"Of course I have to do with them. We all have. But I don't know what. And it frightens me. I don't think I've ever felt frightened before. It was like being brought up sharp against a stone wall."

His lips were suddenly a little stern. Stone walls had to be broken down. That was the use of being strong. One was not frightened; one just got a battering-ram, and forced a passage through. He would tell her soon, but not out here. Not just yet.

"You are forgetting our compact. I'm surprised at you, Hal. I call it a slight on the sunshine."

"Why, so it is! ... Avaunt, and leave my mind, Holloway! This day belongs to the spring."

And until they drew up outside the Criterion Grill, she kept her spirits high, and gave herself to the joy of the hour.



CHAPTER XXXVI

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 loth 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. Noew, 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 on to 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 whished 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 to-night 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 to-night. 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 to-night 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 an 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 to-day 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 to-day 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.



CHAPTER XXXVII

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 distraite 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 hi 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 to 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.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

When Hal and her cousin emerged from the office the following Wednesday evening, the first thing Hal saw was Sir Edwin's motor, and Sir Edwin himself standing waiting for her. A disengaged taxi was just moving off, having deposited a fare, and instantly, without a word to Dick, she sprang into it. Dick gave a sharp glance round and followed her.

"Tell him where to go," she said.

He directed the chauffeur, and then looked anxiously into her face. She had turned very pale, and seemed for the moment overcome.

"Sir Edwin's motor?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Shall I call for you every day?" he said at once.

"No. He can't possibly see me if I go out the other way." Then she added: "He won't go on for long. He was there yesterday, but he did not see me; and after to-day I dare say he will give it up."

Finally she added, with an effort:

"I heard this morning the wedding is already fixed for June. It's to be one of the weddings of the season"; and her lips curled somewhat.

"I'm more sorry for her than for you, Hal," he said quietly. "You've a lot of splendid years before you yet. Heaven only knows what's ahead of her. I doubt he'll not give her much beside his name for his share of the bargain."

She made no comment, leaning back in her corner, white and tired. It was difficult to imagine anything ever being splendid again just then; or any man ever seeming other than tame, after Sir Edwin's clever, virile, interesting personality.

But Dick had judged wisely in suggesting the trip down East. Anything West would merely have recalled painful memories. The East of London was new to her, and could not fail to be interesting to any one with Hal's love of her fellows.

They went to a large parish hall, where Quin was in charge for a social evening of dancing and music. Factory girls were there in all their tawdry finery to dance; rough, boisterous youths mostly made fun of them; tired, white-faced, over-worked middle-aged women sat round the walls, laughing weakly, but forgetting the drudgery for a little while. At one end of the room older men sat and smoked, and looked at illustrated periodicals.

Hal entered with Quin and Dick on either side of her, and was immediately accosted by a young lady, with a longer and straighter feather than most of them, with the remark:

"Hullo, miss!... which of 'em's yer sweet'eart?"

A burst of laughter greeted this sally, but Hal, not in the least disconcerted, replied:

"Why, both, of course... I'll be bound you've had two at a time often enough."

The repartee delighted all within hearing, and from that moment Hal was a brilliant succes at the social evenings. She only wondered she had never thought to go before; but perhaps no other moment would have been just so propitious.

The sudden blank in her life craved some interest that was entirely new, and made her more ready to receive fresh impressions and create fresh occupations. She quickly found real pleasure in teaching the girls to dance properly, in listening to their outspoken humour, and soon developed an interest in their varied and vigorous personalities.

As she and Dick went home together that evening he noted joyfully that a little colour had come back to her face, and there was once more a genuine gleam in her eyes.

"You liked it?" he asked.

"Immensely."

"It grows on one. You'll like it better still yet. Alymer and I have always rather laughed at Quin, and regarded him as a crank. But he's not. It's just that he loves humanity, and he gets quite close up to the core of it down there, even if it is half-smothered in vice and dirt. I don't believe he'll ever take orders. It's partly because he's not a clergyman, and they know it, he's such a success. To-night, for instance, there was a big bullying chap trying to spoil all the fun for the men who wanted to smoke peacefully and look at the books. Quin remonstrated, and he turned round and swore violently at him. To my surprise, Quin, if anything, outdid him. I wouldn't have believed Quin could swear like that. I'm sure I couldn't myself. The chap just looked at him, and tried another oath or two doubtfully. And Quin said:

"Go on if you like, I'm not nearly through yet. I can't be a blank, blank, blank bully, and I don't want to be - it's nothing to be proud of; but I'm as much of a man as you any day."

"The other chaps laughed then, and the brute slunk off to the other side of the room." "I asked Quin about it later, and he said: "Oh well, you've got to talk to them in their own language, or they don't listen. That's the best of not being a clergyman. Of course one couldn't very well curse and swear then. But it's the way to manage them. That chap will come to heel in an evening or two, and be reasonably quiet."

