When Hal reached her room she sat down on the bed in the dark, and
stared at the dim square of the window. She was feeling stunned, and as
if her brain would not work properly. It grasped the significance of
old, familiar objects as usual, but seemed quite unable to grip and
understand the something strange and new which had suddenly come into
being. She remembered she had waited for Dudley to come with soothing
for a perturbed frame of mind, and instead, he had brought her—_this_.
What could it mean? Surely, surely, not that Doris Hayward was to rob
her of her brother.
A wave of swift and sudden loneliness seemed to envelop her. The
blackness of the night closed in upon her, and desolation swept across
her soul.
“If only it had been Ethel,” was the vague, uncertain thought: “any one
in the world almost but Doris.”
And again,
“Why had Dudley been so incredibly blind to Doris’s real nature? Why
had he of all men been caught by a pretty face? Was it possible he
thought his life would need no other help and comfort but that of a
charming exterior in his wife?”
How childlike he seemed again to his young sister’s practical, worldly
knowledge. Of course he knew almost nothing of women, buried in his
musty old architectural lore, and giving most of his brain to the
contemplation of ancient ruins and edifices.
He had looked up from his books, and Doris had smiled at him, that
diabolically winsome, innocent smile of hers; and something in his
heart, not quite smothered and likewise not healthily developed, had
warmed into sudden, surprised pleasure, and straightway he thought
himself in love. Hal was sure of one thing, that if Doris had not
decided it would suit her plans to be Dudley’s wife, the idea would not
have occured to him.
After all, what did he want with a wife for years to come, going along
so contentedly and placidly with his books and his thirst for
knowledge, and the peacefulness of their sojourn with Mrs. Carr? No
servant troubles, no housekeeping worries, no taxes, no gas and
electric-light bills; everything done for them, and for company each
other.
Oh, of course, it was all Doris’s doing. She wanted to get away from
the dingy flat and the poverty, and she had hit upon Dudley as a way
out.
Hal got up suddenly with a bursting feeling. Of course she did not even
love him, would not even try to change her nature to become more in
touch with his, would not trouble in the least what obstacles stood
between any real and deep understanding. Perhaps she was not even
capable of love, but in any case her affections could not have been
given to any one as quiet, and studious, and old-fashioned as Dudley.
She went to the window and threw it open that she might lean out and
breathe the open air. Her head burned and ached, and her eyes smarted
with a smouldering fire in her brain. She felt more and more how
entirely it must have been Doris’s doing. Doris had smiled at him, and
confided in him, and managed first to convey a pathetic picture of her
own loneliness, and then to suggest how happy her life might be with
him.
And of course Dudley was all chivalry at heart, and trusting, and
tender-hearted; that was one reason why he had always deplored her,
Hal’s, boyish independence and determination to fend for herself. He
did not understand the vigorous, enterprising, working woman.
Immersed in his books and his studies, he had allowed himself to be
influenced largely by caricatures, and by the noisy stir of the
platform woman. But he understood the Doris type, or thought he did,
and placed their engaging dependence before such spirited resolution as
her own and Ethel’s.
And how to help him? How, now, to thwart the carrying out of Doris’
cleverly carried scheme.
Her first thought was Ethel and Basil. She would go to them, and appeal
to them to help her.
And then she remembered that “blood is thicker than water.” How could
they thwart their own sister; and in any case what would Dudley ever
see in it but a persecution that would intensify his affection? One
hint that Doris was victimised, and she knew Dudley well enough to
realise he would only marry her the more quickly, whether he had
learned the truth or not.
Opposition of any sort would probably do far more harm than good at
present. There was nothing for it but to meet the blow with the best
face possible, and hope time might yet bring release.
Then her thoughts went back to Sir Edwin, and quite suddenly and
unaccountably she longed to tell him about it. He would be interested
for her sake, and he would cheer her up, and make her hopeful in spite
of herself.
And yet—
No; to see him again, feeling as she felt now, would only mean to see
him in a mood of weakness, that might make her less able to withstand
him.
She must rely only on Lorraine and Dick, and try to stand by her
previous determination. She would see Lorraine directly she left the
office the next day, and in the meantime she would try and hide from
Dudley the extent of her dismay.
