When Hall sat on the side of her bed, brushing her hair and meditating
on her irritation, she had not misjudged when she anticipated great
enjoyment from an afternoon run with her new friend.
It would have been difficult indeed to say who enjoyed it the most. Hal
was in great form, and Sir Edwin Crathie half unconsciously took his
tone from her, dropping his usual attitude towards women he liked, and
adopting instead one as gay and careless and inconsequent as hers.
It was not in the nature of the man to desist from flirting with her,
but his pretty speeches were coupled with a humour and chaff that
robbed them of any pointedness, and merely resulted in an amusing
amount of parry and thrust, over which they both laughed
whole-heartedly.
“You are an absolute witch,” he told her as they sat enjoying a big tea
at an hotel on the south coast; “ever since we started you have made me
behave more or less like a school-boy, and a tea like this is the
climax.”
“It’s a good thing I am the only witness,” she laughed. “The poorness
of your jokes alone would have horrified your colleagues, but to see
you eating such a tea must have meant a request for your resignation—it
is so incompatible with the dignity of a Cabinet Minister.”
“I had almost forgotten I was a Cabinet Minister. Gad! but it’s nice to
get right away from the cares of office occasionally like this. When
will you come again?”
“Oh, I don’t think I must come any more,” roguishly. “I’m sure Brother
Dudley will not consent.”
“What has Brother Dudley go to do with it?… Did he consent this time?”
“Not exactly. I anticipated his willingness.”
“You little fibber. You mean you anticipated his firm refusal, and took
French leave, so that you need not disobey him.”
“It is true that Dudley and I differ occasionally, but I do not disobey
him… if I can help it.”
“Well, if you took French leave this time, you can easily do it again.”
“But this time it was a novelty. I was curious to find out how I should
enjoy an afternoon with you?”
“Rubbish. You knew perfectly well you would enjoy it immensely. So did
I. Two people who like each other always know those kind of things at
once.”
Hal leaned back in her chair, and her expressive mouth twitched in a
way that made him long to kiss it hard.
“There are occasions when I don’t like you at all,” she said.
“Fibber again. When don’t you like me?”
“Chiefly when you are quite positive certain sure that I do.”
“Well, that is never; so you are a fibber.”
“I thought you seemed particularly confident nine seconds ago.”
“I was only teasing you. I could hardly have been serious after you
have called me a worm, and an old man. So now—when will you come
again?”
“In about a month. Let’s go out as Guys on the fifth of November.”
“A month be blowed! I want to know which day next week?”
“I am full up next week.”
“Full up of what?”
“Lorraine Vivian, Dick Bruce, Quin, the Beloved Chief, and the Baby.”
“What a list! Is Lorraine Vivian the actress? Who are Quin and the
Baby?”
“She is… and they are!…”
“Who does the Baby belong to?”
“It would be difficult to say. About a dozen probably claim him.”
“And doesn’t he know his own mother?”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of mothers.”
“Who were you thinking of?”
“The ladies who have lost their hearts to him.”
“I see. Are you one of them?”
“I am not. You see, his beauty has never struck me all of a heap,
because I’ve got so used to it.”
“Is he a beautiful baby, or a youth, or a man?”
“A bit of all three. He stands 6 ft. 5 ½ in., and is superbly handsome.
I call him sometimes, for variation, the stuffed blue-and-gold Apollo.”
“Well, that’s better than ‘a positive worm’,” laughing, “but I don’t
mind him. Who is Quin?”
“Quin is a philanthropist, sentimentalist, and hero. He spends his life
working in the East End.”
“I don’t mind him either, and Dick Bruce I’ve seen. The actress doesn’t
count, and your precious chief you see every day. Now, then, when will
you come again?”
He got up from his seat and came round to her side of the table. He had
a vague intention of imprisoning her hand, and perhaps her waist, but
some indescribable quality held him off. It was difficult to suppose
she did not half guess what was in his mind, and yet, without showing
the smallest consciousness or shyness, she faced him with a look so
boyishly frank and open it utterly disarmed him.