"You hit the right note straight off, Hal. Quin was awfully pleased. Talk to them on their own level first, and presently you'll be getting them struggling up to yours almost without knowing it. He's frightfully keen for you to go again."

"I'm going every Wednesday," she said, "and other times as well."

They parted at the door, and Hal went in alone.

The moment she stood in the sitting-room she knew that something had happened. Dudley was sitting in his big chair by the fire, holding neither book nor paper, gazing silently at the flames.

At the table she stood still.

"What's the matter, Dudley?... What has happened?"

There were a few moments' silence, then, scarcely looking round, he replied:

"She's gone. Run away with another man."

"Gone!..." she echoed. "Gone... with another man! ... Do you mean Doris?"

"Yes. She was married at a Reigstry Office this morning. A messenger boy took the letter up this evening, after they had left for the Continent."

Hal sat down. It was so violently sudden she felt stunned. After a moment Dudley got up and moved aimlessly about the room.

"It's no use attempting to say anything, Hal. There's nothing to say. Of course I know you're sorry, and all that, but I'd rather you didn't say it. You never liked the engagement, and you never liked Doris. Probably you were justified, but it doesn't make it any easier for me now."

"Who has she gone with?"

"I believe he's a South African millionaire."

"Ah! - "

"You had heard of him?..." sharply.

"Only last week, from the tenant opposite. She did not know I was your sister, and said something about Doris having two young men, and one of them was a South African millionaire."

He made no comment, but continued his aimless walk.

"What about Ethel and Basil?" she could not help asking.

"They are terribly upset. As soon as I had been shown the letter I went out to make inquiries. Ethel could not rest for fear everything was not square. She wanted to go off after her at once. But it's all correct. I saw the Registrar. They were properly married, and they left for Dover at eleven, bound for Paris."

"What in the world will become of Basil?"

He winced visibly. Doris's flagrant selfishness to Basil hurt almost more than her faithlessness to himself.

"She stated in the letter that her husband was allowing her a thousand a year for herself, and she was prepared to pay a housekeeper to look after Basil and the flat."

"Little beast," Hal breathed under her breath. "What are they going to do?" she said aloud.

"The tenant opposite insists upon taking Doris's place. She was sitting with him when Ethel got home, and the letter arrived about the same time. Nothing else will satisfy her. She is going to be with him all day, and only teach in the evenings after Ethel has got back."

"How splendid of her!" involuntarily.

"She hardly seems the kind of person Basil would like, but he appeared quite pleased. It may have been a little quixotism. All he said was:

"What in the world should we have done without you, G; and there! only a few weeks ago you were wishing you had not been born."

"How like Basil. All gratitude and understanding as usual. But it must have hit him rather hard, Dudley. Is he all right?"

"I don't know." The gloom on Dudley's face deepened. "I thought he looked very ill, but I could not get Ethel to say much. She seemed rather to avoid me. I don't think she likes me."

Hal was conscious of a little inward smile of gladness. She had guessed Ethel's secret long enough ago, and she knew the power of uncertainty and a little thwarting. Dudley would naturally try to break down Ethel's dislike; and perhaps in doing so he would grow to know her better.

"I think I must try and get up to-morrow," was all she said. "Ethel is so reserved. She will get ill herself if she broods and frets on t he top of all her work and anxiety."

"Will you?" he asked, with some eagerness. "Basil loves to see you; and if he is really worse, I shall get Sir John Maitland to go up and see him again."

"Of course I'll go. We may be able to help them between us."

She was just going away upstairs to bed, when the forlorness of Dudley's attitude, and the thought of her own sore heart before Dick comforted her, made her lay down her hat again and cross the room to him.

"Dudley, don't forget you've got me still. I know I'm very trying sometimes, but I love you so much more than Doris ever could have."

She sat on the arm of his chair, and played with the lapel of his coat.

"Don't forget about me, Dudley. If you are just only miserable, I shall be miserable too."

He looked at her with a sudden greater depth of affection than she had ever seen.

"I don't forget, Hal. If it weren't for you, what in the world should I do now?... It's no use talking about it, is it? You will understand that; but thank God you're still here with me, and we can go on the same again."

She stooped and kissed him hurriedly, and then left the room, that he might not see the tears brimming over in her eyes.

The next morning she rang up Lorraine's flat, to know if she had come back yet. She was rather surprised when Jean her maid answered. It was not like Lorraine to go away without her maid.

"You don't know when to expect her?..." she repeated uncertainly.

"No; Miss Vivian said she might come any day, or she might stay over another Sunday. She has the motor with her."

