It was Hal also who filled Dudley’s thoughts as he made his way
homeward. In her attitude to his engagement he was afraid she was going
to personate what is known as a “tough nut to crack.” He wondered if
she would be waiting up for him, and what in the world she would say
when he told her.
As it happened, she was waiting, sitting over the remains of a little
fire she had lighted for company. The reason she felt the need of
company, and the reason she was waiting, was the fact of a perturbed
frame of mind she was endeavouring to soothe, until he came in to give
the final touch.
She was perturbed because of the change in Sir Edwin Crathie, and the
closing scene of a somewhat eventful day. Until tea-time he had been as
gay and lighthearted and inconsequent as ever.
Their lunch in the New Forest had been an immense success, and both had
enjoyed it thoroughly. On their way home they further enjoyed a big tea
at an hotel.
Moreover, the drive had been delightful. The glory of the autumn tints;
the delicious stillness of the autumn weather, and the sunny coolness
of the atmosphere had all contributed to make the day perfect. After
her long hours of office work and monotony, Hal was only the better
tuned to enjoy it, and as she leant back in blissful ease in the
luxurious motor, she thought what a goose she would have been to let
prudish thoughts influence her to forgo it.
Then, once more, after tea, he had deliberately moved his chair nearer
to hers, and struck a personal note that she found it difficult to
combat.
“Do you know,” he told her blandly, “you’re the dearest little woman
I’ve met for a long time? I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a whole day
with any one so much as this.”
“It’s just the novelty,” she said, adopting a note of unconcern to head
him off; “most of your friends flatter and try to please you. It amuses
me more to contradict you; that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it! Well, I dare say if I found a special joy in
being contradicted, I could easily humour the fancy without going for a
whole day into the country.”
“Ver likely—only, since you wanted your day in the country, you kill
two birds with one stone, don’t you see?”
“And supposing I badly wanted something else from you besides
contradiction!… a little affection, for instance!”
“Oh, I’m giving you a lot of that thrown in,” gaily, but she pushed her
chair a little farther away; “if I didn’t rather like you I shouldn’t
bother to contradict you.”
“Rather like me!… that’s very cold—I, a great deal more than _rather_
like you.”
“That, of course, is different,” with a jaunty air, that made them both
laugh.
“Still, I don’t think we can stop at ‘rather liking’, now—do you?”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t; we are getting on very nicely.”
He got up suddenly, and walked away to the window. In his heart of
hearts he was a little nonplussed. Of course they couldn’t stop where
they were, he argued; but how, with a girl of Hal’s practical
level-headedness get any farther?
Then he remembered he was a firm believer in swift and sudden measures,
and usually found they fitted all contingencies. So he swung round,
crossed the room, put his hand on her shoulders, and boldly kissed her.
“There,” he said—“that is how I ‘rather like’ you.”
Hal was quite taken aback—almost too taken aback to speak; but a red
spot burned in each cheek, and a sudden flash seemed to gleam angrily
in her eyes. Her quick brain, however, took in the position instantly.
If she grew indignant and melodramatic, he would merely laugh at her.
Of course he knew she must be perfectly aware that men often kissed a
girl who stood to them in her position, without thinking much of it. To
make a fuss would be rather absurd. On the other hand, of course, he
had to be disillusioned concerning what he apparently supposed would be
her feelings on the subject.
“I call that bad taste,” she said coolly. “You might have given me a
sporting chance to let you know beforehand I should object.” He looked
about to repeat the action, but she edged away from him. “Of course I
know lots of girls don’t mind, but that’s nothing to do with you and
me. I do.”
“Why do you mind?” He felt rather small before the directness of her
eyes, and tried to bluster himself on to his former level. “It’s very
silly of you, especially nowadays. There’s no harm in a kiss, is
there?”
“None that I know of, but I think we were getting on very nicely
without it. We won’t risk spoiling things. Come along, I’m longing to
be off”; and she moved towards the door.
“Are you angry with me?” he asked.
“Yes; very; but if you’ll promise not to do it again I’ll try to
forget. If you transgress further, we shall just have to leave off
being friends—that’s all.”
He took his seat in the motor beside her in silence, and Peter whizzed
them away at a good speed.
Hal, enjoying the motion, kept her face averted, and drank in the
lovely, fresh country air.
Presently a hand stole firmly over hers.
“You’re not to be angry with me any more, little woman. I’m afraid I
was rather a cad, but you’ve got such a fascinating mouth. I’m sorry.”
She looked frankly into his eyes.
“Well, don’t do it again, then.”
He tried to look no less frankly back, but it was as if some forbidden
thought flashed across his mind.
“I’ll try not,” he said, a trifle lamely, and looked away.
