As the days of that new spring-time crept on, it appeared that the
shadow descending upon Hal’s little world had come to stay.
Things happened with surprising quickness, and each happening was of
that particular order which presents itself enshrouded in gloom, and,
with a pitilessness which is almost wanton, refuses to allow one gleam
of the sunshine, carefully wrapped up in its gloomy folds, to send a
single glad ray of hope to those wrestling in its sinister grip.
One knows the sunshine may possibly be hidden there somewhere—sunshine
always is hidden in each event somewhere—but what is the use of
expecting it weeks or months or years hence, when it seems that one
single ray now would be of more help than a whole sun in some vague,
distant future?
May it not be that in the development needed to fit the individual for
the full and glad enjoyment of the sunshine to come, a ray of light
would blur the film, and spoil the picture instead of producing one
that is strong, clear and beautiful?
So, a dauntless belief in the sunshine to come, without a ray to
promise it, may make for greater perfectness through steadfast courage
than had one beam crept through to lessen the need for effort and for
strong enduring.
Yet it was strange that the grim hand of destiny should strike at so
many in that little world at the same time, and that its blows should
be of that intimate nature which allows of no speech, even to one’s
dearest friend.
Lorraine knew that the rumour of Sir Edwin Crathie’s engagement was an
admitted fact; but she did not know how hard it hit Hal. She could only
have learnt by accident, and, because of events in her own life, she
was out of the line of such a discovery.
Hal knew that Lorraine, after a nervous breakdown, had gone somewhere
into the country for a week or so, and that Alymer Hermon had run down
later to see how she was getting on, and if he could do anything for
her, but of the almost tragic circumstances that led up to his action
she knew nothing, and imagined the merest generous attention.
She saw also the preoccupied, aged look growing on Dudley’s face, and
knew that the shadow was over him too.
Ethel saw the change creeping over Basil as no one else saw it, and
knew that not even the far future could shed a single gleam for her
upon the darkness coming.
Yet—for life is oversad to dwell upon rayless darkness even in
books—bright, enduring, beautiful sunshine was wrapped up in those
black clouds to flood the little world with joy at the appointed hour.
It was Lorraine’s life that events moved first. After Hal left her, she
spent a wretched, restless, brain-racking afternoon, and was only just
able to struggle through her part at night.
And afterwards she became suddenly sickened with the need to struggle.
She was not extravagant by nature, and had saved enough money from her
enormous salaries to live very comfortably if she chose.
A nausea of the theatrical world and its incessant demands began to
obsess her. She felt that from the first day she stood in a manager’s
office, seeking the chance to start, it had given her everything except
happiness.
Money, success, position, jewels, fine clothes, admirers, friends,
adventures, gaieties—all these had come, if by slow degrees, but not
one single gift had contained the kernel of happiness.
Perhaps it was her own fault. Perhaps the trouble lay in the wrong
start she had made and never been able to retrieve. But at least there
was time to try another plan yet.
Finally, feeling the nerve strain of recent events was seriously
affecting her health, she decided to arrange a week’s holiday to think
the matter out.
But then what of Alymer?
Nothing had changed her mood since his uncle paid his ill-chosen visit.
She did not actually intend to try to influence Alymer against his
people, but she did intend that he should not change to her, nor pass
out of her life, if she could help it.
Because she, and she alone, had started him off on his promising
career, she meant to be there to watch it for some time to come. Her
influence might not any longer be actually needed. The devine fire to
achieve had already lit into a steady flame in his soul, and her
presence would make very little difference in future. He had tasted the
sweets of success, and ambition would not let him reject all that the
future might hold.
But she must be there to see. In her lonely life he meant everything
now. There was no need for him to think of marriage for years yet; and
in the meantime she felt her claim upon him was as strong as any
mother’s fears.
So she waited for his next visit, wondering much what would transpire
if he had heard of his uncle’s call.
As it happened, he had. In the interview he had sought with his aunt,
to request her not to interfere in his affairs, the indignant lady
hurled at him the story of the visit; or such garbled account of it as
she had received from the participator himself.
That was quite enough for Alymer—that and Hal’s account of Lorraine in
tears. He felt that his benefactress, his great friend, had been
abominably insulted, and he hastened in all the warmth of his ardour to
her side.
Lorraine was waiting for him in her low, favourite chair, and when he
first saw her he could not suppress an exclamation to see how frail she
seemed suddenly to have grown.