"Is she far from a station?" Hal asked, contemplating the possibility of joining her on Saturday if she had not returned.

"About seven miles, I think. She went down in the car, and is coming back in it. I have had one letter, in which she says she is having lovely weather, and absolute rest, and feeling much better."

"That's good. Well, if she comes back suddenly will you ask her to 'phone me? I want to see her."

But neither the next day nor the one after was there any call, and in reply to a second query on Saturday, Jean said she had only received a wire that morning saying she was staying until Tuesday.

Hal was a little puzzled that she had not been invited down for the second week-end, but decided Lorraine must have meant to return and changed her mind at the last moment, leaving no time to get a message to her.

A later encounter with Dick, however, puzzled her more than ever.

"Old Alymer is taking quite a long holiday," he said. "We were expecting him on Tuesday or Wednesday, but he never turned up. He was at the Temple on Thursday, but went away again in the evening."

"I hope Lorraine isn't ill?" she said anxiously; "but of course if she is, she would have sent for Jean."

"Is he away with Miss Vivian?" Dick asked in some surprise.

"Yes; I made him go," loyally. "He had scruples, but really they seemed too silly, and Lorraine looked so ill, and he always has the knack of cheering her up and doing her good."

Dick looked at her doubtfully.

"I hope you were wise," he said; "but they are rather fascinating people, you know."

"Oh, nonsense! Lorraine is quite eleven years older than Alymer, and she only likes to look at him."

Dick had it in his mind to suggest there had been a far greater disparity between her and Sir Edwin, but he only said:

"Well, he is good to look at, isn't he?... and such a dear old chap. Nothing seems to spoil him. And of course Miss Vivian has done an awful lot for him. If she wanted him to go, he could hardly refuse."

"That's just what I said," with a little note of triumph. "And Jean told me Lorraine had said in a letter she was having absolute rest, and feeling much better."

Yet, when Hal was alone she wondered a little again why Lorraine, after inviting her for the first Sunday, had said nothing about the second. It was quite unusual for her not to go for a week-end when Lorraine was at the sea.

She felt suddenly that they wanted to be alone, yet persuaded herself it was only because Lorraine had been so tired.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Hal's uneasiness concerning Lorraine and Alymer Hermon was swallowed up almost immediately on Lorraine's return, by a sudden alarming change in Basil Hayward. The first time she went to Holloway after Doris's elopement, she saw the decided symptoms of change, and her report to Dudley caused the latter once more, on his own responsibility, to request Sir John Maitland to pay a visit to the little flat.

Sir John's report was the reverse of reassuring, and they all felt the end was at hand. Dudley went to Holloway nearly every evening, and sometimes stayed until the middle of the night, to sit up with the sick man.

Hal went from the office in the afternoons, two or three days each week. When she was there the tenant from Flat G went home to snatch a short rest, in case a bad night lay ahead.

Ethel went quietly on her way, looking as if already a sorrow had wrapped her round before which human aid and human sympathy were powerless.

She went to the office as usual, and did her usual work, in nervous dread from hour to hour lest a telephone call should summon her in haste. She scarcely spoke to any one but Hal; and not very much to her; but it was evident in a thousand little ways that she liked to have her near.

With Dudley a new sort of coldness seemed to have sprung up. He was self-conscious ill at ease with her now; anxious to show his sympathy, yet made awkward by his self-sown notion that he was antagonistic to her. Ethel did not notice it very much. All her thoughts were with Basil.

Hal saw it and was troubled. She was afraid the slight misunderstanding might grow into a barrier that it would be extremely difficult to break down later on. However, she could only watch anxiously at present, and try in small ways to smooth out the growing difficulty.

Basil himself was the most consistently cheerful of all. He believed that he was near the end of his long martyrdom, and that in another sphere he would be given back his health and strength.

He had seemed very worried at first about Doris and Dudley, but gradually he became philosophical over it, and hoped the future would bring united happiness to Dudley and Ethel. He consigned her to Dudley's care and Hal's.

To Dudley he merely said:

"I know you'll always be a good friend to chum. I'm thankful she will at least have you."

Dudley did not say much in reply, but he looked sufficiently unhappy, and withal so glad of the service, that it spoke volumes.

To Hal he said:

"Chum is very fond of you, Hal. You'll keep an eye on her, won't you? Perhaps there is no one else but you who can."

Quick tears shone in Hal's eyes.

"Of course I will... two eyes.. I don't know that I shall let her out of my sight at all."

Other evening, because Dudley was so often at Holloway, Hal went to dinner with the Three Graces. Dick often fetched her from the office, and they went back together. Now that she had become interested in the East End, they had schemes to talk over, and she and Quin were never weary of discussing odd characters there, and odd histories, and plans for different amusements.

