for a moment think that you believe this of me, or of him. You know he would never be unfaithful to you; but you have heard that I was in his room with him the night after you left Tirau, and your quick brain has seized on this as a possible solution for yourself. I know you want your freedom, and I know why you want it. But can you be cruel enough to sacrifice me, whom you professed to like—and I believe you really did care for me—to gain your own ends? I’m not attempting to judge you for the wrong you personally have done to your husband. The last time Mr. Waring stayed at Tirau, I went up after midnight for a book to the schoolroom. I was only there a second, but it was long enough for me to realize that weeks before I’d been a foolish dupe—so concerned and anxious for your safety when I met you walking in the dawn. Yet even now when I remember it, I know that you were very unhappy that night, and I’m sorry for you again, as I was then.

“You want your freedom in order to marry Gerald Waring. When you have got that freedom, are you quite certain that he will marry you? He asked me to be his wife before he left Tirau, and ​I refused. But he told me to write to him if I were likely to change my mind. Please don’t misunderstand my motive for telling you this. The fact that I know your secret can make no difference to you, for you are the only person who will ever be aware that I know it. Mr. Holmes himself has no suspicion of it—I’m convinced of that. He looks upon Gerald Waring as his true friend, and he loves you now, and I think always will love you devotedly. I’d rather suffer anything myself than add to the troubles he has to bear. And with regard to the story which I suppose you heard from Mrs. Pratt, of my being in his room, it was because I saw him with a revolver in his hand and knew he meant to kill himself. He’d come to the end of everything—facing ruin—and you had left him. He was half mad, I think, with grief and worry. If I hadn’t been with him that night—as innocently as Biddy might have been—you would already have had your freedom. Do you regret that? Would you like to feel that his death might be laid at your door? The man who has loved you so dearly for ten years? Oh, I don’t think you could wish that! I don’t think any one could—however wicked. And I don’t believe you’re wicked. Please, please, Mrs. Holmes, come back to him and to Biddy and Jo. You can’t want to leave them for ever. But I suppose if you get a divorce the Court will give you the custody of the children, or whatever they call it. And I’m not asking this for myself. I shall loathe being dragged into this case, but I believe I can honestly say that if by suffering as much as I know I shall suffer if this case comes on and I have to de​fend it I could bring you back to your husband and your children, I’d do it.

“I’m afraid that’s very mixed. My going through the humiliation of the Divorce Court couldn’t help to bring you back. What I mean is that I’d suffer an equal humiliation if in this way I could only give Mr. Holmes back some happiness. He’s back at Tirau again now as manager, and things may not be so bad as he thought at first they would be. If you could have seen him as I saw him that night your heart would have melted with pity—I know it would—and although perhaps there was a little truth in what you said that first night, when I arrived at Tirau, about being jealous of me, you grew to be a little fond of me too. And you’re so handsome and so fascinating yourself, why need you be jealous of any one? But no beauty and no fascination can revive a love that’s dead. Do you think Gerald Waring would marry you? I don’t. There’s a poem of Kipling’s, isn’t there, with a line—‘When a man is tired there is naught will bind him!’? Oh, please, Mrs. Holmes, don’t think this is meant cruelly—it isn’t. It’s just truth. And if he did marry you, it wouldn’t mean any happiness to you—only misery. I don’t believe he’d be faithful to any one. But don’t think of me in connection with him. I don’t ever want to see him again.

“I know this letter is all mixed up and I haven’t said what I want to properly, but I’m so terribly tired tonight. Love—real love—affection and trust and kindness—isn’t so easy to find in this world. And you’ve been given all that by your husband. He’d never change towards you. You’re all the ​world to him—and as you get older, he’ll go on loving you just the same; and then there are Biddy and Jo. They’re at Mrs. Marley’s now, and quite well and happy for the present, I think. Oh, don’t go on with the case—come back to Tirau—won’t you? Whatever has happened in the past is over and done with. You’ll find happiness, I believe, in the end if you only come back now. I’ll hate the case, of course, but it can’t do me much real harm—I’m not likely to marry now—anyhow.”

She stopped, and laid down her pen. When she began again the page was blotted with her tears.

“I think I ought to put this letter in the waste paper basket, and try and write something more sensible tomorrow. But I can’t go over it all again. It’ll just have to be posted tonight and take its chance. It’s stupid and muddled. You must forgive that. I was always sorry for you because somehow I knew you were unhappy. I’m still sorry for you. I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. Sometimes I was angry with you at Tirau, but nearly always I knew my anger wouldn’t last. It hasn’t tonight. It seems to have gone as I’ve been writing. We’re all like children in this world; I think, doing wrong and quarreling and hurting one another half the time without knowing why we do it, but I believe God makes allowances for us. He knows that life isn’t easy for us, and we don’t really want to be bad.

“Good night—I wish when I go to bed tonight, I needn’t wake up again. Perhaps that’s cowardly, ​but I’m not feeling very happy and I’m terribly tired.

“I don’t know how to end this, so will just put

She pushed the untidy sheets into an envelope, addressed the letter “c/o Frank Miller, Solicitor, Wairiri,” and marked it, “Please forward immediately.”

Within ten minutes she had dropped it in the postbox at the end of the street, and was back in her own room.

The little clock on her dressing-table struck two as she fell into bed, utterly spent and exhausted.