But in spite of her resolve, when she rested her head on the pillow,
the hot tears squeezed through her closed eyelids, and in dumb misery
she told herself Dudley was lost to her for ever.
She awoke the next morning with a dull, aching sense of misery that had
robbed the sunshine of its warmth, and the day of its brightness; but
as she dressed she strengthened herself in a resolve to try and hide
her chagrin, and make some amends to Dudley for her reception of the
news.
“I suppose you felt pretty disgusted with me last night,” she said at
the breakfast-table. “I’m sorry, but you took me so violently by
surprise.”
He had taken his seat, looking grave and displeased, but his face
relaxed as he replied:
“I’m afraid I was rather sudden. It seemed the easiest”—he hesitated,
then added—“I hope you’ll try to get on with Doris.”
“Of course.” Hal turned away on some slight pretext. “I’d hate giving
you up to any one—you know I would—we’ve—we’ve—been very happy together
here, and—” but her voice broke suddenly.
Dudley looked unhappy, but he steadied his voice and said cheerfully:
“Well, it needn’t be very different. If you and Doris will get fond of
each other, it will be the same, only better. Of course you will live
with us.”
“Oh no”; and she tried to smile lightly—“I couldn’t—possibly live
without Mrs. Carr now. I should never be properly dressed, for one
thing, and I should always be forgetting important engagements.” She
changed the subject quickly, seeing he was about to remonstrate. “Have
you seen Ethel and Basil since—since—”
“No; I’m going to see Basil this afternoon, after taking Doris to
Wimbledon to see Langfier fly, and I shall stay to dinner. Will you
come up this evening?”
“No; I’m going out. Perhaps tomorrow—” she hesitated, as if swallowing
a lump in her throat. “You might give my love to Doris, and say I’ll
come soon.” She saw Dudley glance at her inquiringly, and recklessly
dashed into another subject, talking at random until she left.
In the afternoon she hurried straight off to Lorraine’s flat, arriving
a few minutes after Lorraine had come in from a walk in the Park. She
was standing by the window, drawing off some long gloves, and even Hal
was struck by a sort of newness about her—a bloom and a quiet radiance
that was like a renewal of youth.
She was beautifully dressed as ever, but with a far simpler note than
usual—something which suggested she wished to look charming, without
attracting attention; something which suppressed the actress in favour
of the woman.
It was as if, surrounded with success and attention night after night,
and for several years, she had wearied of the rôle, and put it aside
voluntarily whenever opportunity offered. She had been wont to be very
fashionable and striking in her dress and general appearance, but now
Hal noticed vaguely a simpler note all through.
Her face and expression seemed to have changed also. A certain hardness
and callousness had gone. Her smile was more genuine, and her eyes
kinder. In some mysterious way, it was as though Lorraine had won from
the past some gleaming of the woman she might have been under happier
circumstances, and without certain harsh experiences.
And it was all owing to her feeling for Alymer Hermon and his youthful
pride in her.
They met continually now. Her flat was open to him whenever he liked.
He came to her when he had anything interesting to relate—when he was
depressed and when he was hopeful. With the inconsequent acceptance of
youth, he took from her what an older man would have regarded a little
shyly, and perhaps feared to take.
She was his pal, his excellent friend, who gave him such sympathy and
interest and encouragement as she could find nowhere else. Because he
was young, he drank deep and asked no questions.
He did not imagine for a moment that she was in love with him. True,
other women were; but then they told him so, and alarmed him with their
attentions. Lorraine was more inclined to laugh at him and make fun of
him, in a jolly, pally sort of way, which made him feel perfectly at
home with her, and successfully banish any questions.
She was more like a man friend, only better, because a man would have
wanted an equal share of interest, whereas Lorraine seemed content to
be interested in him. She never encouraged him to talk about her
triumphs and her other friends. She rather implied they were so public
and apparent already she did not want to hear any more of them.
