placed it gently over her shoulders.
“Molly!”
She looked up with wet eyes.
“Molly, dear, what is it?”
“I mustn’t. It isn’t right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mustn’t, Jimmy.”
He moved cautiously forward, holding the rail, till he was at her
side, and took her in his arms.
“What is it, dear? Tell me.”
She clung to him without speaking.
“You aren’t worrying about him, are you–about Dreever? There’s
nothing to worry about. It’ll be quite easy and simple. I’ll tell
him, if you like. He knows you don’t care for him; and, besides,
there’s a girl in London that he–”
“No, no. It’s not that.”
“What is it, dear? What’s troubling you?”
“Jimmy–” She stopped.
He waited.
“Yes?”
“Jimmy, my father wouldn’t–father–father–doesn’t–”
“Doesn’t like me?”
She nodded miserably.
A great wave of relief swept over Jimmy. He had imagined–he hardly
knew what he had imagined: some vast, insuperable obstacle; some
tremendous catastrophe, whirling them asunder. He could have laughed
aloud in his happiness. So, this was it, this was the cloud that
brooded over them–that Mr. McEachern did not like him! The angel,
guarding Eden with a fiery sword, had changed into a policeman with
a truncheon.
“He must learn to love me,” he said, lightly.
She looked at him hopelessly. He could not see; he could not
understand. And how could she tell him? Her father’s words rang in
her brain. He was “crooked.” He was “here on some game.” He was
being watched. But she loved him, she loved him! Oh, how could she
make him understand?
She clung tighter to him, trembling. He became serious again. “Dear,
you mustn’t worry,” he said. “It can’t be helped. He’ll come round.
Once we’re married–”
“No, no. Oh, can’t you understand? I couldn’t, I couldn’t!”
Jimmy’s face whitened. He looked at her anxiously.
“But, dear!” he said. “You can’t–do you mean to say–will that–”
he searched for a word-“stop you?” he concluded.
“It must,” she whispered.
A cold hand clutched at his heart. His world was falling to pieces,
crumbling under his eyes.
“But–but you love me,” he said, slowly. It was as if he were trying
to find the key to a puzzle. “I–don’t see.”
“You couldn’t. You can’t. You’re a man. You don’t know. It’s so
different for a man! He’s brought up all his life with the idea of
leaving home. He goes away naturally.”
“But, dear, you couldn’t live at home all your life. Whoever you
married–”
“But this would be different. Father would never speak to me again.
I should never see him again. He would go right out of my life.
Jimmy, I couldn’t. A girl can’t cut away twenty years of her life,
and start fresh like that. I should be haunted. I should make you
miserable. Every day, a hundred little things would remind me of
him, and I shouldn’t be strong enough to resist them. You don’t know
how fond he is of me, how good he has always been. Ever since I can
remember, we’ve been such friends. You’ve only seen the outside of
him, and I know how different that is from what he really is. All
his life he has thought only of me. He has told me things about
himself which nobody else dreams of, and I know that all these years
he has been working just for me. Jimmy, you don’t hate me for saying
this, do you?”
“Go on,” he said, drawing her closer to him.
“I can’t remember my mother. She died when I was quite little. So,
he and I have been the only ones–till you came.”
Memories of those early days crowded her mind as she spoke, making
her voice tremble; half-forgotten trifles, many of them, fraught
with the glamour and fragrance of past happiness.
“We have always been together. He trusted me, and I trusted him, and
we saw things through together. When I was ill, he used to sit up
all night with me, night after night. Once–I’d only got a little
fever, really, but I thought I was terribly bad–I heard him come in
late, and called out to him, and he came straight in, and sat and
held my hand all through the night; and it was only by accident I