Dick joined in a times, but was very busy with his new book.

Alymer Hermon had grown strangely quiet. At intervals, for the sake of old times, he and Hal sparring matches, but if, as wat not very usual, he happened to be at home, he was inclined to do little else but lounge and smoke, and watch her while presumably reading a paper.

Hal did not notice it particularly. She had many other things on her mind just then, and Alymer only filled a very small corner. She was glad he was progressing so satisfactorily. He was well started up the ladder now, and though he had had no single big chance to distinguish himself once for all, it was generally regarded as merely a matter of time. She fancied she did not meet him so much at Lorraine's, but as she did not go nearly so often herself, on account of the Holloway visits, she could not really know.

But she noticed that Lorraine also was a little different - a little more reserved and likewise quieter. She seemed still to be ailing a good deal, and to have lost interest in her profession.

Yet she did not seem unhappy. On the contrary, Hal thought her happier than usual in an undemonstrative, dreamy sort of way. She was interested in the East End social evenings, and on one occasion went herself.

She was also interested in Basil Hayward, and motored up with lovely flowers for him; but she talked far less of the theatre, and seemed indisposed to consider a new part.

"I want a real long rest this summer," she had said, "free from rehearsals and everything."

In mid-June Sir Edwin was married, with a great deal of display, and much paragraphing of newspapers. The day before the wedding, Hal received a beautiful gold watch and chain from him.

"Do not be angry, and do not send it back," he wrote. "Keep it and wear it in memory of some one who was known to you only, and who has since died. To me, it is like honouring the memory of my best self if I can persuade you thus to perpetuate it. Good-bye, Little Girl; and God bless you."

Hal kept the watch and wore it, and the only one who demurred was Alymer Hermon. It was spoken of at the Cromwell Road flat one evening, when he was present but taking no part in the conversation. Dick admired it, and she told him it had been given to her recently.

Qin was not there, and a moment later Dick was called away to speak to some one at the telephone. Alymer looked up at Hal suddenly, with a very direct gaze.

"Lorraine told me Sir Edwin gave you the watch the other day. I don't know how you can keep it, much less wear it. You ought to throw it into the Thames."

Hal flushed up angrily.

"Of course I'm interested in your opinion on the matter," she said, "but I had not thought of asking for it."

Hermon flushed too, but he stood his ground.

"It would be the opinion of most men."

"Most men 'don't appeal to me in the least. I am quite satisfied with my own opinion in this matter."

"Still, I wish you wouldn't wear it," he urged, a little boyishly. "The man has shown himself a cad. He was in a tight corner, and he let a woman buy him out."

"And don't most men take help from a woman at some time or other?"

He winced, but answered sturdily:

"Not monetary help. Besides, he didn't worry much about getting you talked of, did he?"

Hal was just going to make a sarcastic retort, when Dick reappeared, and the matter was dropped.

But when she came to think of it afterwards, she could not but a little struck at Alymer's attitude, and wondered why he had taken so much interest in her action.

A few days later Basil Hayward died.

Hal was not there at the time, but Dudley had not come home at all the previous night, and she was afraid that his friend was worse. In the afternoon she had been detained at the office, and she hardly liked to go up to Holloway in the evening without knowing if she was wanted.

So she sat anxiously waiting for Dudley. When at last he arrived he looked haggard and worn and ill. Hal stood up when he came in, and waited for him to speak.

"It's all over," he said, and sank into his chair as if he were dead-beat.

Hal's hart ached with sympathy. She felt instinctively there was more here than grief for a friend whose death could only be regarded as a merciful release.

She was right. For the last three weeks Dudley and Ethel had been in almost daily contact beside the dying man's bed. Silently, devotedly they had served him together.

But while Ethel was occupied only with the sufferer, Dudley, in the long night-watches, had seen at last what manner of woman it was he had passed by for the pretty, shallow, selfish little sister.

Ever since the elopement, three months ago, he had been changing. It had been the bitter blow that had stabbed him awake. In some mysterious way new aspects, new ideas, new understanding, began to develop, where before had been chiefly a narrow outlook and rigid conformity.

It was though in the fulfilling of her work, Life had harrowed his soul with a bitter harrowing, that it might bring forth the better fruit in its season. The harrowing had seared and scarred, but aldready the new richness was showing, the new promise of a nobler future.

The All-wise Mother works very much in human life as she does in nature - topping off a hope here, and a hope there; ploughing, pruning, harrowing the soil and branches of the mind and spirit, that they may bring forth rich fruit in due season.

The life that she passes by unheeded, leaving it only to the sunshine and wind and rain, often grows little else but rank vegetation, and develops rust and mould - never the crops that are life-giving and life-sustaining to the world; never the great thoughts, great deeds, wide sympathies, that raise mankind to the skies.