He still kept possession of her hand, however, until she resolutely
drew it from him.
“Will Brother Dudley be in?” he asked, when they drew up in Bloomsbury.
“No; he won’t get back much before nine.”
He took her latch-key from her, and opened the door, entering himself,
instead of taking her proffered hand.
“Which way?” he asked, and she opened the door into their sitting-room.
“I’ll show you Brother Dudley’s photograph now you’re here,” she said
in a frank voice—“and the very latest of Lorraine Vivian. I wish I had
one of Apollo; but I’ve never asked for one, because I always make a
point of pretending not to admire him.”
“It’s only pretence, then?” he asked, glancing at the others as if his
thoughts were elsewhere.
“It can only be. One is bound to admire him at heart. Nature seldom
made a fairer gentleman, and it would be mere perversity to deny it,
except, as I do, for his good.”
Then suddenly she saw he was scarcely listening to her, and looking at
the photographs without seeing them, and instinctively she moved away,
feeling a little at loss. The next moment he had caught her shoulders,
and kissed her again.
“I said I’d try, and so I have, but it’s no use. Little woman, don’t be
prudish; kiss me back again.”
But she pushed him away, and in the firelight he saw she was very white
and determined.
“I asked you not to. It is much worse taste still now.”
“No, it isn’t—don’t be silly. Why shouldn’t I kiss you? I... I... have
got awfully fond of you, and I know you like me somewhere down in your
heart.”
“I shall cease to do so from this moment.”
“I dare you to. Hal, if you like me, why not take the sweets that
offer? I’ll be bound you’ve never been kissed in your life as I will
kiss you. Don’t be prudish. Let me teach you.”
She seemed to hesitate a second, in indecision as to what was her best
course to withstand him, and, seizing the opportunity, he suddenly
caught her in his arms and kissed her on the lips with swift, eager
kisses. Then, not giving her time to speak her resentment, he snatched
up his hat and moved to the door.
“Don’t be angry,” he said. “I did try, honour bright, but it’s no use;
good-bye. I must see you again soon”; and he went out, closing the door
behind him.
For some minutes Hal stood quite still, feeling a little dazed. She saw
him cross the pavement, give some directions to Peter, and then drive
away without a backward glance. She stood still a little longer, then
slowly took off her hat, threw it on the sofa, ran her fingers through
her hair and sat down.
After a little, the emptiness of the room seemed to oppress her, for
though it was not cold, she jumped up and put a match to the fire. Then
the landlady came in with her supper.
“’Ad a nice day, miss?” she asked pleasantly.
“Very nice. How’s Johnnie? Did you get to see him?” alluding to a small
son boarded out at Highgate for his health.
“Yes; I went up to tea with ’im. ’E looks years better already.”
“I’m very glad.”
Hal sat down to her supper with a preoccupied air, and instead of
having a little chat, she relapsed into silence, and the landlady
departed. She felt vaguely that something had upset entirely the even
tenor of her mind, and she wanted to think. Any other Sunday evening
she would have told the landlady something about her motor-ride, for
she and Dudley had now been in the same rooms for seven years, and it
is quite a fallacy to condemn all London landladies as grasping,
bad-tempered tyrants.
Hal was quite fond of Mrs. Carr, and had found her unwearingly
thoughtful and attentive. But tonight she wanted to think, and was glad
to be alone again, almost immediately returning to her arm chair over
the fire.
She was conscious, in a vague, uncertain way, that though Sir Edwin had
kissed her because he cared for her, he could not have acted so had he
cared in an upright, honest-hearted manner. She attracted him, and he
wanted all the pleasure he could get out of the attraction, but there,
no doubt, it ended.
For the rest, he was Sir Edwin Crathie, Cabinet Minister, and member of
a proud, patrician family. She was Hal Pritchard, secretary, typist,
and occasional journalist at the office of a leading London paper.
She grew restless, and commenced roaming round the room. Her knowledge
of life, as it is lived near its teeming, throbbing, working centre,
warned her that the new turn of their friendship held danger. If she
was wise, she would shun the danger, and go back to her old life before
he had come into it. She would firmly and resolutely refuse to see him
again.
To do so without regret was impossible. Now that the friendship seemed
about to cease, she realised it had meant more than she knew. She held
her face in her hands, and her cheeks tingled at the memory of the last
eager kiss.
She was woman enough to know it was good to be kissed like that by a
man who, even if his morals and principles left much to be desired, was
still very much a man, and had won a distinction that made most women
proud of far less attention than he had shown her.
Still?—
In a different sense she was struggling in a net of circumstances
something like Lorraine’s. Lorraine wanted to do the right thing, or,
at any rate, the sporting thing.
So did Hal.