Her skin of ivory whiteness, enhanced by the tinge of colour in her
cheeks, and there were shadows round her eyes placed there by no
cosmetic art.
All that was most chivalrous, most protective, most affectionate in his
nature rose uppermost, and shone in his face as he said:
“Lorraine, it is too feeble just to say I am sorry. I heve been cursing
the blunder with all my heart ever since I knew.”
“That was dear of you,” she said; “but of course I knew that you
would.”
“I hoped so. I told myself over and over, you must know it had all
happened without my knowledge.”
Lorraine had no mind to make light of the matter. She felt she would
hold him better by simply leaving it alone, and letting his own
feelings work on her side.
She knew of course that his uncle had probably tried to injure her
case; but then, Alymer was a man of the world, and she trusted him,
knowing what he must about his uncle, to judge her kindly.
But all this seemed to fade into nothingness when she saw the distress
and the affection in his eyes—the anger that any one had dared to hurt
her, and the eager wish to make amends. It made all her smouldering
love leap up into flame, and the strength of the suddenly roused
passion almost frightened her. She felt there was desperation in it,
the desperation of the drowning man who catches at a straw, of the
condemned man who seizes a last joy.
Quite unexpectedly a reckless, surging desire began to take possession
of her soul. She had lost so much already; been hit so many times;
missed so many things.
A picture came back to her, with a new allurement. The picture of
herself with a little one of her own, floating down the peacefully
flowing river to some quiet haven, far removed from the glare of the
footlights. Should she make a bold bid to win that much from the years
that were left?
She sat quiet, looking into the heart of the fire while the thoughts
coursed through her brain, and her long lashes hid from the man above
her the glowing dreamlights in her eyes.
Then he too pulled up a low chair and sat down, so that his head was
more nearly on a level with hers, and still his eyes looked at her with
that regretful, protecting expression.
“You must go away, Lorry,” he said, using Hal’s pet name; “you are
beginning to look thoroughly ill.”
“I don’t feel well, but I haven’t the heart to go alone. I should only
get melancholia.”
“Hal seemed to think I ought to offer you a little companionship.” He
said it with a slightly bashful air.
“Hal?…” in a sharp, questioning voice. “What has Hal been saying to
you?”
“Not much. She was in great form at the Bruces’ last night. She rubbed
it into me finely on various subjects, and finally went off with her
head in the air to find some one refreshingly ugly who could talk
sense.”
They both laughed, but Lorraine’s eyes were thoughtful.
“And what did she say about your companionship?”
“Oh, that it was only some one to talk to and be company you wanted if
you went away, and that I seemed to fill the post better than any one
just now.” He paused, then added: “Do I?”
She felt him looking hard into her face, and kept her eyes lowered. She
did not want him to know that the thought of his companionship in the
country was like the straw to the drowning man—the last joy to the
condemned one.
“You always make me forget the years, and feel young,” she said slowly
and thoughtfully, “and I dare say that is a very good tonic in itself.”
“You oughtn’t to need help from any one for that”; and she knew there
was genuine admiration in his voice. “You never look anything but
young. I suppose it is temperament.”
“Temperatment doesn’t erase lines,” with a little sad smile.
“Perhaps not, but it makes them, in some way, suit you; and they add to
the character in a face.”
“It is sweet of you to say so, Alymer, but it sounds a fairy tale. I
don’t so very much mind growing old, if only it were not so…
empty-handed.”
“But surely you have so much!”
“Not very much that counts. Anyhow, I hope some day you will have a
great deal more.”
“You are depressed. You must really get away somewhere at once.”
He was grandfatherly now, the mood she always loved and laughed at, and
her pulses quickened to it. He placed one of his large, strong-looking
hand over hers—it covered them both out of sight—and he leaned a little
nearer as he said:
“I can see I shall have to take the ordering of it all. You have done
worlds for me. Now I shall have to take you in hand.”
A harsh expression crossed her face for a moment, thinking of what his
mother had written her.
“And go straight to perdition!” she said bitterly.
He winced a little.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to make excuses for my own mother,” he
remarked, with the quiet dignity that was already winning his name in
the Law Courts, side by side with his gift for light satire. “You
cannot but know in your heart just how far removed her outlook on the
world is from ours.”
