The following Friday afternoon Lorraine went out with Flip Denton in
his motor, and among his first questions was:
“Well, how is the foolish falling in love progressing?”
“It is stationary. I’ve got another friend I want to keep, Flip;
another friend like you.”
“Ah, I can’t pass that. You were never even remotely in sight of
falling in love with me. And you know what Kipling says: ‘Love’s like
line-work; you can’t stand still, you must go backward or forward.’ You
don’t propose to take my advice and run away from it?”
“Not before I am sure there is danger, anyhow.”
They were silent some moments, then she asked him:
“Do men ever run away, Flip?... My experience has been that the average
man always has a good try to get what he wants, without much
consideration for outside things, or for youth, or for harm.”
“That’s because beautiful women necessarily come up against the worst
in men. It is their fate: one of the balancing conditions perhaps to
make things more even with the less-favoured women.”
“I suppose great beauty generally undoes a woman. Is it the same with
men too? It seems a pity when Nature produces anything beautiful she
should not guard it better—beautiful flowers, beautiful birds,
beautiful creatures all ravished the quickest; while the little,
comfortable daisies, and sparrows, and homely people go serenely on
unharmed.”
He did not reply, and they sped along in the understanding silence they
were both so fond of.
Denton was thinking, as a man may, of various pretty faces that had
been the undoing of their owners, and wondering a little dimly and
confusedly about the paradoxical contrariness of Nature, who gives a
man his strongest desires nearly always towards forbidden ends. Why
create a beautiful thing, and then create a longing for it, and then
probably descend in wrath upon both heads which did but follow the bent
she herself had given them?
Lorraine was wondering a little bitterly why a man may taste forbidden
fruit again and again and go unpunished; and why a woman, so often set
amid sterner temptations, was yet left so strangely unprotected: the
one so quickly able to put an incident aside, and seek fresh fields for
conquest; the other so terribly liable to be branded for life in that
same incident.
It made a bitterness surge up in her soul for her own unprotected
girlhood and struggling youth; and for all they had brought her to
learn of the tree of knowledge. No doubt she had been callous enough
about it at the time; eager only to dare, and triumph, and achieve; but
how should it have been otherwise, since no kindly guiding hand had
told her she was wasting her powers and her substance to achieve an end
that would never satisfy her soul?
Did she even know she had a soul that would presently crave a
satisfaction found only among the higher and better things, and turn
away with infinite scorn from the petty triumphs of an hour or a day?
Well, she had fought her fight with the rest, and triumphed greatly in
the world’s eyes; and now she must abide by the path she had chosen,
and glean the best satisfaction she could out of it.
And yet—
Later in the afternoon, when she sat drinking a lonely cup of tea by a
lonely fireside, the questioning, probing mood returned again; the
significant “and yet” still left the last conclusion without any
finality. Looking backward, a sense of resentment seemed to creep over
her; a combative desire to get even with Fate about many things while
there was time and opportunity.
She remembered particularly the first man who had tried to lead her
astray. He had been considerably more than twice her age, a hardened
sinner without any compunction, with a devilish cunning at breaking
down defences without any seeming over-persuasion, and at whitewashing
his actions into passionate devotion to youngn inexperienced years. She
remembered how she had struggled to resist him. It was good to remember
now that she had not been his victim.
And yet, what of it, while such men could triumph again and again and
go seemingly unpunished, and young, eager, ambitious souls were often
so pitifully stranded at the beginning of a career?
Men of his age and his character usually did triumph. How often had she
seen it since! The first wrong step not a generous-hearted, hot-headed
youth; but a hardened sinner who had wearied of other hardened sinners
and turned his evil designs to youth and freshness, hoping perchance to
be rejuvenated thereby.
And Nature stood by with folded hands, and saw her fairest creations
soiled and ravished before they had reached maturity, without
apparently the smallest compunction.