But she was always ready to talk of his hopes and aspirations, and help
him to build foundations to his aircastles. And already, under her
tuition and help, he had made immense strides. His work and his objects
had become real to him, ambition had taken root and begun to push out
little upward shoots. He saw himself one of the leading lights at the
Bar, and instead of lazily scoffing, he liked the picture. He wanted to
get there, and if Lorraine was ready to help him, why should she not?
Why bother to ask questions?
Of course she must be fond of him, or she would not do it; but then he
was fond of her too—very fond—and why not? The mere suggestion of
danger did not occur to him. She was so many years his senior, and so
celebrated, it never crossed his mind to suppose she could have any
feeling for him beyond the jolly palliness that seemed to have sprung
up naturally between them.
So he came and went between the Temple and her flat and his own
quarters, and life began to assume a bigness of possibility that
drowned all else, and kept him eager and hard working and safe from the
hurtful influences and actions that attend idle hours.
And Lorraine, for the present, walked in her fool’s paradise and was
content. She watched him slowly and surely fill out both physically and
mentally into the promise of his splendid manhood.
She saw his youthful beauty solidifying into the beauty of a man, and
carefully watered and tended those budding shoots of ambition that were
to help him attain his best promise.
For the time being the thwarted mother-love that is in every woman
satisfied her with the evidence of his progress, and she lulled any
other into quiescence, hugging to herself the knowledge that it was she
alone to whom he would owe greatness, if he won it, and that even his
own doting mother had not done, and never could do, the half that she
was doing to start him on a steadfast way that should lead to fame and
usefulness.
She made it her excuse for ignoring the questions which her wider
knowledge could not entirely banish. To what other results the
friendship might lead she turned a deaf ear. The other results must
take care of themselves, was her thought; it was enough for her that
she could help to make him great.
She smiled a little at the thought of the women she had won him from.
He talked to her now freely and openly, though always with that
unassuming modesty which was so attractive. She knew what he had
already had to combat. What a life of self-pleasing and gay-living lay
open to him if he chose to take it. She knew that, if he chose it,
though he might still win a certain amount of fame, it would never be
the well-grounded, staunch, reliable success that she could spur him
to.
And so she drew a curtain over the dangers her course might hold, and,
in a light and airy way, threw over him the glow and the warm
attractiveness of her many fascinations and allurements, that she might
keep him free from any foolish engagement or low entanglement, to
concentrate all his mind and his heart upon his work and her.
How long such an aim was likely to satisfy her, or how natural or
unnatural her course, she left with all the other questions, to be
faced, if necessary, later on, or to pass with the swift joy into
oblivion.
At least it was not the first time a woman, scarcely young, and having
her full measure of success, had turned unaccountably to a man very
much her junior, for something she apparently sought in vain from men
of her own age. It might be strange, but it was not unique; and for the
rest, were not the ways of the little god Love like the ways of many
events—“stranger than fiction”?
His magnificent physique, his extraordinarily beautiful head, and his
no less extraordinary, unassuming modesty, attracted and held her with
links that grew stronger and stronger, and her happiest hours now were
those in which he made himself delightfully at home in her flat, and
added to his charm by talking to her with the old-fashioned,
grandfatherly air she had enjoyed from the first.
And so Hal found a younger and softer Lorraine than she had known for a
long time, waiting to hear the burden of her tale of woe.
They talked it over in every aspect, Hal sitting in her favourite
attitude on a stool at Lorraine’s feet; but very little light could be
won through the clouds. All the consolation Lorraine could suggest was
a possibility that to be engaged and married to a man like Dudley might
change Doris altogether for the better; but Hal, beyond feeling
brighter for having spoken out her dismay, felt there was little indeed
hope of that.
“Have you seen Sir Edwin Crathie again?” Lorraine asked presently, and
she was surprised to see a spot of colour instantly flame into Hal’s
cheeks.
“I’ve had a long motor ride with him,” she said, speaking as if it were
a mere detail.
“_Have you_?” was Lorraine’s very expressive rejoinder.
“Why do you say it like that?” Hal laughed with seeming lightness. “He
just took me for a treat. He’s rather sorry for me, being boxed up in
an office, as he calls it.”
“I see. Well, don’t forget he has the reputation for being rather a
dangerous man, old girl.”
Hal laughed again.
