When they were half-way through dinner Hal asked, a trifle abruptly:
“Now, what about this piece of news? What does it mean?”
He looked away, unable to meet her candid eyes, and said:
“I will tell you presently.”
“Where? Why not now? Why all this secrecy?”
“Because it is rather a big matter. You have sometimes said you would
like to see the horns and trophies I brought back from my shooting-trip
in Canada. Come and see them this evening.”
“At your flat?” doubtfully.
“Yes. Why not?”
Hal knit her forehead and looked perplexed. She had so insistently
declined to go hitherto, that she was loath now to change her mind. Yet
she felt it was rather silly to have any fear of him now.
In the end she went.
It was only eight o’clock, and he promised to take her home about nine.
Besides, something in his manner was baffling her, and she wanted to
understand how they stood.
Once in the sumptuous, beautifully furnished flat, however, he seemed
to change. He came up to her suddenly, put his arms round her, and
kissed her.
“At last,” he breathed. “At last I’ve got you absolutely to myself.”
“Don’t do that.”
Hal disengaged herself and held him at arm’s length. For a moment she
looked steadily into his eyes, and then she asked:
“How has this report of your engagement got into the papers?” Her lips
curled a little. “I presume you would hardly act to me like this if it
is true.”
“It is true in one sense, and not another.”
“Oh...” She seemed a little taken aback. “In what way is it true. Are
you engaged to Miss Bootes?”
“Yes.”
“Indeed!”
She lifted her eyebrows, and moved a pace or two farther away.
“Don’t move away from me,” he said a little thickly. “It isn’t the part
that’s true which matters, but the part that is not true.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I brought you here to explain. I can do so very quickly. I am in a
tight corner. The tightest corner I ever was in my life. Only one thing
can save me. I must have money. Miss Bootes, or at any rate her father,
wants a title. I haven’t the shadow of a choice. I have got to sell her
mine.”
Again Hal’s lips curled, and a little spark of fire shone in her eyes.
“Oh, I can understand all that!” She tossed her head
half-unconsciously. “But why”—her lips quivered a little—“did you think
it necessary to insult both of us by, at the same time, becoming
lover-like to me?”
“I told you why; because I love you.”
He stepped up to her, and caught both her hands in an iron grip.
“Now, listen to me, Hal. Don’t try to break away, for I won’t let you
go. I tell you it’s a matter of life and death. In your heart you know
quite well that I love you. You knew it when I kissed you last
Saturday, and you were glad. I don’t know when you read that
announcement, but whenever it was, your heart said to you ‘Whether it’s
true or not, he loves _me_’. Probably you didn’t believe it was true,
because you knew nothing whatever about the devilish mess I was in. But
in any case, your heart told you right. I do love you. I love you with
every bit of me that knows how to love. If I have to be hers in name, I
am at any rate yours at heart, and shall be all my life. Now, what have
you to say?”
She tried to drag her hands away, but he gripped them tightly, forcing
her to feel his strength, his resolve, and his masterfulness.
“I have nothing to say. What should I have? You have elected to sell
yourself, to let a woman”—with swift scorn—“buy you out of a tight
corner. I… I…” in a low tense voice, “am sorry we ever met.”
“Why?—”
He hurled the monosyllable at her, now almost crushing her hands in his
grasp, as he waited, silently compelling her to reply.
“Because the friendship was pleasant. It has meant a good deal. And now
for it to end like this!… for me to have to scorn you.”
“Why need it end?… Why should you scorn me?… Wouldn’t every second man
you know in my place act exactly as I am acting? I have no choice. I
ought not to tell you, but my political chiefs have issued an ultimatum
to me, and I have got to obey it. Do you suppose I would consider it
for a moment if I could find any other way out? Do you suppose I would
risk losing you, would even dream of giving you up, if I were not
driven to it by the very hell-hounds of circumstance?
“To have felt love at all is the most wonderful thing in my life: I,
who have always mocked and jeered and disbelieved. Well, anyhow it is
there now. Listen, Hal. I love you. I love you? _I love you_.”
He tried again to kiss her, but she wrenched at her hands, held in his
grip.
“Let me go. You… you… to talk of love. You don’t know what it is. Let
me go… let me go—”
“I won’t. By God, you shan’t speak to me like that. I won’t endure it.”
He was evidently losing control of himself a little, and the sight of
it steadied her. Behind all her bravado and pluck there was a terrible
ache. Caught in a mesh of circumstances, she knew she could not
struggle out without being grievously hurt at heart. She knew that,
however she loathed his action now, she could not unlove him all in a
moment.