“I am not a bit more persuasive on my right side than my left, and I
have promised next Saturday to the Three Graces—who are Dick and Quin
and Baby. We are going to the Crystal Palace to see a football match.”
“Then what about Sunday?”
“Oh, I can’t come on Sunday.”
“Why not?”
“I hardly know, except that it usually belongs to Dudley or Dick.”
“Next Sunday needn’t.”
“Well, that’s what I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.” He moved a little nearer. “You’ve got to keep next Sunday
for me. It’s my turn. We’ll have a splendid day. We’ll take Peter, and
we’ll start early and fly down to the New Forest. It’s glorious in the
autumn. We’ll have a picnic-lunch, and tea at an hotel on the way back.
So that’s settled.” He got up, and lifted her ulster from the back of a
chair. “Now come along, and we’ll slip home before it gets late enough
to cause trouble.”
Hal let it pass for the time, and got into her ulster. She was clever
enough to see the advantage of retaining a way of escape if she changed
her mind, or accepting the invitation if she wanted to later on.
She knew perfectly well a girl did not always go out for a whole day
with a man like Sir Edwin with impunity; but she had also something of
contempt for a girl who missed a great treat for want of pluck. She
preferred to leave the question open, and if she badly wanted to go at
the end of the week she would not, at any rate, stay away because she
was afraid.
As it happened, circumstances played into Sir Edwin Crathie’s hands.
About Wednesday, with a diffidence that made Hal secretly amused and
secretly curious, Dudley asked her if she would mind if he was away for
the whole day on Sunday. As she was generally away herself as long as
the summer lasted, she wondered why he should ask her in that manner.
It was just as they had finished breakfast, and he busied himself with
his pipe-rack as he made the announcement.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said. “Are you going into the country?”
“Ye-es.” He seemed about to add something further, but changed his
mind. Hal, with a little inward chuckle, divined by his manner he must
be going somewhere with a lady, and she was pleased, as she liked a man
to have woman friends, believing they made him more broad-minded and
tolerant and generous-hearted if well-chosen.
She asked no further question, however, and Dudley commenced to whistle
softly as he drew on his boots. Evidently his mind was somewhat
relieved after the sentence was said.
So now it remained to discover Dick’s attitude. She could, of course,
quite easily put him off; but she was not quite prepared to do this of
her own initiative, as he had so generously placed all his Sundays at
her disposal. On Friday, however, he was speaking to her through the
telephone.
“I say, Hal, you’re coming to the Footer match tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course I am. Why?...”
“Well, it’s just this way. I was going to motor the pater to Aunt
Judith’s, and I forgot all about it. He wants me to take him on Sunday
instead. What shall I do?... Would you care to come too?”
Hal had not the smallest wish to go to Aunt Judith’s, who belonged to
the old school, and disapproved in a most outspoken manner of
lady-clerks of every sort and description. It was a constant grievance
to her, when she set eyes on Hal,that she did not gratefully accept £20
as secretary to a well-known, interesting editor.
In consequence, Hal encountered her as little as possible, accepted
gratefully her interesting, easy billet, and consigned the imaginary
young children to a Hades peopled with nursery governesses.
“Awfully sweet and good and kind of you, Dicky dear,” she called back
to him mockingly, “but I think I’ll practise a little self-denial this
time, and stay away.”
“Odd you should say that,” he laughed, “because I consider I’m
practising a little self-denial in going. What shall you do with
yourself? Will Dudley be at home?”
“No; he’s going somewhere for the day, that has a nervous, apologetic
sort of air about it. I didn’t press for particulars, but I’m dying to
know. I can’t believe he would really take a gay young person out, and
yet, judging by his manner, it might be a real flyer from Daly’s.”
“Good old Dudley!... Then I suppose you will go to Lorraine?”
“Yes, I daresay I shall. Good-bye, see you Saturday.”