Her first wrong step had been her marriage, and though it had given her
a good deal in the beginning, in the end how it had robbed her!... ah!
how it had robbed her of those things that could never be won back.
And now, by an unlooked-for turn of events, she found herself among the
world-wearied ones, asking for the divine freshness of youth. If she
chose to make him love her she believed she could.
And yet?—
She stood beside the window and leaned her head against the framework,
gazing at the river. It was gliding smoothly along now, beautified and
glorified by the reflected light of a setting sun. How light
transfigured!
The murky, muddy, sullen Thames, so often going with its countless
burdens, as one enslaved unwillingly to the needs of commerce, now
flashing, shining, silver waters hastening joyfully out to sea. She
felt that often and often her life had been as the shadowed, murky
waters, enslaved unwillingly by bonds that circumstances had created.
She thought how his life, the life of this man who was beginning to
fill her soul, was still like the joyous, shining, waters reflecting
sunlight. Was it possible she wanted to bring the shadows and dim its
silver radiance for her own gratifications?
And even so, was it in any case likely to go undimmed much longer? The
shadows were certain enough to come, if not through her, perhaps
through some one with less soul, and less fineness of aim, who would do
him far greater harm. Her love for him was not, at least, entirely
selfish.
She knew that she cared very much for his future. She cared very much
that life should give him a chance to fulfill the best of his promise.
And if the chance came by shadows, well, across the river of a man’s
life they flitted lightly enough as a rule, chasing each other away,
and leaving the waters still flowing joyfully. It was only for a woman,
apparently, the shadows left a stain that even the sunlight could not
chase away.
It would seem woman was made a helpmeet for man in many ways beside
that of keeping his home and bearing his children. How often did he owe
his best development and best achievements to her, absorbing light from
her in some mysterious ordering, and soaring away afterwards while she
was left among the shadows.
Yet, by some equally mysterious compensation, a woman was often so
fashioned that if she could feel the upward flight was won through her,
she might rest statisfied even though him she loved had soared away. It
was the mother-love blending strangely with the wife-love; the
protecting, inspiring, unselfish, mothering instinct, lying in the soul
of every true-hearted woman.
Standing gazing at the flashing river, Lorraine, in the midst of her
probing, knew that it was his ultimate success and good she wanted, as
well as his freshness to sweeten her own life.
And yet?—
What if she brought a shadow where there would otherwise have been no
shadow, dimmed a brightness that, without her, had gone undimmed? She
knew he was not weak naturally. He did not need any strengthening; only
impetus, ambition, aim, and some safeguarding by the way.
She smiled a little drearily at the recollection that it was from her,
herself, that probably his own people would think he needed
safeguarding. She could foresee that they would likely enough hurl
themselves between him and her, oblivious that by doing so they might
very possibly be the cause of driving him to far worse. But that, of
course, no one could help; as how should they know the fine shades
between the women who lived outside the conventions?
But then again, they need not know that the great friendship
existed—why should they? After all, few would credit the celebrated,
beautiful actress with anything beyond a passing fancy for the
youthful, briefless barrister.
And yet?—
Across every fresh pathway she turned her thoughts along, was still
that arresting, intangible, “and yet”.
The pity of it! At least he was strong, and true, and unspoilt now. Why
not give life a chance to leave him so?
Why not give Fate a chance to endow him quickly with the rich, blessed
love that kept a man walking straight and strong along his steadfast
way?
But again the thought came back of what he would lose, what he must
inevitably lose, if he missed the storm and stress and struggle that
are as the mill and furnace through which the gold is refined, and
hardened, and separated from the dross.
She went back to the fireside feeling that her probing had brought her
nowhither, and that she was only very tired and very depressed.
Then she went slowly away to dress, and chose, somewhat to Jean’s
surprise, one of the simplest evening frocks she possessed. Jean,
knowing the tall, beautiful new friend was coming to dinner, had laid
out an elaborate dinner-dress, and arranged the jewel cases for
selection.
