“The paying”

Once again Mr. Philip Slotman was tainting the fragrant sweetness and freshness of the night with the aroma of a large and expensive J.S.  Muria.

Once again the big shabby old car stood waiting in the shadows, a quarter of a mile down the road, while he who hired it leaned against the gate under the shadow of the partly ruined barn.

He had not the smallest doubt but that she would come.  It was full early yet; but she would come, though, being a woman, she would in all probability be late.

And she would pay, she dared not refuse him.  Yet he needed more than the money, he thought, as he leaned at his ease against the gate and smoked his cigar.

And now she was coming.  He flung the half-smoked cigar away and waited as the dark figure approached him in the night.

“You are early to-night, Joan.”  He endeavoured to put softness and tenderness into his voice.

“I am here at the time I appointed.”

“To give me my answer—­yes, but we won’t discuss that now.  I want to speak to you about something else.”

“Something other than money?”

“Yes, do you think I always put money first?”

“I had thought so, Mr. Slotman.”

“You do me a wrong—­a great wrong.  There is something that I put far ahead of money, of gold.  It is you—­Joan, listen! you must listen!” He had gripped her arm and held tightly, and as before she did not struggle nor try to win free of him.

“You shall listen to me.  I have told you before many times that I love you.”

He tried to drag her closer to him.  And now she wrenched herself free.

“I came to discuss money with you, not—­not impossibilities.”

“So—­so that is it, is it?  I am impossible, am I?”

“To me—­utterly.  I have only one feeling for you, the deepest scorn.  I don’t hate you, because you are too mean, too paltry, too low a thing to hate.  I have only contempt for you.”

He writhed under the cold and cutting scorn of her words and her voice, the evil temper in him worked uppermost.

“So—­so that’s the talk, is it?” he cried with a foul oath.  “That’s it, is it?  You—­you two-penny ha’penny—­” He choked foolishly over his words.

“You!” he gasped, “what are you?  What have you been?  What about you and—­”

Again he was silent, writhing with rage.

“Money—­yes, it is money-talk, then, and by thunder I’ll make you pay!  I’ll bleed you white, you cursed—­” Again more foolish oaths, the clumsy cursing of a man in the grip of passion.

“You shall pay!  It’s money-talk, yes—­you shall pay!  We will talk in thousands, my girl.  I said five thousand.  It isn’t enough—­what is your good name worth, eh?  What is it worth to you?  I could paint you a nice colour, couldn’t I?  What will this fellow Everard say when I tell him what I can tell him?  How the village fools will talk it over in their alehouse, eh?  And in the cottages, how they will stare at Miss Meredyth of Starden when she takes her walks abroad.  They’ll wink at one another, won’t they.  They’ll remember!  Trust ’em, they’ll never forget!”