But for Dudley the harrowing was not yet finished. Perhaps, indeed, no moment of all had been quite so bitter as the sense of his utter unworthiness and utter incapability to help Ethel in her hour of direst need.

The mere thought unnerved him for the little he might have done. He was so imbued with the idea of his helplessness, that he could only stammer a few broken sentences she seemed scarcely capable of hearing.

He had but one consolation. Towards the end, the sick man, suddenly opening his eyes, looked round for his sister, and seeing she was absent, had regarded Dudley with his whole face full of a question.

Dudley leant down to him.

"Yes, old chap," he asked tenderly. "What is it?"

"Ethel... chum... you will try and help her?"

Then Dudley, with his new understanding, had grasped all that the dying man hoped.

"I love her," he said very simply. "I have been a blind fool, but I am awake now. I shall give my life to trying to win her."

"Oh! thank God... thank God," Basil whispered. "It is certain to come right some day - don't lose heart. You have made me very happy."

He sank into stupor after that, and spoke no more, except for a whispered "Chum", just before he died.

Then it was that the full flood of Dudley's bitterness seemed to close in upon him, for his tortured mind translated Ethel's stunned grief into veiled antipathy to his presence; and when there was nothing left for him to see to, he went home for Hal.

In his chair, with his head bowed on his hands, Hal thought he had aged years in the last three months.

"What shall I do?" she asked. "Shall I go to Ethel?"

"Yes - will you? She doesn't want me. I feel as if she hated my being there now. But if you would go -?"

"It is your imagination, Dudley. Things have all got a little topsy-turvy since Doris went, but presently you will see you were mistaken. Don't lose heart too quickly."

But he refused to be comforted, and merely shook his head in silent desolation.

"You'll stay with her if she wants you?" he asked.

"Yes, I'll stay"; and she went away to get her hat.

As she mounted the stairs in Holloway, the door of Flat G opened as if some one within had been listening for her, and a stealthy head peeped out. Then a hand beckoned.

Hal crossed the landing and went inside the door. The poor music-teacher's face was swollen almost past recognition with crying.

""What am I to do?... what am I to do?" she moaned, rocking herself backwards and forwards. "There was only one thing in all the world that made my life worth living, and now it is gone."

She sobbed bitterly for a few minutes, softened by Hal's sympathetic presence, then she told her brokenly:

"They're all mourning. Every single soul in this dreary building. Considering he never left the flat, it's wonderful - wonderful; but he knew all the children, and they all knew him. And if you know the children you know the fathers and mothers.

"Little Splodgkins, as we always called him, has been sitting like a small stone effigy on the stairs outside his door. He has patrolled the whole staircase for days, keeping the other children quiet. I told Mr. Hayward, and he sent him a message. He said, 'Tell him to grow up a fine man, and fight for his country, and not to forget me before we meet again.' The little chap fought back his tears when I gave him the message, and he said: 'Tell him, I thaid dammit, tho I will.' But they're young, and they've got each other, most of the other folks here, and I've got nothing - nothing. Miss Pritchard, I can't go on again the same - I can't - I can't."

"You must help Miss Hayward, at any rate for a time," Hal told her; "if you didn't you would be failing him now; and even little Splodgkins doesn't mean to do that."

"No, of course you're right. I can light the fire for her in the afternoon and put the kettle on. It isn't much to be alive for, but he'd say it was worth while. He'd say, 'What would she do without a G in the alphabet?' wouldn't he? I must remember. And now you must go to her. It's worse for her than me, only that she's still got all her life before her, and she's very attractive, while I never seemed to please any one in my life but him."

"Yes; I must go now," Hal said; "but I'll come and see you again. Come down east with me next Wednesdayn evening, to a social evening in the slums, will you? They're so interesting. We'll have tea together first. I'll arrange to take you, and then you'll meet Dick."

"Good-bye for the present."

Then she crossed the landing, wondering with a sinking heart how she could ever hope to comfort Ethel.



CHAPTER XL

It was not until a spell of exhaustingly hot weather set in in early July that Hal saw a still more noticeable frailty in Lorraine.

She was quite unable to act, and spent a great deal of time on her sofa near the window, where she could just distinguish the river through the trees. It seemed to have a growing fascination for her.

"I've always thought," she told Hal one day, "how I'd like to go away from the fret and worry of London, smoothly down the river to a haven of sunshine and sea."

"Why don't you go, Lorry. Why not go at once, before you get any weaker?"

"I think I must. This sultry heat is too much for me, and I'm very tired of London and everything belonging to it. I should like to have gone to my old haven on the Italian Riviera, but it would be too hot."