“Put them away at once,” was all her mistress said, with one sweeping
glance round. “I shall wear that little blue Liberty gown and a single
row of pearls.”
When Alymer came he found her already seated by the fire, engaged with
some knitting.
“How nice and homely,” he said. “I never associated you with anything
so commonplace as sewing.”
“I’m afraid I can’t sew very well,” with a little smile. “I can knit
this, and that is about all.”
“Are you better?” and he scanned her face critically, in an
old-fashioned way that gave her secret joy.
“Yes, sir, thank you,” with a low laugh.
He laughed too, and took up his stand on the hearthrug, with his hands
behind his back, in a natural, quite-at-home way, that seemed to come
easily to him.
“How jolly it is to see a fire. My mater always seems afraid of
beginning too soon. I think she has a sort of feeling that if winter
sees fires started he will hurry.”
“I never leave them off. My fire is one of my staunchest companions. An
empty grate always depresses me, because if it is sunny and hot I want
to be out-of-doors, and if it is not, I want my fire. Let us go to
dinner, then we can get back and purr over it to our hearts’ content.”
Because it pleased her to make him an honoured guest, Lorraine had been
at considerable pains in ordering her dinner, and she was gratified to
observe that it was not wasted on him.
Certainly, among other things at Oxford he had learnt to know a good
dinner and good wine, and enjoy them as a connoisseur. It amused her
also to observe that the old-fashioned air with which he had inquired a
little masterfully after her health, grew upon him as the evening
progressed.
She thought he must be a little bit of a tyrant to his mother, and any
one he was specially fond of. Not dictatorially so, but with a
humorous, half-satirical insistence that was very engaging.
When the sat over the fire together, later, she found herself telling
him many things about her early struggles, and first successes, not in
the least in a “talking down” attitude, but as to a very sympathetic
companion of her own age.
It was evident he was truly interested, and this made him a charming
listener. And he told her yet further of his own hopes, and
disappointments, and discouragements. Several times since he took his
degree, one friend or another had held out hopeful expectations of
being able to put him on to this case of that, which might bring a
brief. And always the hope had failed, and the promise ended in smoke.
She gave him sympathy in her turn, and said she would not raise his
expectations unkindly, but she believed she could really help him to
get a start. She would speak to Lord Denton about it. He was always
ready to do a little thing like that for her.
“He is one of those dear people,” she told him, “who seem to try to
make up for their own incorrigible laziness by going out of their way
to put some one else in the way of a start.”
She saw the colour deepen in his face, and a subdued light shine in his
eyes, as he thanked her rather haltingly. The little show of diffidence
was very charming. How far removed, how amazingly far removed he was
from the average good-looking youth of twenty-four, who was usually so
anxious to impress every one with his attributes and his powers.
And he was not even average. Every time she saw him she wondered afresh
at his extraordinary wealth of attraction. One could have forgiven him
a few airs and mannerisms; but no forgiveness was asked: in every
single phrase she found him always the modest, unassuming, high-bred
gentleman.
So they sat on and talked, and for the time being the warfare of the
afternoon passed from her mind. Probing seemed suddenly out of place.
Why probe?... Their friendship had slipped of itself into an old
companionship. What need for more? She knew instinctively he would come
often to fill her lonely hours, and tell her all about his work and his
doings.
And sometimes they would go out together on little jaunts. If they did,
who need know, or who, at any rate, need gossip? She felt a gladness
grow in her mind at the thought of the happy friendship they might
have; guarded perhaps from harm by the disparity in their years, and at
the same time of inestimable benefit to him, and pleasure to her. She
felt almost motherly as she laid her fingers lightly on his arm, with a
little laughing jest, as they stood together before parting.
“I have enjoyed my evening of invalidism so much. Come and see me again
soon, won’t you?”
“I should love to. You are very good to me.”