She wanted to ask him if any outlook gave one woman the right to insult
another at her pleasure, but she remembered Mrs. Hermon probably did
not realise that she would have the fineness to see the insult, and was
not even aware that she had been insulting.
“I should like you to know my father,” he went on. “He is a very
understanding man.”
“But surely he…”
“No; he knew nothing about it. When my mother spoke to him he asked her
not to interfere.”
“Ah!”
For a few swift moments the generous treatment called to her own
generosity, and for the sake of the understanding father she was almost
ready to let go the straw. Only then again came the recollection of the
uncle, and his impudent offer to substitute himself, and make amends at
the same time; and again the smouldering fires leaped up, fed by the
strong, protecting touch of the hand upon hers.
“I think Hal was right,” Alymer was saying. “If my companionship, just
to run down and see how you are, wherever you may be, will help to
cheer you up and amuse you, there is no reason why I shouldn’t manage
it.”
She knew he was making a concession of which he was half-afraid,
because of what he owed her, and while one half of her longed to be
self-sacrificing and release him, the other half fiercely demanded the
straw that yet might save. And still she said nothing, gazing, gazing,
into the flames.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I hardly know,” with a tired smile. “Of course I want you, but if—”
“Never mind the ‘if’,” cheerfully. “If I promise to run down and see
you, will you go away at once, and try to get well again quickly?”
“It would make a lot of difference.”
“Then that settles it. Can you start tomorrow?”
“I think I could.”
Her pulses were leaping fitfully now—leaping and bounding with a swift
delight. Perhaps he felt it, for he withdrew his hand, and gave himself
a little shake, as if warding off something dangerous.
“Where will you go?” in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I hardly know, but I like the sea. Any little place that is warm in
the spring. I might as well motor down, so it doesn’t matter about
trains, and the motor can come back for you.”
“Shall I bring any one else?” his eyes searched her face.
“Just as you like.” She leant forward and casually stirred the fire.
“Anyhow, there is sure to be plenty of room at this time of year.”
“Plenty of room, but not plenty of available companion chaperones,”
with a little laugh.
“Then we should have to make Sydney serve,” naming her chauffeur. She
got up from her seat.
“I suppose I must think about dinner,” glancing at the clock. “Are you
joining me this evening?”
“I can’t; I have to go to Morrison’s.”
“How gay you are!”
“It is diplomatic. Morrison could get me a brief tomorrow if he liked.”
“There is a very pretty daughter, just out; isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“And is she so strikingly lovely?”
“I suppose she is; but she is so full of airs and graces she irritates
one almost past endurance.”
“I’m afraid you are a severe critic. The way is made too smooth for
you.”
She had moved near to him again, and stood beside him with one hand
resting lightly on the mantelpiece, and one foot on the fender. He was
standing as usual with his back to the fire. He looked down into her
upturned face, fascinating now from a touch of roguishness.
“The splendid knight is hard to please; mere beauty is too
commonplace.”
“Isn’t it sure to be?” a little smile played round his lips as he made
his gallant retort. “How can mere beauty ever appeal to me, who have
been accustomed to all you have besides?”
“Ah, flatterer!…” she said softly, and smiled into the fire.
There was a tense moment in which he longed to bend down and kiss her
as he had done when the room was full of violets, but instead he pulled
himself up sharply and moved away.
“Well, I must be off. Perhaps tonight I shall have the luck to be able
to look at her from a distance, and not strike the jarring note. I’ll
try to come in tomorrow to see what you have decided, and then I’ll run
down on Friday afternoon for a long weekend, to see that you are taking
decent care of yourself.” As an afterthought he added: “I suppose Hal
couldn’t get off?”
“I’ll ask her if you like. She would love it, if she could.”
“And keep us amused too. I should get my head bitten off, but you could
put it on again for me. Good-bye. Anyhow, it is a promise that you will
go”; and with rather a hurried farewell, he was gone.
Lorraine remained some moments gazing into the fire, and there was a
softness in her eyes. She knew perfectly well that he had hurried at
the last moment because when they stood together on the hearth he had
wanted to kiss her.
And she could not help comparing his strength in refraining with what
would have been the action of most of the men she had known, who would
have professed more, and meant less. She leaned her head down on her
hand, and wondered a little pitifully:
“Why had the best she had ever known come to her too late?”
And then followed the dangerous thought: “Is it indeed too late?”