All through the next day, while motoring with her cousin Dick Bruce,
Hal made a valiant effort to appear exactly as usual; but all the fresh
spring countryside now seemed to mock her with its sudden emptiness,
and the very engine of the motor throbbed out to her that something had
gone from her life which would not come back any more.
She chatted away to Dick manfully, about all manner of things, but in
the pauses of their chatter she was silent and still in a manner quite
unlike her old self—reattending with a start, and sometimes so distrait
she did not hear when he spoke to her.
After a time Dick began to notice, and then purposely to watch, and
finally he perceived all her gaiety was forced, and sometimes was
weighing heavily on her mind.
It was useless to say anything while they motored, so he gave all his
attention to his driving, and purposely allowed the conversation to
drop.
When they returned to Bloomsbury he went in to supper with her, as was
his habit, and, as he hoped, Dudley was away up at Holloway. It was not
until they had finished their meal, and the landlady had cleared away,
that he attacked the subject; then, with characteristic directness, he
said:
“Now, Hal, what’s the matter?”
“The matter?…” in surprise. “What can you mean, Dick? Why should
anything be the matter?”
She tried to meet his eyes frankly, but before the searching inquiry in
them her gaze dropped to the fire.
“Something is the matter, Hal. Just as if I shouldn’t know.”
She was thoughtful a moment or two, thinking how best to put him off
the right scent; then with overpowering suddenness came the
recollection of all the pleasure and interest and delight the lost
friendship had stood for, and her eyes filled with tears. It was
useless to attempt to hide them, so she contrived to say as steadily as
possible:
“I am a bit down on my luck about something; but it’s nothing to worry
about. Don’t take any notice; there’s a dear boy. I shall soon forget.”
“But why shouldn’t I take any notice? Don’t be a goose, Hal. Tell me
what’s the matter.”
She was silent, and after a pause he added:
“I suppose it is Sir Edwin?”
Hal felt it useless to prevaricate, and so she said, with assumed
lightness:
“Well, it has been a little sudden, and we had some jolly times
together.”
“Then he is engaged?”
“Yes.”
She told him briefly why. Dick watched her with a question in his eyes.
“Did he deliberately get engaged to the other girl, knowing he cared
for you?” he asked.
Hal tried to lie.
“Oh, there was nothing of that sort between him and me. We were just
good pals. But of course it can’t go on the same.”
“You’re not a clever liar, Hal,” he said, with a little smile.
She coloured and bit her lip, with an uneasy laugh. Then the tears
shone again.
“Better tell me about it. Perhaps I can lend a hand to get through
with.”
Hal placed her hands on the mantelshelf, and leaned her forehead down
on them.
“Tell me something funny, Dick, or I shall howl in a few seconds. Don’t
be serious. Be idiotic. Have the carrots and turnips decided which take
precedence yet? Is her ladyship, the onion, weeping upon the cabbage’s
lordly bosom? Are the babies talking philosophy over their bottles? For
Heaven’s sake, Dick, be idiotic, and make me laugh.”
“I think it would do you more good to cry.”
“Oh, no, no: I hate to cry. Do help me not to.”
But Dick understood the relief it was to a woman to have it out, and he
just sat down in Dudley’s big arm chair, and reached the favourite
footstool for Hal.
“Sit on the stool of confessional, and I’ll make you laugh later on. If
you don’t cry now, you will when I’ve gone.”
Hal sat on the footstool, and leaning against his knee, cried quietly
for several minutes. He played with an unruly strand of hair until she
dried her eyes, and then said:
“When we were kids, you always told me when things went wrong with you.
Tell me all about it now.”
“I left off being a kid about a month ago. I’m ancient history now”;
and she tried to smile through her tears.
“Why?”
“Oh, just because—” and then her voice broke suddenly.
“I suppose Sir Edwin was in love with you?”
She did not reply.
“And he was obliged to marry the other woman for the money.”
He was thoughtful for some moments, and then added:
“All the same, when a man like that goes so far as to love a woman,
which must be a pretty novel experience for him, he doesn’t let her go
lightly. He won’t let you go lightly, Hal.”
“I shall not see him again.”
“Has it come to that already?”
“It had to. There was no other course.”
“It sounds rather sudden and drastic.” He watched her keenly. “A man
like that would try to get both of you. Did he try, Hal?”
The hot blood rushed to her face, and she turned her head away.
“Well, he would think it the obvious, sensible course, I suppose, and
perhaps a good many women would, too. What did you think, Hal?”
“I didn’t think. I hurried away. I shall not see him any more at all.”
He looked at her with a light in his eyes.
“Bravo,” he said; and there was a low thrill in his voice. “He’ll think
the world more of you, Hal.”
“I’m not sure; anyhow, it doesn’t help very much.”
“Then you wanted to go.”
She stared into the fire and was silent.
“I see,” he said simply. “You are one of the women who would have
dared, only… of course I knew you wouldn’t, Hal. And, if you had, I
shouldn’t have been the one to blame you.”
“Yes,” she told him, still staring at the fire. “I could have dared
under some circumstance. But not these. Never under pretty, ignoble
ones. I think that all makes it worse. There were two Sir Edwins. There
was one I knew, and another the world knew. It was the other that
triumphed. Mine will never come back. It is all finished.”
She bowed her head down on her arms.
“Oh, Dick,” she said. “I shall miss him badly.”
“But I’m glad you let him go, Hal.” He spoke in a quiet voice full of
feeling. “Most men are pretty casual and indifferent nowadays, and we
often say we like a woman to be broad-minded, and daring, and all that;
but, by Jove! when we know she’s straight as a die, without being a
prude, we’re ready to kneel down to her.
“Stand to your guns, Hal. I... I... want to go on knowing that you are
among those one wants to kneel down to. If he is very persistent and
persevering, and it gets harder, I dare say I can help. You can always
’phone me at a moment’s notice, and I shall consider myself at your
beck and call.”
“You are a dear, Dick, but I shall not see him. He can only wait for me
at the office, and I shall go out the back way.”
“Still, if you’re rather lost there are lots of things we might do to
fill up the time. I’ve been going down East with Quin lately. It’s
awfully interesting. Especially with him—he’s so splendid with the most
hopeless characters. There’s a sing-song at one of the clubs on
Wednesday eve. Come down with us. You’ll see Quin at his very best.”
“I’d love to come. Will you fetch me?”
“I’ll fetch you from the office, and we’ll have a sort of meat-tea meal
at the Cheshire Cheese. Perhaps Quin will join us.”
So they sat on and talked in the firelight till it was time for Dick to
go; and all the time Hal was unconsciously drawing strength and
resolution from him for the fight that lay ahead of her.
Many years ago when she broke her dolls he had tried to mend them and
comfort her. And now, because he was a simple, manly gentleman, blessed
with the precious gift of understanding—when she was feeling
heart-broken he tried with all the old, generous affection to help to
heal the wound, and bring her consolation.
And away on the southern shore, where a little fishing-village nestled
in the cliffs, and a creeper-covered hotel awaited sleepily the coming
of the summer and the summer visitors, Lorraine came to what she deemed
her hour—the one great hour left—and, as a drowning man, caught at her
straw. Two long perfect days they had spent on the sea, with an old
fisherman, full of anecdote, and his young grandson to sail the boat.
Then came the dreamy twilight hour, and their utter loneness; and
Alymer, with the strong, swift blood in his veins, and the strong lust
of life in his heart, lost himself, as she meant that he should, in the
intoxicating atmosphere of her charm and fascination.