When he scorched and seared her with his passionate declaration, her
heart cried out that she wanted him to love her, that she wanted to be
his. And yet stronger and higher and better than all, was that woman’s
instinct in her soul which loathed his action and clung wildly in the
stress of the moment to its own best ideal.
In the swift sense of hopelessness that followed, great tears gathered
in her eyes, and welled over onto her cheeks. They had an immediate
effect upon him. He let go her hands.
“Don’t cry, Hal, don’t cry,” he said a little huskily.
“I can’t stand that.”
She brushed the tears away almost angrily, but, ignoring his motion to
draw up an arm chair, remained standing, straight and slim beside the
hearth, trying to recover her composure.
Sir Edwin commenced to pace the room. He had succeeded in his scheme so
far as to get Hal to the flat to discuss the projects in his mind, but
now that she was there he felt at a loss to proceed. He wished she
would sit down; he changed his mind and almost wished she would cry;
standing there, like a soldier on guard, with that direct, fearless
expression, she disconcerted him, by making him feel mean and paltry
and small.
And all the time he could not choose but admire her more and more. He
wished with all his heart in those moments that he could throw his
position and his party overboard, and go to her with a clean slate, and
say:
“I have done with serving Mammon. Come to me as my wife, and I will
serve you instead.”
And instead he had brought her there to say:
“I cannot give up serving Mammon. I must marry the heiress, but let me
be your lover and I will serve you as well.”
And all the time Hal stood there with those resolute, set lips, as
erect as a young grenadier.
But all the same he meant to have her if he could, and he remembered of
old how often he had found a swift, bold attack won. So he stopped
short beside her, and said:
“You know that whatever circumstances compel me to do, all my heart is
yours, Hal, and you care a little bit about me. You know you do. Don’t
condemn me to outer darkness. Come to me like the sensible little woman
you are. No one will ever know, and I can make your life gayer and
happier just as long as ever you like.”
She looked at him with a startled, perplexed expression.
“What do you mean?” she asked slowly.
“Now, don’t get angry.”
He laid his hand on her arm, with a caressing touch.
“You’ve knocked about the world too much not to know what I mean. You
know perfectly well half the girls you know would let themselves be
persuaded. But that isn’t what I want. I’ve too much respect for your
strength of character. Come to me because you can be strong enough to
rise above conventions and because you dare to be a law unto yourself.
It is the courage I expect of you. Hal, my darling, who is ever to be
any the wiser if you and I are lovers? Think what I can do for you to
make life gay and interesting and fresh. Don’t decide in a hurry. If no
one ever knows, no one need be hurt.”
She moved away from him, and went and stood by the window, looking down
at the passing lights in St. James’s Street; looking at the lights in
the windows opposite, looking at the faint light of the stars overhead.
It was characteristic of her that she did not grow angry and indignant;
nor, in a theatrical spirit, immediately attempt to impress him with
the fact that she was a good, virtuous woman, and that his suggestion
filled her with horror. Her knowledge of life was too wide, her
understanding too deep.
She knew that to such a man as he a proposal of this kind did not
present any shocking aspect whatever. When he said, “Be a sensible
little woman,” he meant it to the letter. He actually believed she
would show common sense in yielding to him, and taking what joy out of
life she could.
But, unfortunately for the world in general, it is not only the
horror-struck, conventional, shocked women who resolutely turn their
eyes from the primrose path. There are plenty of large-hearted,
broad-minded women, who, seeing the world as it is, instead of how the
idealists would have it, are content to go on their own strong way,
fighting their own battle for themselves without saying anything, and
without judging the actions of others, content in striving to live up
to their own best selves.
Hal was one of these. If another girl in her place had yielded to the
alluring prospect of possessing such an interesting lover as Sir Edwin,
to brighten the commonplace, daily round, she would not have blamed
her, she would have tried not to judge her.
But she would have been sorry for her in many ways, knowing how apt the
primrose path is to turn suddenly to thorns and stones; and in an hour
of need she would have stood by her if she could.
But the fact of possessing these wide sympathies did not lessen any
obligation she felt to herself. It was her creed to “play the game” as
far as in her lay, and according to her own definition.
That definition did not admit of any irregularity of this kind. It
called, instead, sternly and insistently for absolute denial. It told
her now, without the smallest shadow of doubt, that from tonight she
must never see Sir Edwin again. She must take whatever interest he had
brought out of her life, and go back to the old, monotonous round.