Hal returned to her work in a meditative mood. She was beginning to
wonder why she had not had any message from Sir Edwin all the week. Had
he changed his mind, or had he possibly forgotten? If he rang her up
presently what was she going to say?
The notion that he had perhaps forgotten was not pleasing; and yet,
with all he must have to think about during the week, it was equally
not surprising. As a matter of fact, it had been a most trying week for
all Ministers.
The party was emphatically growing into disfavour, and all brains had
to be utilised to find the most efficacious remedy. Sir Edwin had been
very useful in his suggestions, for he had had considerable practice in
getting what he wanted by artfulness if no straighter mode offered.
His suggestions to His Majesty’s Cabinet were masterpieces of political
trickery, and their adoption was a foregone conclusion in spite of the
Ministers who raised objections. The party had to win back favour
somehow, and at any rate his were the best plans that offered.
But all through the stirring meetings of the week he never once forgot
Hal. His silence was merely an adaptation of the policy he was urging
upon his colleagues. “If I leave her alone till Friday she will get
piqued,” was his thought, “and then she will come.”
Accordingly, soon after the luncheon hour he rang her up.
“Hullo,” he called. “At last I have got a moment to speak to you.”
“What has happened to all the other moments?” she asked.
“We’ve had a very anxious, worrying week in the House. I’ve scarcely
had time to get my meals. You surely didn’t suppose I had forgotten
you—did you?”
“I didn’t suppose either way. It didn’t matter.”
The man at the other end of the wire smiled openly in his empty room.
“Prevaricator,” was his thought “but, by Gad, she’s game.”
“Well, anyhow I hadn’t, and I wasn’t likely to. I only hope you haven’t
made another engagement for Sunday? I’m badly in need of a long day in
the country. Are you still free?”
“It depends—”
“Oh, nonsense; you can’t desert me at the last moment. If I can’t get
that day off to run down to the New Forest, I shall have to go to a
tiresome political luncheon party. Now, be patriotic, and serve your
country by attending to the needs of one of her harassed Ministers.”
“I am always patriotic.”
“Then that settles it. I suppose I’d better not call for you. I’ll pick
you up at South Kensington Station at 9.30. Peter will make an
excellent chaperone, so you needn’t worry—good-bye”; and he rang off,
leaving Hal to hang up the receiver, not quite sure whether she had
been trapped or not.
At his end he moved across to a window with the smile still lingering
on his face.
“Nothing like making up a woman’s mind for her,” he mused; “they’re all
alike when they are on the edge of the stream, hesitating about the
plunge. Give ’em a little shove, and once they’re in they swim out
boldly enough. The trouble is, when they want to keep the whole river
for themselves and will not brook any other swimmers.
“I expect I’m going to have a devil of a time with Gladys, and she’ll
take a lot of squaring. Women are the deuce when you’re short of funds.
But I can’t help being susceptible, and Hal has caught my fancy
altogether. Dear little girl, I expect she’ll want a big shove yet
before she’ll take the real plunge. But it’s interesting, by Jove! it’s
interesting; and when she looks a veiled defiance at me with those
candid, mischievous eyes of hers, I know I’ve got to win somehow.”
Hal went back to her work, feeling a little as if she had been swept
off her feet; and she was not entirely without misgivings. The possible
impropriety of going out alone with a man for the whole day did not
trouble her, but the nature of the man, she was shrewd enough to
perceive, was a doubtful point.
Of course she was perfectly aware that Aunt Judith, for instance, and
Dudley, and probably her mother, had she been alive, would have been
scandalised at such a proceeding; but then she had pluckily fended for
herself so long, she did not consider she was any longer called upon to
mould her actions according to their views. She belonged to the large
army of women who have to spend so much of their time on office chairs
that their comparatively few hours of pleasure have no room for the
ordinary conventions that hem round the leisured, home-walled maiden.