"Why so far?"

Lorraine glanced at Hal with a strange expression in her eyes, as she said:

"It is a greater rest to get right away. I shall try some little place in Brittany. Switzerland is so overrun with tourists in the summer."

When she was alone, some of the quiet went out of Lorraine's face and a restless look of pain crept in. She shaded her eyes and gazed long at the river.

That old spirit of recklessness, which had caused her to hurl scorn and defiance at Mrs. Hermon's emissary, and afterwards allow Alymer to visit her at the little fishing-village, against his wiser judgment, had passed away now, and given place to one of poignant questioning - a spirit of questioning concerning that mad action of hers, and its results. She could not find it in her heart to regret it, not for one moment; but nevertheless her mind was sore troubled concerning the future for Alymer and herself.

And at the back of all the questioning there sounded ever an insistent call to renounce - something above and beyond all desire and all seeming, which told her she must not remain in his life, that, as far as she was concerned, he must be free for the great work of his future.

And yet how hard it was to go! Ever and anon her longing whispered, "Why seek a crisis yet? Why not go on the same a little longer?"

But since, before long, she would be compelled to go, and since the nausea of London was gaining upon her, she began to feel it would certainly be wiser to start at once, and find some homely, quiet spot where she could remain in privacy, with her identity unknown for some months.

And always that quiet voice in the background insisted that she must cut herself off from Alymer Hermon.

Soon after Hal had left her he came in, and, standing as usual upon the hearth, regarded her with grave eyes. He was nearly always grave now, as with some recollection that weighed heavily on his mind.

Lorraine tried to rally him, but without much success; and a pitiless thought that had sometimes assailed her of late - that he regretted their friendship and everything connected with it, struck icily on her heart.

He was too loyal to show it, and yet, that strong instinct of womanhood, which reads closed books as if they were spread open to the light, sounded its warning note. He would never blame her openly, but in his heart he was already beginning to find it a little difficult not to do so secretly.

"You can't go away alone, Lorry," he said unhappily, "and I can't possibly come with you."

"Of course you can't," cheerfully. "It isn't to be thought of for a moment. I don't know whether you can even come and see me. You certainly mustn't run any risks just now. Flip tells me Hall is interested, and you may get your big chance shortly through him."

"Still, I shall feel rather a beast."

"You mustn't do anything so silly."

She got up and came and stood near him, leaning her face against his arm.

"If you will write to me often, dearie, I shall be all right. If you worry I shall be miserable. Try to understand that you have done nothing to make me unhappy. A little while ago I had a dream of how I longed to go away with a little one of my own, to some quiet spot far removed from all I have ever known. If I am to realise my dream, how should I not be happy? It is what I asked life to give me."

But his eyes lost none of their gravity. It was evident, in the midst of his dawning success, some cloud had descended upon his horizon, and shrouded much of the sunlight.

Lorraine's sensitive temperament read it quickly, and she decided, for his sake, to hasten her departure. She thought her continued presence in London under the circumstances was a continual anxiety to him, and that he would only breathe freely when she was safe in Brittany.

She did not know - how should she - that after that week's madness on the southern coast there had come rather a terrible revelation to the man whom fortune seemed to be smothering with favours.

It had not come all at once. It had been there, or at any rate the gist of it, for some time. But when it was present in full force, it had the power to make all the adulation, triumph, and hopefulness of his career seem but a small thing and of little account, because of one great desire beyound his reach.

It came definitely into being during those many evenings Hal spent at the Cromwell Road flat, when Dudley was away in Holloway with his friend.

It reached a climax of realisation when she openly wore the watch and chain Sir Edwin had sent to her. The night he asked her not to wear it, and she tautingly refused, saw him, with all his success and favours, one of the most perplexed and unhappy men in London.

It was just the waywardness of the little god Love. The fair dbutantes with money and influence had left him untouched. No older woman but Lorraine had disturbed his peace, or appealed to his deepest affections.

It was left to Hal, the mocker, the outspoken, the impatient of giant inches and splendid head, to awaken his heart to all its richness of strong, enduring love.

And what did it mean to her?

The sunshine and the joy might go out of all he was winning and achieving, if it might not be won and achieved for her - but what did she care - what was she ever likely to care?

Had she not always dealt him laughter and careless scorn where other women bowed down? Had she not, over and over, weighed him in the balance, in that quiet, direct way of hers, and seen the weak strain that had always been there? First the lack of purpose, the idle indifference, which, in a different guise, had led up to a memory which now tortured his mind - the memory of a mad week; of love that was not love, because his whole soul was not given with it - nay, worse, was actually given in unconsciousness elsewhere. If she ever knew of that, what must her indignation and scorn be then?... Would it not indeed separate them for ever?