“I’ll tell him so, and go armed with a revolver next time.” She noticed
an inquiring look in Lorraine’s eyes, and added: “Don’t look so
serious, Lorry; he is old enough to be my father. He likes a little
amusement, the same as you and Baby Hermon.”
She turned away as she spoke, and did not see the swift deepening of
the look of inquiry, nor a certain strange expression that flitted
across Lorraine’s face; and almost immediately the door opened, and
Alymer Hermon walked in unannounced.
“Hullo, Hal!” he exclaimed—“it’s quite a long time since I ran into you
here.”
“Hullo, Baby!” she retorted. “Why, I declare, you are beginning to look
quite a man.”
“If you don’t mind I’ll pick you up and carry you all the way down the
stairs to the street; then you’ll see if I’m a man or not.”
“Tut; any big creature could do that! Got any briefs yet?”
“I have.”
Lorraine looked up instantly with an eager, questioning glance—while
Hal asked gaily:
“What is it?... I suppose the original holder is sick, or dead, or
something, and you are a stop-gap.”
“You are wrong, Miss Sharp-tongue. I hold the brief entirely on my own.
It hasn’t even anything to do with any one in Waltham’s Chambers.”
And still Lorraine, with shining eyes, watched his face.
“I suppose,” said Hal, “the other side have got a very small man, and
they wanted a big one to frighten him?”
“Wrong again. The other side has Pym, and he is quite six feet in
height.”
“Then perhaps he looks clever, and they believe in contrasts.”
“I shall carry you down to the street yet,” threateningly; “you are
running grave risks.”
“So is the poor man trusting his defence to you.”
“It happens to be a lady.”
Hal clapped in her hands.
“Of course,” she cried; “now we are getting at it. The lady chose you
because she thought your wig and gown becoming. How many interviews
shall you be having with her?”
“I couldn’t say, but we had one this afternoon.”
“And was she very charming? Did she call you Baby?”
He shrugged his shoulders and turned to Lorraine.
“I only waste my substance trying to cope with any one as obtuse as
Hal. Is she going to stay to dinner?”
“I’m afraid so,” smilingly.
He took up his stand on the rug, with his back to the fire and looked
down at Hal on her footstool.
“It’s a pity about the obtuseness,” he commented, “because she is
really rather nice to look at. She has improved so much lately.”
“Oh no, I haven’t,” tilting her nose in the air. “I am exactly the
same; but you have acquired better taste. Is _he_ going to stay to
dinner, Lorraine?” “I’m afraid so. You will have to call a truce,
because I want to hear all about the brief; and I shall hear nothing if
you persist in wrangling.”
“It isn’t my fault,” he said. “I always try to be friends.”
“Well, as far as that goes, I always _try_ to like you,” Hal retorted
with a laugh.
“You would find it much easier if you did not hurl insults at me. Begin
another plan altogether.”
“Come along to dinner,” put in Lorraine, rising, “and let us hear about
this brief.”
She led the way to the dining-room, and they had a merry little meal,
arranging all about the congratulatory dinner Lorraine proposed to give
for Alymer to celebrate the important occasion of his first brief.
Afterwards Hal drove to the theatre with her, and stayed a short time
in her room while, as Lorraine phrased it, she put on her war-paint.
Then she went rather sadly home alone, feeling lost and unhappy about
Dudley. It crossed her mind once that Lorraine and Alymer Hermon seemed
be on very much more familiar terms than previously, but she paid
little heed to the thought, merely supposing that it amused Lorraine to
help him in his profession.
She sat over the fire and tried to read, but presently the book went
down into her lap, and her eyes sought the cheery flicker of the
flames. Only there was no answering glow in her usually bright face,
rather a sad uneasiness and perplexity, as if circumstances she hardly
knew how to cope with were closing in upon her.
She felt she had come to a difficult path in life she would have to
face alone; for in her friendship with Sir Edwin Crathie neither Dudley
nor Lorraine could help her.
And, gazing into the fire with serious, thoughtful eyes, it was neither
Dudley and Doris, nor Lorraine and Alymer who finally held her
thoughts, but sir Edwin Crathie himself.