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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.
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.
Of course, if it was only Joan's money that this fellow Everard was after, the story would make little or no difference. The marriage would go on all the same, if it was a matter of money, but Philip Slotman retraced his painful steps. Once again he tapped on the door of Buddesby. "There was something that I wished to say to Mr.
It was twelve o'clock when she came in sight of Buddesby village, a mile distant as yet. "Missy! Missy!" Someone was calling. Ellice slowed down and looked about her. On the bank beside the road a man sat, and he was nursing an ugly yellow lurcher dog in his arms. "Missy!" the man called, and his voice was broken and harsh with suffering.
"I am sure it must be in the best taste. And then?" "Oh, then Mr. Roger died at sea and left it all, Starden Hall and his money, to Miss Joan Meredyth. And she lives there now, and I suppose she'll go on living there when she is married." "When she is married," he repeated. "To Mr. John Everard of Buddesby, a rare pleasant-spoken, nice gentleman as no one can speak a word against.
"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!"
I've got quite a lot to chat about at Buddesby, and I shan't be done when I'm through there either. There's a nice little inn in Starden, isn't there? If one talked much there it would soon get about the place!" Under cover of the darkness her cheeks flamed, but her voice was still as cold and as steady as before.
"It was the very thing I was going to suggest," Helen said. "In three months' time then, Joan." Joan bowed her head. "In three months' time then," she said. They were all three very silent as Johnny drove the little car back to Buddesby that evening. The sun was down, but the twilight lingered.
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.
"Joan, I wonder if there are many women like you?" "Many better than I," she said "many happier." At Buddesby she was welcomed by a radiant girl with happy eyes, a girl who could not make enough of her, and there Joan saw a home life and happiness she had never known a happiness that set her hungry heart yearning and longing with a longing that was intolerable and unbearable.
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