It was useless to question or reason. The decree was there in her own
heart. The insistent call to keep her colours flying high, as she
fought her way through the pitfalls of life to the Highest and Best.
As she paced the room behind her, disclosing a carefully thought-out
plan, now pleading, now expostulating, she heard him rather as one afar
off.
The plan did not matter one way or another. If she could have let
herself go at all she would not have troubled about plans. His pleading
and expostulating she scarcely heard.
She was looking out at all the lights, and her mind was grappling with
problems. How harsh the glare of the streets appeared tonight. How far,
far away the pin points that were stars. Hal liked a city.
Constellations hanging like great lamps in wonderful, wilderness skies
would have wearied her quickly. She loved people, and she liked them
all about her. But tonight she felt suddenly very near to the dark,
shadowy side of life—very far from the stars of light.
She glanced up at the pin points a little wistfully. If perhaps they
were nearer with their message of high striving; if perhaps the glare
at hand were less harsh, there might be so much more steadfast courage
in the world; so much less weak acceptance of conditions that led to
pain and misery and disaster.
At last he stood beside her, and implored her to tell him, once for
all, that she would yield and come.
But when he saw into the clear depths of her eyes, he knew his hopes
were vain.
Suddenly, with swift self-distrust, his mood softened.
“I suppose I’ve shocked you past forgiveness now,” he said miserably.
“You’ll think I’ve been a brute to you, and you’ll never forget it.”
“No; I shan’t think that; but I should like to go home at once.”
“But surely that is not your last word!”
“What else is there so say? I... I... can’t do that sort of thing. That
is all. From today you must go your way, and I must go mine. It is
useless to discuss it. Let me go home.”
“But you can’t mean it,” he cried. “Surely we are not to part like
this.”
She had moved back into the room now, and was pulling on her gloves.
“What else can we do?”
“But you care for me, Hal. You can’t deny it. You do care a little;
don’t you?”
She looked into his eyes without a tremor, but with a pain at the back
of hers that made him flinch.
“Yes, I care,” she said very quietly.
“Ah!”
Suddenly he sat down, and buried his face in his arms on the table.
Every good, honest trait he possessed called to him to throw “Mammon”
to the winds, and make her happy. Let the party take care of itself. It
was not for his nobility of character they had taken him into the
Cabinet. Let his creditors do their worst—a strong man could win
through anything. But the mood did not last. There was not enough room
in that India rubber heart for it to expand and grow. It died for want
of breathing-space.
“If you care, why can’t you have the courage to come to me?” he asked a
little fiercely.
“Because I have the courage to stay away.”
And he knew—hardened sinner that he was—that she named the greater
courage.
But his goaded feelings called to him, and drove him, making him mad
with the knowledge he must lose her.
“Heroics!…” he said—“heroics!… Don’t talk like a bread-and-butter miss,
Hal. It is unthinkable of you.”
He got up from his chair and took a step towards her, but stood
irresolute—daunted by the calm strength in her face.
“The world is too old for heroics any more. Every one laughs at them.
Where is the politician today who cares tuppence for anything but the
main chance? We blazon our way into office, and we blazon louder still
to keep there. It is the spirit of the age. The strong man takes what
he wants, and holds it by right of his strength. In primeval times we
used fists and clubs. Now we hit with brains and words or hard cash.
That is all the difference. The strong man is still the one who takes
what he wants, and keeps it. And I want you, Hal. It is mere
feebleness—childishness—to be thwarted by convention and circumstance.
Hoodwink convention, and stamp on circumstance. Go through stone walls
with a battering-ram. As long as the world doesn’t know—who cares?
Those are my sentiments. They have been for years. When I want a thing,
I go for it bald-headed, and take it.”
He drew nearer boldly, refusing to be daunted, putting all his strength
and determination against hers.
“And I want you, Hal. Do you understand? Don’t be a little fool. Come.”
She backed away from him towards the door.
“I understand well enough,” she said quietly, “and I shall never see
you again if I can help it. All that you say does not appeal to me in
the least. I am not a politician—thank God—and I am still old-fashioned
enough to possess an ideal. I am going now. Good-bye.”
But when he saw she was already in the little hall, a wave of fierce
desire seemed to catch him by the throat.
“Not yet,” he exclaimed hoarsely: “Not yet… I care and you care—you
cannot go yet—”
But before he reached her, she had slipped through the front door, and
shut it behind her, and run down the stairs out into the street.