It was there Hal found her. By the merest chance she had run up to the
flat at her midday hour, to ask a question about Sir Edwin Crathie, and
a rumour concerning him that she felt an imperative need to have
answered. When she saw Lorraine in tears the question was instantly
banished for the moment.
Had Lorraine been in her normal condition, she could hardly have failed
to notice that the “Hal” who came up in haste to ask this urgent
question was not the “Hal” of a few months, a few weeks ago. She would
probably have observed that the vague, indefinable change Alymer had
seen in her had grown more marked and more defined.
She seemed to have sprung suddenly into womanhood.
It was no light-hearted, careless, rather boisterous girl who appeared
unexpectedly at the flat, to give her one or two eager hugs, tell her
the latest news of her doings in gay, gossipy fashion, and eat an
unconscionable amount of chocolates, usually kept for her special
delectation.
The old, bright look was there on the surface, the ready, laughing
speech, but there was also, with it, something that approached a
dignified phase, and suggested a new reserve. She was also distinctly
better-looking likewise, in some vague, incomprehensible way.
But Lorraine had not time to take any note of the change, for all her
faculties were bent upon shielding herself.
Of course it was useless to hide that she had been crying, but at least
Hal must not know that the crying had been soul-racking sobs.
With a look of consternation and dismay she, Hal, was across the room
in a bound, kneeling beside the big chair.
“My dear old girl, what in the world is the matter?”
Lorraine contrived to smile with some appearance of reality, as she
dried her eyes, and said:
“I don’t quite know. It’s idiotic of me, isn’t it? If you hadn’t come
and stopped me, I should never have been able to appear tonight for
swollen eyes.” But Hal was not so easily put off. She grasped both
Lorraine’s hands in hers and said resolutely:
“Why are you crying, Lorry?”
Feeling it hopeless to avoid some sort of a reason, she replied:
“I had a letter this morning that upset me rather. It is silly of me to
take any notice, and I shouldn’t if I were well. I’ve been wretchedly
nervy lately, and it makes me silly about things.”
“What was the letter about?”
“Oh, only some one who is jealous, I suppose; trying to get a little
satisfaction out of saying a few things that may hurt me. It is so
silly of me to mind.”
Hal’s mind immediately flew to Mrs. Vivian, and instead of inquiring
any further she just said:
“Poor old Lorry,” and kissed her affectionately.
Then with a little laugh:
“I suppose you weren’t going to have any lunch at all, but I’m
frightfully hungry. I hope to goodness there is something in the
house.”
“Run and tell Jean to see cook about it, there’s a dear. I must bathe
my eyes and try to look presentable.”
While they lunched Hal chatted of many things, but she noted that
Lorraine was looking thin, and seemed to have something on her mind,
while she made no attempt to eat what was placed on her plate.
When she was pulling her gloves on later she asked:
“Why don’t you take a week’s holiday and go into the country, Lorry?…
It is no use going on until you are ill, as you did before.”
“I think I must ask about it. I feel as if one week would do me a world
of good. How is Sir Edwin? Have you seen him lately?”
“We played golf on Saturday.”
A white look came suddenly into Hal’s face, and she riveted her
attention on an apparently tiresome fastener as she asked, with the
greatest show of unconcern she could muster, the question that brought
her there.
“Have you heard a rumour that he is going to marry Miss Bootes?” naming
one of the richest heiresses of the day.
“No; I hadn’t heard it.”
Lorraine gave a quick glance at her face, but saw only the look of
concentration on the fractious fastener.
“Well,” Hal said in level tones, “I suppose she is worth about half a
million, and I don’t think he is rich.”
“Probably he has only been seen speaking to her, or taking her to
supper at a big reception. That would be quite enough to make some
people link them at once, and fix the date of the wedding.”
“There’s a bun-fight at the Bruces’ tonight,” Hal ran on, “with Llaney
to play the violin, and Lascelles to sing—quite an elaborate affair: so
it is sure to be very boring; but I suppose Alymer will be there,
looking adorably beautiful, and all the women gazing at him. It will be
entertaining to chaff him, anyhow.”