If a treat offered, and it was reasonably within bounds, they took it
and were thankful and gave no thought to the possibly uplifted hands of
horror among possibly restricted relatives. She was one of those who
enjoy the freedom of the American girl, without being of those who,
unfortunately, often fall short of her level-headed characteristics;
largely perhaps through those very uplifted hands which suggest harm,
where harm otherwise might never have been thought of.
It was not, now, any suggestions born of uplifted hands that gave Hal
that faint misgiving. It was that growing doubt concerning the nature
of the man, and a consciousness that she was unduly pleased the treat
was actually to take place—a growing consciousness that in spite of the
doubt she cared more about seeing Sir Edwin Crathie than most men, with
a like recognition that this might seriously endanger her own peace of
mind.
It was all very well to go out together on a basis of good-fellowship
and mutual enjoyment, so long as neither cared anything beyond; but
what if this unmistakable attraction he exercised over her deepened and
widened? What if the commonplace, middle-class Hal Pritchard, secretary
and typist, fell in love with Sir Edwin Crathie, the Cabinet Minister,
and nephew of Lord St. Ives?
But she thrust the thought away, and apostrophised herself for a silly
goose, who deserved to get hurt if she had not more sense. Was he not
twice her age, and brilliantly clever (so his own party said), and so
obviously out of her range altogether that it would be sheer stupidity
to allow herself to feel anything beyond the frank fellow-ship they now
enjoyed? She insisted vigorously to herself that it would, and went off
to have dinner with Lorraine, who was once more delighting her London
audience nightly.
It was a curious thing which occured to both afterwards, that there had
been some indefinable change, observable in each to each, dating from
that particular evening.
Lorraine was more contentedly gay than she had been for some time—a
quiet, natural light-heartedness, born of some attainment that was
giving her joy. Hal was not clever enough to actually perceive this,
but she did perceive that a certain restless, anxious indecision of
manner and plans had passed away. For the time being Lorraine was happy
in a sense she had not been over her success. That Alymer Hermon had
anything to do with it never entered Hal’s head. She had treated the
whole matter of Lorraine’s attraction to him with the lightness that
seemed its only claim, and scarcely remembered it at all.
And yet, all the time, it was the young giant who was bringing the
soothing and restfulness into the actress’s storm-tossed life. He was
beginning to be with her constantly—to come to her with all his doings,
and his imagings, and his hopes. And, as she had suspected, natural or
unnatural, he was the companion of all others who gave her the most
pleasure at the time.
World-wearied and brain-wearied with her own unsatisfying successes,
she found a new interest in entering into his projects, and scheming
and dreaming for his future instead of her own.
She was quite open to herself about the probability that she would have
felt nothing of the kind had he been merely a giant, or had he been
plain. It was the rare, and indeed remarkable combination of such
physical attributes, with brains, and nobility and an utter absence of
all assumption.
She forgot about his youth and a certain natural crudity; and what he
lacked in experience and development she easily balanced with the
extraordinary physical attraction that had never ceased to sway her.
For the rest, the future might go. Her friendship would not hurt him,
and his had become necessary to her. If they dreamed over a volcano,
what of it? Most dreams for such lives as hers usually were in close
proximity to sudden destruction. Waves from nowhere came up and
overwhelmed them. Rocks from unseen heights fell on them and crushed
them. If she was wise she would take what the present offered, and
leave the future alone.
For Hal, on the other hand, had developed something of the restlessness
that had fallen from Lorraine. The new element dawning in her life was
not a restful one; neither did it lend itself to her usual spontaneous
chaff and gay badinage.
She told Lorraine about her afternoon drive, without giving half the
particulars she would have done ordinarily; and when Lorraine asked her
about Sunday, she only said she was perhaps going for another run with
Sir Edwin. Lorraine did not press the point, because she was having a
day with Alymer, and was chiefly glad that Hal was happily provided
with a companion to take Dick’s place.
Then she went off to her theatre, and Hal went home, wishing the next
day were Sunday.