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“No!” Rosamund whispered through dry lips.
“No!”

She couldn’t think clearly.

John—her John—wasn’t a poor man with a purpose in life as he’d led her to believe. He was rich. He had so much money that he didn’t need to work. He was the masculine version of the shallow, idle women who patronised her aunt’s salon—a playboy.

And he had lied to her. Deliberately misled her.

Why, why,
why
?

The word hammered relentlessly in her brain. There must be a reason—

She turned again to the letter.

“—tired of the sort of popularity which his money brought him—”

Yes, that must surely be the answer. And how understandable that made everything! Why, there might even have been a girl to whom he had been attracted only to find that she was interested not in him but in his money. Certainly Aunt Ruth more than hinted at that.

Small wonder if he had been disillusioned and had sought sanctuary in a different world where he could be a different person. Small wonder, too, that he had deliberately given the impression of being a comparatively poor man or that, at first, he had been so suspicious and unfriendly. He simply couldn’t believe in basic decencies like sincerity or integrity.

But he did now. He believed in her love for him.

Her forehead puckered in perplexity. Her first impulse was that she must assure him that she didn’t want to be rich. That she, too, had run away from a life as superficial and unsatisfying as his own had been.

If John had been immediately available that, she knew, was what she would have done. But he wasn’t here and he wouldn’t be until tomorrow. Inevitably, she began to question whether impulse was her best guide.

Of only one thing could she be absolutely certain. The criterion which must guide her decisions was that she must do whatever was best for John. And that could surely only mean that his new-found faith in humanity and himself mustn’t be destroyed, least of all by her.

Again she consulted the letter.

“No man likes to know that he’s been made a fool of by a woman.”

Well, she hadn’t made a fool of John. She did truly love him and money didn’t enter into it—except from the point of view that she’d rather they didn’t have too much of it.

But would John credit that? Would he be able to? Wasn’t it too big a risk for her to take?

She drew a deep breath and made up her mind. She would say nothing at all about the letter, either now or in the future, even though she would so desperately prefer to have no secrets from John. But honestly, what satisfactory alternative was there? Trying to put herself in John’s place, she decided that there wasn’t.

Very well, then, she would destroy the letter and say nothing about it. But even so, she could see that there were dangers in such ,a course.

For one thing, there was Aunt Ruth. Supposing she was ever able to convince John that he had been a victim of, to use her own words, a skilfully executed campaign? Unconsciously, Rosamund shook her head. That was unlikely in view of that very typical P.S. Aunt Ruth saw her chance to make something out of the situation and she didn’t hesitate to make use of it. It was something unpleasantly like blackmail, but at least Rosamund could be quite sure that she would never risk imperilling the possibility of making money!

The other, far greater and more personal danger lay in herself. Every instinct she had, everything in her nature, made her want to be absolutely honest with John. But when, sooner or later, he told her of his wealth, she would have to act a lie—and keep on acting it. She’d have to seem convincingly surprised, and she didn’t trust her own histrionic capabilities sufficiently to be sure that she could carry it off. And that would spell disaster.

But as quickly as it had returned, the temptation faded.
Her
mind would be at ease if she told the truth, but how about John’s?

Vividly there returned to her mind that" moment of understanding which she had had on the day when John had told her of his love—that love wasn’t only a question of romance. It was, among other things, the desire to stand between the person you loved and pain or danger. John was still too vulnerable, too sensitive for her to risk endangering his newly found self-confidence.

Her mind finally made up, she rummaged in her handbag for a flat packet of matches. Then she got out of the car, tore the letter and its envelope into shreds and set fire to them.

John’s photograph? She hesitated, unable to bring herself to destroying that. She tore the caption carefully off and added that to the little blaze. She waited until nothing but black ash remained, and even that she stamped into further nothingness.

The photograph she put into her handbag.

They drove for over an hour before they found just the right church. They saw it from a high level road and simultaneously they exclaimed: “That’s it!”