“Well, don’t tell him you found me weeping,” with a little laugh. “He
might not realise it was only nerves.”
“I’ll tell him he’s to take you away for a week’s holiday,” Hal replied
lightly. “Goodness knows, you’ve done enough for him.”
She went back to the office and settled down to her work with resolute
determination, but any one who knew her well would have seen that some
cloud seemed to have descended upon her, and that all the time she
stuck to her work she was wrestling to appear normal, in the face of
some enshrouding worry.
Through all the letter she was writing, and over the proofs she read to
aid the chief, there seemed to be one sentence dancing in letters of
glee, like a war-dance executed by little black devils on the foolscap
of her mind. It was last night she had heard it, that ominous piece of
news that took her violently by surprise, in spite of her practical
common sense. Some one had said it quite casually in the motor bus—one
man to another, as an item of news of the day.
“They say Sir Edwin Crathie is to marry Miss Bootes the heiress.”
“What! The Right Honourable Sir Edwin Crathie?”
“So they say. He’s very heavily in debt, I believe—over some bad
speculations—and an heiress is about the only thing to float him.
Besides, the party wants rich men, and it would be a good move on his
part.”
That was all, and then the two silk-hatted, frock-coated men had got
out. Eminently well-to-do men—probably both stockbrokers, but men who
looked as if they would know.
Hal had gone on home in a sudden torment of feeling. Of course he was
free to marry the heiress if be wished, but why, if so, had he dared
once again to drop the mask of companiable friendliness with her and
grow lover-like? The change had been coming slowly of late, wrought
with infinite caution and care. He had not meant to frighten her again,
and find himself in disgrace, so he had taken each step very leisurely,
and made sure of his ground before trusting himself upon it. The next
time he kissed her, he had determined she should like it too well to
resent his action.
And the safe moment, as he deemed it, had come the previous Saturday
after a delightful afternoon at golf. They had motored down to the
Sundridge Park Links, and stayed afterwards to dine at the club-house,
then back to Bloomsbury, and into the pretty sitting-room, where Dudley
was not likely to appear until late, because he had gone to a theatre
with Doris.
And then for the second time he had kissed her.
But this was quite a different kiss. It was a climax to one of the best
days he had ever had—a day in which, besides playing golf, they had
talked of State secrets and State affairs. He had paid her the
compliment of talking to her as if she were a man, and Hal, being
exceptionally well informed on most questions of the day, was able to
hold her own with him, and to make the conversation of genuine
interest.
And his quick, observant brain greatly admired her power of argument,
and her woman’s directness of method, confirming the view that while a
man usually indulges in a good deal of preamble, with many doubts and
side-lights, a woman trusts to her instinct and arrives at the same
conclusion in half the time. Of late, too, he had talked to her of
interesting modern problems; and what had been frivolous in their
earlier friendship had solidified into a real companionship.
And now as he stood on the hearth with his back to the fire, looking
with rather critical eyes round the pretty room that Hal had contrived
to rob of nearly all its lodging-house aspect, she stood quite
naturally and unconcernedly beside him drawing off her gloves.
“It was a good game,” she was saying, “if you had not messed up that
sixth hole. It’s a brute, isn’t it. I was lucky to escape that marshy
bit.”
“You are getting too good for me. Your drives out-classed mine nearly
every time.”
“But I can’t approach. I never, never, shall be able to hit a ball just
far enough. If I loft on to the green at all it is always the far side,
with a roll.”
“You’ll soon master that. A little more practice, and you’ll be in form
for matches. I think we’ll have to go away somewhere and have a
fortnight’s golfing! Why not to some little French place? You would
finish up a first-class player.”
Hal laughed lightly.
“Just imagine Brother Dudley’s face when I told him I was going to
France for a fortnight with you!”
“You wouldn’t have to tell him anything about me,” watching her with a
sudden keenness in his eyes. “I should have to be personated by Miss
Vivian or some one.”