And even if it did, could it make hi unlove her?... Why should it, since he had waited no encoouragement before he gave her all? If he knew why he loved her, it might.

But he did not even know that. It was a thing outside questioning; something he seemed to have had no free will about. It was just there - a strong, undeniable fact.

Why reason? It did not need reasoning. He loved her. He would always love her - simply because she was Hal - and as Hal, to him, was the one woman who filled his heart.

No; Lorraine dit not know just what fire of repentance and self-condemnation and hopeless aching her recklessness had lit for him; but it was enough that his gravity grew and deepened, and she believed she could lighten it.

She made immediate plans; cancelled her present engagement at considerable monetary loss to herself, and almost before any of them realised it, had vanished to a little out-of-the-way spot in Brittany, alone with Jean.

Hal was quite unhappy that she could not go to her for her own summer holiday, but Dick Bruce's people were taking her to Norway with them, and she would not have a day to spare.

She made Alymer promise to run across and see how she was, if possible, and then departed without any suspicions or forebodings, with Dudley and Dick to join the rest of the party at Hull, whence they were to start for the Fiords.

When she returned early in September, Lorraine was still away, and her letters gave no hint of returning. Still a little anxious, she sought an interview with Alymer, asking him to meet her for tea the following day.

The instant they met, Hal saw the change in him, and exclaimed in surprise:

"Haven't you had a holiday? You don't look very grand."

Unable to meet her eyes, he turned away towards a small table.

"Oh yes, I've had a holiday. I've been in France studying the language. I can talk like a French froggy now."

"Then of course, you saw Lorraine?"

"Yes."

"I wanted to see you about Lorry," with direct, straight gaze.

He steadied his features with an effort.

"I guessed so."

"Well, what is the matter with her?"

"Nothing very much. She got thoroughly low I think, and is not pulling up very quickly."

"I don't understand it," with puzzled, doubtful eyes. "Lorry is not like that. She is quite strong really. She has only once before gone under like this, and then it was a mental strain. I wonder if it is anything the same again? Did you see much of her?"

"I saw her four or five times."

"And she didn't tell you anything?"

"Anything about what?"

"Well - about her husband, for instance. He isn't worrying her again, is he?"

"She did not speak of him at all."

"Then what is it?... I wish she had not gone so far away. I wish I could get to her. Did she say when she might be coming back?"

"Not at present. She likes being there. She does not want to come back."

"That's what I can't understand. Something odd seems to have changed her. Have you thought so."

"I don't think it odd in Lorraine to fancy a long spell of country life. She was always loved the country."

"Not alone," with decision, "except for a good reason. I feel there is a reason now, and I do not know it."

Suddenly she gave him another direct look.

"You are changed too. You are years older. Is it your advancing success, or what? ... I don't say it isn't becoming," with a dash of her old banter - "but it seems sudden."

He raised his eyes slowly and looked into her face with an expression that in some way hurt her. It was the look of a devoted dog, craving forgiveness.

She pushed her cup away impatiently, half laughing and half serious.

"Don't look at me like that, Baby," striving blindly to rally him - "you make me feel as if I had smacked you."

He laughed to reassure her, and changed the subject to Norway, trying to keep her mind from further questioning concerning himself and Lorraine.

After tea she left him to go down to Shoreditch with Dick, first meeting him and the forlorn "G" at the Cheshire Cheese for their usual high tea.

It had become quite an institution now that "G" should join them, and, as Hal had predicted, she and Dick were firm friends. It was the brightest spot of the music-teacher's life since Basil Hayward died, and neither of them would have disappointed her for the world if they could help it.

To-night Quin was there also, so Hal was able to get a few words privately with Dick.

"What in the world is the matter with Alymer?" she asked. "I had tea with him this afternoon. He seems awfully down on his luck."

"I don't know what it is," Dick answered. "He is certainly not very gay - yet that last case he won before the Law Courts closed should have put him in fine feather for the whole vacation. Did you ask him if anything was wrong?"

"Yes; but he would only prevaricate. He has been in France, you know, studying the language, and he saw Lorraine, but he says very little about her. I wish I had time to go over and see her. Why, in the name of goodness, is she not acting this winter?"

But Dick could not help her to any solution, and an accumulation of work kept her too busy to brood on the puzzle.

It was at the end of October the shock came.

Hal reached home before Dudley that evening, and found a foreign letter awaiting her, written in an unfamiliar handwriting, and bearing the post mark of the little village where Lorraine so obstinately remained. With an instant sense of apprehension, she tore open the envelope, and read its contents with incredulity, amazement, and anxiety struggling together in her face.

Then she sat down in the nearest chair with a gasp, and stared blankly at the window, as if she could not grasp the import of the bewildering news.

