In Alymer’s room at the Middle Temple he and Hal were making their
arrangements to catch the next boat.
The moment he had spoken his decision she had turned to him with a
swift expression of approval, but, for the rest, her manner was
somewhat curt and business-like, and showed little of the old
friendliness.
It made him feel that, as far as she was concerned, he had sinned past
forgiveness; and he knew with that unerring instinct that sometimes
illumines a wrong action, that she judged him harshly because she knew
he had not loved Lorraine with all his strength. How then could he ever
hope to tell her that one reason he had not loved Lorraine thus was
because, unconsciously, another woman had won his heart; further, that
that other woman was herself?
No; of course the day would never dawn when he would dare to tell her
that. An eternity separated them.
But he tried not to think of it now; to remember only that Lorraine,
his best friend and his benefactress, was dying, and that she had sent
Hal to fetch him to her side.
His face was very grave, and he looked white and ill as Hal explained
what time he must meet her at the station, but he gave no sign of
flinching; no triumph in the world could now weaken his resolution.
“Very well, that is all arranged,” said Hal, and at that moment there
was a knock at the door. Alymer crossed the room and opened it himself,
and was handed a telegram. He read it, looked for a moment as if he
could not grasp it, then, telling the bearer there was no reply, closed
the door, went back to Hal, and handed it to her without a word.
Hal read, half aloud:
“Marked change for the better. No need for haste. Come in a few
days.—LORRAINE.”
For some moments there was only silence, and then she looked at him
with troubled, perplexed eyes, and said:
“I don’t quite know what to make of it.”
“Doesn’t it mean that she has passed some crisis and will live?” he
suggested. “I think it must.”
Hal still looked doubtful; and at that moment there was another knock
at the door.
Again Alymer opened it himself. “Lord Denton particularly wishes to see
you,” he was told.
“Show him in at once,” he replied, and turned to tell Hal who was
coming.
Flip Denton had come to inquire for more detailed news of Lorraine than
he could get from her letters. He gathered from them that she was
remaining away for the whole winter theatrical season, because her
health was bad; but any suggestion on his part to run over to Brittany
and see her was persistently negatived. Finally he had come to Alymer.
The moment he saw them he knew that something serious was wrong, and
that it concerned Lorraine. But when, after learning she was very ill,
he asked Hal what was the matter, and saw the scarlet blood flame into
her face, he said no more.
“I was with her yesterday,” she told him, “and the doctor said he
feared she would not live many days. She wanted Alymer, and I came over
to fetch him.”
“And you are going at once?” Denton asked him, with a curious
expression in his eyes.
“I have arranged to.”
“Doesn’t your great case come on this afternoon, or tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.”
Denton’s grave face did not change. “I see,” he said, and turned a
little aside.
Then Hal, who had the telegram in her hand, held it out to him.
“This has just come.”
He read it, and his face cleared joyously.
“Why, that is splendid news—don’t you think so?” And he regarded Hal
with a slightly puzzled air.
“I hardly know what to think,” Hal said. “Yesterday she was very ill.”
“Ah, but you had to leave early,” reassuringly, “and she may have been
gaining strength all the afternoon, and had a very good night. What are
you going to do?” looking at Alymer.
Alymer looked at Hal, and waited for her decision.
Hal only looked doubtful and troubled.
“I think you should stay for the lawsuit,” Denton said, to help her.
“It is evident that Lorraine wished it, and she of all people would not
have Hermon miss such a chance if possible. I understood Hall it was
only likely to last two or three days. He has some clinching evidence,
I think.”
“That is so,” Alymer answered gravely; but he still waited to take his
cue from Hal.
“You think he should stay for it?” Hal asked Lord Denton.
“I certainly think that is what Lorraine would wish him to do.”
“Very well.”
Hal commenced to pull on her gloves as if there were no more to say,
and then Denton asked her:
“Will you wait too?”
“No; I am going back by the next boat.”
“I will come with you.”
She glanced at him with slight alarm, and then at Alymer. Denton saw
the look and seemed surprised. Hal’s eyes asked Alymer what they were
to do. He spoke with an effort.
“I expect Miss Vivian would be glad to see so old and great a friend as
Lord Denton.”
“Of course she would,” he said decidedly—and to Hal:
“What time do we leave Charing Cross?”
Hal spoke very little on the journey. A nameless dread weighed on her
spirit, and a haunting fear for Lorraine. She was oppressed by a sense
of deep sadness for the brilliant, succesful woman she had loved since
her school days, who was now, after all her triumphs, alone in that
little foreign village, caught in a maze of tangles and perplexities
which offered no peaceful solution.
She could not understand Alymer’s part at all, but she was convinced
Lorraine’s absorbing devotion to him was not reciprocated in like
manner. If Lorraine learnt this as soon as she recovered, what did the
future hold for her again but more vain dreams, and bitter hopes that
could never see fulfilment?