“Oh, I dare say Lorry would come for the matter of that. We might teach
her to play too.”
“Well, I hardly meant she should actually be there,” he went on in a
meaning voice. “She’d be rather in the way, wouldn’t she? I don’t know
that I could do with any one else but you.”
He stepped closer to her, and slipped his arm round her shoulders. “A
third person will always be in the way when I am with you, Hal.”
She changed colour, and breathed fitfully, moving as if to disengage
herself from his arm.
“No, don’t go. This is very harmless, and I’ve been exceedingly good
for a long time, now, haven’t I?”
“All the greater pity to spoil your record,” putting up her hand to
remove his.
But he only clasped her fingers tightly, and drew her closer, till he
could feel her heart palpitating a little wildly; and that gave him
courage.
“It has been far harder than you have the remotest idea of. I deserve
one kiss, if only by way of encouragement.”
His face was close to hers now, and with a little murmuring sound of
gladness he kissed her cheek.
“Little woman,” he murmured, “I’ve grown desperately fond of you. I
hardly know how to do without you. Be a sensible little girl, won’t
you?”
She disengaged herself resolutely then, but she was not angry, and her
eyes were shining.
“You are transgressing flagrantly—as I should express it in a newspaper
report. Collect your forces, and retire gracefully, O transgressor.”
“I suppose I really must go now. It’s been such a splendid day, hasn’t
it?”
He seemed to speak with a shadow of regret; and there was a shadow of
regret in his eyes also as he riveted them on her face. Then he turned
suddenly and picked up his cap.
“Well—the best of friends must part—and the best of days come to an
end. Good-bye, little girl.”
With his cap in his hand, he suddenly put both his arms round her and
kissed her with the old passionate eagerness—then he loosed her and
turned to the door.
“I’m in love with you, Hal—head over ears in love; but it’s a devilish
hard world, and Heaven only knows what’s to come of it.”
With which enigmatical sentence he let himself out and departed.
When he had gone Hal stood quite still where he had left her, and
looked into vacancy. About her lips there was the ghost of a smile. In
her ears was only the recollection of the words, “I’m head over ears in
love with you.”
So, it was coming at last—the great, glad day of love and fulfilment.
If he had set out to trifle with her at first, at least he was serious
enough now. She, too, had only trifled in the beginning, seizing a
little fun and adventure in her workaday world. There had been no
reason to suppose it need hurt any one. Now, she, too, was serious.
Perhaps the things detrimental to him that she had heard previously had
some truth in them then, but he was changed now. Love had changed him.
He was like another man. She had seen and felt it in a thousand ways
that could not be translated into speech or writing. It was just that
he was different, and in every particular it was to his advantage.
She was different too. She did not resent the kiss, because she knew
that he honestly cared for her. And she knew, too, that she honestly
cared for him. The end of the enigmatical sentence rankled a little,
but she did not led herself dwell upon it.
She chose instead to remember how he had kissed her; and that he had
confessed he was head over ears in love with her. Which only showed
that Hal—for all her worldly wisdom and practical common sense—could be
as blind and as romantic as anyone when her heart was touched, and her
pulses romping feverishly at a memory that thrilled all her being.
Three days later she had heard the conversation.
Of course it was absurd—manifestly so—and yet, and yet—
After a miserable twenty-four hours of fighting against her own
uneasiness, she paid the flying visit to Lorraine, to see if she could
glean any light on the gossip from her, only to return to the office
baffled and tormented.
It was the enigmatical sentence that pressed forward now, instead of
the thrilling confession that he loved her. Was it possible he was
indeed so base as to love her and tell her in the very same week that
he had asked another woman to be his wife?
And if so, what had prompted him? What was in his mind? Why had he not
left things as they were, and refrained both from the kiss and the
confession?
And then above her tortured feelings rose the triumphant thought,
goading and pleasing at the same time: “Whether it is true or not, he
loves _me_—not her, the heiress, but me—Hal Pritchard—the peniless City
worker.”