It was old and weathered and it had a look of permanence that delighted them both. And it was tucked into a green valley beside a sparkling little river. Perfect!

What was unmistakably the Rectory stood just by the church. It was large and square and just a little bit shabby and it was set in a garden which was obviously someone’s pride and joy. Flowers and shrubs burgeoned as if they liked growing there.

“It looks just like a Rectory ought to look/’ Rosamund remarked contentedly. “I’m sure the Rector will be just right, too!”

But it was actually the Rector’s wife whom they saw first. She was kneeling beside a border that she was weeding and she, too, had that indefinable air of gentle shabbiness. She wore a big, floppy-brimmed hat which had seen better days and a big hessian apron. Like a true gardener her earth-stained hands were bare of gloves.

She looked up with a smile as Rosamund and John came towards her.

“I’m afraid my husband is out at present,” she told them. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Well, actually, we want to get married,” John explained, smiling in response.

“How nice! ” The Rector’s wife beamed at them and got to her feet with so obvious an effort that John put out a helping hand which she accepted gratefully. “Thank you so much. It’s this wretched arthritis, you know. I get stuck in one position and then I creak like a rusty gate when I try to move. That’s better!” She straightened up. “Now then, you want to get married. Well, I don’t suppose my husband will be long. He’s over at the church with his warden.”

“Splendid!” John said heartily. “Then, if you don’t mind coming with us, the Rector can marry us and you and the warden can be the witnesses!”

“Oh, but, my dears, it’s not as easy as all that!” the Rector’s wife said sympathetically. “It takes time, you know. Banns have to be read—”

“Not for us!” John declared triumphantly. “We’ve got a licence.”

The troubled look faded and the kind old face beamed again.

“Have you? How exciting! Francis will be interested. Usually it’s banns here, you know, and sometimes it’s just a little bit embarrassing. The girls will giggle so! Only nerves, of course, but sometimes it makes one wonder if they realise what a tremendous step they’re contemplating. Now, will you sit on that garden seat—it’s quite clean—or come into the house while I make myself presentable? You’ll stay out here? Right! I won’t keep you waiting long.”

She was as good as her word. In a very short time she was with them again wearing a different dress, old but well polished shoes and with her hair tidy and her hands clean.

“Now, my dear, if you’ll just zip up my top six inches,” she requested, turning her back to Rosamund. “I never can manage to do it myself. That’s it! Now, come along—”

The church was as right inside as it was out. Its pews were carved and were mellow with age and elbow grease. The memorial tablets and the two big family tombs spoke of the many generations who had brought their joys and sorrows here. And the altar flowers were fresh—

“I’m so glad—I did them again this morning,” the Rector’s wife whispered. “That’s what’s so nice about the summer—we’re never short of flowers to bring here.”

They found the Rector in the vestry. He was a tall, scholarly-looking man whose face had the benign expression of a medieval saint and, like his wife, he too beamed when he heard why they had come to him.

“Yes, indeed, I will marry you,” he agreed, and studied the licence which John handed him with almost boyish enthusiasm. “How very interesting! It’s a long time since I saw one of these—quite ten years, I should think. You remember, my dear. That very nice couple who arrived in the middle of a snowstorm.”

“Yes, I remember.” The Rector’s wife nodded. “They wanted a quiet wedding because they thought people might be amused at them falling in love so late in life. Actually, they needn’t have worried. Most people are really very kind. They don’t laugh when they see real happiness! ”

“Indeed, no,” the Rector agreed. “Now, I’ll call Budge—”

And so they were married in the quiet church, with sun pouring through the windows and the birds singing outside—

“To love, cherish and to obey—”

The old, familiar words took on a new and vital meaning. This was for always—

Out in the sunshine again, they said good-bye to the kindly couple, refusing an invitation to stay for lunch, but promising to come back and see them quite soon. Then they were on the open road again, very silent and perhaps a little shy of each other. But as Rosamund’s right hand cradled her left one with its bright new ring, John laid his hand over both of hers and no words were necessary.