In a world full of temptations, and backsliding, and much suffering
thereby, the sporting thing for the strong woman is to stand to her
guns. If Hal dallied with Sir Edwin now, she felt she would be
deserting her post. At the judgment-bar of her own heart, which, after
all, matters far more than the judgment-bar of public opinion, she
would be allowing herself to compromise for the sake of the fleeting,
dangerous pleasure.
She stopped short by the window, and stared out into the gloomy,
lamplit street. And it crossed her mind to remember the bitter price so
many women had paid for that dalliance and compromise, so many now
probably gazing out with dull eyes into gloomy streets, hopeless,
reckless, and joyless.
Yes; dalliance and compromise were mistakes. The real pluck was the
sporting spirit that stood to its guns, even if it cost a big and
wearisome effort. She would not dally. She would answer to her own
Best, and try to go on her steadfast way.
After all, she had Dudley and Lorraine. It was good to have a brother
all to oneself, who was incontestably a dear, in spite of a little
priggishness and narrowness. He would be home soon, and then they would
have a last chat over the fire together; and that would help to renew
her in her determination to cut the dangerous friendship adrift.
She leaned back in the chair a little wearily, and waited for the
welcome sound of his key in the latch. She wished he would come
quickly, because she did not quite like the way her mind kept reverting
to those eager kisses. The memory had the danger of making most other
thoughts seem thin and dull; and she wondered how she was going to
replace a friendship that had been so full of interest and enjoyment.
If she had dared, she would like to have persuaded herself that he
cared for her in the real way; and her cheeks glowed, and her heart
thumped a little at the thought of all the real way meant. But her
practical side told her only too decidedly that this was not the case.
Perhaps he was not the sort of man who could care in the real way at
all. He was too selfish, and grasping, and ambitious by nature. That he
was interesting and a delightful companion as well did not help
matters. Men were very often all these things together, but the
selfish, ambitious, unscrupulous side usually outweighed all the rest
in big questions that affected their whole lives.
Then she remembered that many of the girls she knew—quite nice, jolly
girls—would have taken the fun that offered, and not bothered about
anything beyond the present. Still, that did not affect her own
particular case.
One had to try and live up to one’s own ideals, not other people’s, and
in her inmost heart she knew that she thought but poorly of the girls
who run foolish risks for the sake of a little extra pleasure and
gratification, just as she thought poorly of the man who amused
himself, trifling with a girl’s affections, to pass a little time.
Then came the welcome sound of Dudley’s key, and she sat up and turned
an eager face to the door to greet him.
He came in quietly, and returned the greeting with his usual calm,
undemonstrative appreciation; only, he did not look at her, nor ask her
any questions about her day.
The supper was still waiting for him, and he took a few mouthfuls, in a
preoccupied manner, with his face turned away. Hal asked him about the
day’s outing, wondering not a little at his manner. He seemed anxious,
and somewhat ill at ease, and she observed that he did not eat anything
to speak of.
At last he got up and came to her side near the fire.
“Aren’t you going to sit down?” she asked. “I thought a little fire
looked so cosy.”
He did not seem to hear her, for instead of replying he coughed
nervously, cleared his throat, and said:
“I’ve something to tell you, Hal—a piece of news.”
She waited, watching him with a puzzled, curious air. Then, without any
further preamble, he finished abruptly:
“I’m—I’m—engaged to be married.”
Hal gave a gasp, and became suddenly taut with amazement and
incredulity. “You’re—engaged—to—be—married!”
“Yes; you’re not very surprised, are you?”
A sudden, awful fear seemed to envelop and clutch at her.
“Who to?” she asked, a little hoarsely?
“To Doris Hayward.”
For some reason he seemed unable to look at her. Vaguely he knew he had
dealt her a blow, and that it was of a nature he could not soften.
Hal stared hard at the fire, then suddenly started to her feet.
“You can’t mean it,” she exclaimed, forgetting to be circumspect. “You
couldn’t possibly think seriously of marrying Doris Hayward?”
Instantly he stiffened.
“I don’t know why you speak of it in that way. Certainly I am serious.
It is hardly a question I should joke about.”
There was a tense silence, then Hal turned to the sofa and picked up
her hat as if she were a little dazed. She seemed suddenly to have
nothing to say, and she knew herself to be no good at prevarication. To
congratulate him seemed an impossibility just yet.
“Of course I know you have never cared for Doris,” he said; “but
probably you did not know her well enough. I hope you will soon see you
have misjudged her.”
“I hope so,” she said lamely. “Good-night—I—I—hadn’t thought about your
getting married. I must get used to the idea. I—” she paused in sudden,
swift distress. “Good-night; of course I hope you’ll be happy, and all
that,” and she went hurriedly out, and up to her own room.