“Oh, no; I’m not. Don’t let us talk of goodness in that way. I like
your company; and it is good to have what one likes. I shall expect you
again soon, Alymer—I may call you Alymer, mayn’t I?... Mr. Hermon is so
overpowering.”
“I wish you would. I would have asked you, only I was afraid you might
think it cheek.”
“Very well then, _Alymer_,” with emphasis, “when I have spoken to Lord
Denton I will telephone you; and I hope he will be able to start you
off on a road that will very nearly end in a verdict of ‘Suffocated
with briefs.’”
“Or ‘briefly suffocated’,” he laughed, and beat a hasty retreat, for
fear of a reprisal.
When he had gone, Lorraine sat again in the firelight, and it seemed as
if the stress and unrest had fallen from her, and only the memory of a
pleasant companionship remained. They were going to be the best of
pals—why not—and why seek to probe any further?
Apparently he was not susceptible, and cared more for his profession
than any one supposed, and so, since she liked to have him there to
glory in his comeliness, they could form a mutual benefit society, and
no one need be hurt at all. It was all quite simple, and she went to
bed feeling rested and refreshed, and looking forward hopefully for the
pleasant meetings to come?
Flip Denton was running down to Brighton for the weekend also, to take
her out on the Sunday in his car; and he noticed at once that a shadow
which had hovered over her eyes of late had vanished.
“You are looking topping,” he told her. “What about the love affair, is
it all satisfactorily off? It has been worrying you a little of late.”
“It is not exactly off,” she replied, “but it is more satisfactorily
placed. We are going to be real good pals. He is going to keep me
company in some of my lonely hours, and I am going to try and help him
to get briefs. I am relying on you for the first one, Flip.”
“The dickens you are. My dear girl, why should I put myself out to
acquire a brief for a rival?”
“Oh, just because you are you. You know you will love it, Flip! You
will get him a brief, and then you will pat yourself on the back and
say: ‘I know I’m a lazy dog myself, but I’m a devil of a good chap at
getting other fellows work.’”
“So I am”—enjoying her thrust—“and it’s a splendid line, and gives far
more satisfaction in the end. If I tried to work I should only make a
mess of it, and drive some one nearly crazy, whereas, in putting
another chap on to a job I give such a lot of folks pleasure, I feel I
am getting square with the Almighty.”
“Then you’ll try, Flip?”
“It is humanly possible, he shall have a brief of his very own within
the next month.”
“You are a dear. Sometimes I think you are the most adorable person I
know.”
“You don’t think it long enough at a time, Lorry. You are too prone to
go off suddenly after false gods measuring six-foot-five-and-a-half
inches and with the faces of Apollo Belvederes.”
“Probably it is a merciful precaution on the part of our guardian
angels, Flip; and, anyhow, you know you like a little variation
yourself in the way of bulk, and sound, practical, indecorous chorus
girldom.”
“I do,” was his unabashed affirmative. “Nice, comfortable, elevating
palliness with you; and a right down rollicking bust-up occasionally
with the ladies of the unpretending school of wild oats.”
“I want my giant for the present to be satisfied with his palliness
with me and his work. Do you think he will?”
“As I haven’t seen him I can’t say. If I get the chance, however, I’ll
tell him that ‘wild oats’ are the very devil, and I’d give all I’ve got
to have stuck to work and had naught to do with ’em.”
“You know you wouldn’t, Flip,” with a little laugh.
“I know I couldn’t, you mean; but I never admit it to juniors.”
“Well, you shall come to the flat to meet him. If he gets a brief,
we’ll have a little dinner party, and I’ll ask Hal and her cousin and
St. Quintin.”
“Right you are. I haven’t seen Miss Pritchard for ages. Shall we turn
now, and go back by Rottingdean?”
“Let us go whichever way has the best view of the sea. I feel I want to
look at wide, breezy spaces for a while, and not talk at all.”
“You shall,” he promised, and they sped along in silence.