They found the ideal spot to stop for their picnic, high on a hillside with miles of unspoilt countryside surrounding them. The crusty new bread and cheese they had bought at a village shop was sheer ambrosia as the canned, rather warm drinks were so much nectar—life was wonderful! They could not tear themselves away from that enchanted spot.

Then, reluctantly, they knew it was time to turn back. They made sure that they had left no litter and went back to the car. John opened the door for Rosamund, but just as she was getting in, her foot turned on a loose stone. She made a grab at the door frame to save herself from falling—and dropped her handbag.

It flew open as it hit the ground and its contents were scattered far and wide.

“Golly, why you women carry all this junk about I can’t think!” John announced, as he began to pick up the bits and pieces. “Anybody would think you—”

Abruptly, he left his remark unfinished and stood erect. He was staring at a small piece of paper that he had picked up.

Then he looked at Rosamund and her heart froze, for his eyes, bleak and hostile, were the eyes of a stranger.

“SO you knew all the time!”

“No, John, no,
no!
It wasn’t like that at all!” Rosamund heard the rising note of hysteria and struggled for self-control. She faced John squarely. “I didn’t know until the day you were in town,” she insisted—and read cynical disbelief in his stony eyes.

“Really? Then why didn’t you say anything about it to me when I got back?”

“Isn’t it rather—why have you never told me?” she suggested sadly. “Didn’t you trust me?”

“If I didn’t—” John began, and stopped short. “All right, go on! Let’s hear your version, but I warn you, you’d better make it convincing! ”

She knew that she was battling against tremendous odds—that John, in the past, had been so badly hurt that now he was already condemning her out of hand. John who, such a short time back—she swallowed convulsively. “Well, go on !”. the harsh voice ordered.

“Aunt Ruth wrote to me. She enclosed the cutting—”

“Which I recognise as having been taken from a periodical that was published nearly six months ago!” John commented ironically. “Are you trying to tell me that since she paid her visit, she just happened—by pure chance, of course—to come across it? Oh no, Rosamund, you’ll have to do better than that!”

“If I were lying to you, I’d probably have thought up a more convincing story,” Rosamund retorted spiritedly. “But this happens to be the truth, so there’s nothing I can do to make it more plausible !”

A muscle flickered faintly at the comer of John’s mouth and Rosamund felt a momentary hope. Had she made an impression, however slight, on his impregnable mistrust? But if so, he gave no further indication of it. Simply, he waited in silence for her to go on.

“She said some pretty beastly things,” Rosamund ploughed on desperately. “She, of course, assumed that I already knew—”

“Why ‘of course’?” John asked in an abstracted way as if it wasn’t really of much importance.

“Because she’s got that sort of mind. It just wouldn’t occur to her that there could be any other explanation. She thinks people will do anything for money—”

“I appear to have done her an injustice,” John commented. “She evidently has a very sound knowledge of the world and its ways !”

Momentarily Rosamund sagged against the car, her eyes closed.

“John, what’s the use?” she asked hopelessly. “It doesn’t matter what I say. In your heart you’ve condemned me already.”

He gave no sign of having heard, but stood there, rock-like, so close yet miles away—

In desperation, she tried again.

“What really matters is why I didn’t tell you, isn’t it? It was because I felt I understood why it could hurt you so. You see, long before I had Aunt Ruth’s letter, I’d realised that—that something had happened which—which made you want to make a fresh start—”

“How could you know that?” he demanded sharply. “I said nothing—”

“No, that was just it,” Rosamund explained eagerly. “Except for referring once to your mother, you never spoke of yourself or your family—nothing.”

“Nor, for that matter, have you told me much about yourself,” he reminded her.

“I know,” Rosamund nodded. “And that was why I felt I understood. I didn’t want to talk about my past, either. I just wanted to forget it. You see, I ran away from Aunt Ruth because I couldn’t bear the life I was living with her. I didn’t only live with her. I worked with her as well. I could never be myself—”