She felt a little pitifully that life was very hard and difficult, even
when one had a fine courage and will to face it; and a leaden pall of
sorrow seemed to fold itself round her.
What of Dudley and his hopeless love? Ethel and her inconsolable grief?
Sir Edwin, and his secret bitterness? the gaunt music-teacher and her
barren, joyless life?
Across her mind passed some lines, that had a strong attraction for
her:
“So many gods, so many creeds,
so many paths that wind and wind,
And just the art of being kind
Is all the sad world needs.”
Ah! in truth it was a sad world first of all; a sad, sad world in need
of kindness and comfort. One could but go on trying to be kind, trying
to be strong.
It was the only thing in a life of pitfalls and easily made mistakes,
to just march straight forward—eyes front—and not let anything daunt
permanently. She felt, more profoundly than ever, it was not wise to
turn aside, looking to right and left, questioning overmuch of right
and wrong, probing into the actions of others.
Each human being was as a soldier in a vast army, and all were there
under the same colours, led by the same general, to bear, with what
courage they could, the fortunes of war. Two might be standing
together, and one be wounded and the other untouched; many disabled,
and many unhurt; some left on the field to die, others found and nursed
back to life.
But the soldier was not there to question. If a comrade fell, it was no
concern of his how he fell—his concern was to try and help him to
safety, then go back and fight again, undismayed if his place was but a
little insignificant one in the smoke and dust, unseen by any but a
near neighbour perhaps as insignificant as himself.
That was the true spirit of the great soldier, whether he was in the
ranks, lost in the smoke, or whether, on a magnificent charger, he led
gloriously for all the world to see.
She remembered the change in Dudley, which had led him so quickly to
respond to her cry, and refrain from judging. He was seeing things in
that light also, learning to fight his own fight as pluckily as he
could, and only to look upon the warfare of others as one ready to help
them if it chanced that he was able—learning in place of rules and
precepts, “just the art of being kind.”
Well, together perhaps they could help Lorraine—if she came out of this
last encounter bruised and broken.
Then they arrived, and she and Lord Denton hastened down the short road
to the little green-shuttered house. At the sound of the latch on the
gate the door opened quietly, and Jean, with tears streaming down her
face, came towards them, choking back gasping sobs.
Hal stood still a second, and then ran forward blindly with
outstretched hands.
“She is better, Jean—say she is better. Oh, she must be, she must; she
wired yesterday to say there was great improveent.”
Jean broke down into helpless weeping as she sobbed out:
“She died this morning at six o’clock.”
For one moment Hal seemed too stunned to understand; then she swayed,
and fell heavily into Denton’s arms.
Later when she had recovered, Jean told them of the restless,
nerve-racking night; of the priest’s visit, and of the fast-ebbing
strength gathered together to write some message the nurse had taken to
the post office. After that extreme exhaustion had set in, greatly
aggravated by the mental stress, and they could only watch her sinking
from hour to hour.
“She only roused once more,” Jean said, “and that was to try and write
a message for you. I have it there,” and she produced a little folded
note.
In faint, tremulous words Hal read:
“Good-bye, darling Hal. It is hard to be without you now, but you will
inderstand why I sent the message. I want to tell you it has never been
Alymer’s fault; do not blame him. I ask it of you. At the last hour I
have made what reparation I could. Don’t grieve for me. I have made so
many mistakes, and now I am too tired to go on. Give my dear, dear love
to Alymer, and say good-bye to Flip and mother. I am not unhappy
now—only very, very tired.
“Your own
“LORRY.”
For the first time since she had recovered from her faint, Hal broke
down, and Jean and Denton went quietly away, knowing it would be better
for her afterwards, and left her sobbing her heart out over her letter.
Two days later, flying the colours of a great victory, and flushed with
the pleasure of warm congratulations poured upon him from all sides,
Alymer Hermon stepped out upon the little station.
He had never doubted the truth of the message, and he carried his head
a little higher and his shoulders a little squarer, proud and glad to
come to Lorraine with the news of his greatest success, and tell her of
the proud position he had won almost solely through her. For had she
not first imbued him with ambition and the real desire to achieve, and
then, at exactly the right moment, procured him the first little
success that meant so much?
The instant he knew the great case was won, he had dashed out of the
court, scribbled her a hurried wire, and driven frantically to Charing
Cross, meditating a special train to Dover, if he were too late. He was
not, though the guard was just about to give the signal for departure,
and the boat-train bore him from the station, full of that glad
consciousness of a great achievement, to carry the news instantly to
her feet.
On the little station in Brittany Denton was waiting for him. And when
Alymer saw him the light faded out of his eyes, and the smile from his
lips.
“She died before we got there,” Denton told him. “We daren’t let you
know, because she sent that message, on purpose to give you your chance
in the case.” Then, very kindly: “Sit down, old chap. There’s no hurry.
Wait and rest a while here.”
Alymer sat down on the little wooden station bench, and buried his face
in his hands.