The letter was from Jean, partly in French, and partly in English. It informed Hal, in somewhat ambiguous phrases, that La Chre Madame was very ill, and daily growing weaker, and she, Jean, was very worried and unhappy about her. She thought if mademoiselle could possibly get away, she should come at once. It then went on to make a statement which took Hal's breath away.

"L'enfant!... l'enfant!..." she repeated in a gasping sort of undertone, and stared with bewildered eyes at the window.

What could have happened?... What dit it all mean?

Then with a rush all the full significance seemed to come to her. Lorraine, ill and alone in that little far-away village, and this incomprehensible thing coming upon her; no one but a paid, though devoted maid to take care of her; no friend to help er in the inevitable hours of dread, and perhaps painful memories and apprehensions.

All her quick, warm-hearted sympathy welled up and filled her soul. Of course she must go at once, to-night if possible, or early to-morrow.

Yet as she struggled to collect her thoughts and form plans, she was conscious of a dumb, nervous cry: "What will Dudley say?... What in the world will Dudley say?"



CHAPTER XLI

He came in while she was still trying to compose herself for the struggle she anticipated; and because she had not yet made any headway, he saw at once that something alarming had happened.

He glanced at the envelope lying on the table, then at the open letter in her hand, and then at her face.

"What is the matter?... Have you had bad news?"

For one dreadful moment, observing the foreign stamp, he thought something might have happened to Ethel, who was taking her month's holiday on the Continent. When Hal looked blankly into his face, as if quite unable to tell him, he added hurriedly:

"Is your letter about Ethel? ... Is she Ill?"

"No, it is not Ethel," Hal answered, noticing, in spite of her distress, his unconcealed anxiety. "Some one is ill, but it is not Ethel."

"Is it Lorraine?"

He spoke with quiet, kindly concern now, being reassured concerning the swift dread that had sized him.

"Yes," Hal said nervously. "She is very ill. Dudley, I must go to her at once."

She got up as if she could not bear the strain seated, and moved away to the window.

"It's all rather terrible," speaking hurriedly; "but don't... don't... be upset about it. I can't bear it. I must go, whatever you say, and I want you to help me."

"What is the matter?" He came close to her and tried to see her face. "What has happened, Hal?"

"Lorry is in trouble." She was half crying now; "I have had a letter from Jean. She has told me something I did not know. I did not even suspect it. But I must go. You will surley see that I must go, Dudley."

"Tell me what it is," he said, in a voice so kind, she turned and looked into his face, almost in surprise. He met her eyes, and, reading all the distress there, he added:

"Don't be afraid, Hal. I know I was an awful prig a little while ago, but... but... it's not the same since Doris jilted me, and since Basil died. I see many things differently now. Tell me Lorraine's trouble."

"She is so ill, because if she lives until next December she will have a little one. Oh, do you understand, Dudley? She is there all alone, because she made a mess of her life and is obliged to hide. I must go to her. You will help me, won't you?"

She glanced at him doubtfully, and then a swift relief seemed to fill her face.

"Yes, certainly you must go,' he said gravely; "if Jean says she is ill now, I think you should go at once, and see for yourself just how things are."

"Oh, how good of you. I was afraid you would be angry and object."

He smiled a little sadly.

"I've enough money in hand for your ticket. You can catch the early boat train, and I'll send some more by to-morrow's post. Had you better see Mr. Elliott about being absent from the office for a day or two, or shall I see him in the morning?"

"He won't mind. I've got everything straight since I came back, and Miss White will do my work for a day or two. If you would see him in the morning, and just tell him Miss Vivian is very ill and I was sent for. He knows what friends we are, and would understand."

"Very well. Now you must have some dinner, and get to bed, for you will have a long, anxious day to-morrow."

In a sudden rush of feeling, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

"I'm so grateful," she said, in a quivering voice. "I can't tell you. It has all come upon me as a shock. I had not the faintest suspicion."

It was not natural to him to be demonstrative, and he only turned away with a slight embarrassment, saying:

"I'm sure you hadn't. But I feel I can trust you now, Hal, to be discreet as well as quixotic. Your mission, if one can call it such, will need both."

Then he sought to distract her mind for the present, and while they dined he talked of many things to interest her.

"Do you know that Alymer Hermon has just got the chance of his life?" he told her, before they rose. "I head to-day he is to appear with Hall in this big libel case. Sir James Jameson told me at the Club. He said Hall had taken a great fancy to him, and if he does really well over this case he's going to take him up. He is very fortunate. Not one man in a thousand would get such a chance at his age. I hope he will do well; I like him; and if he isn't a success over this he may never get such an opportunity again."

"When does the case come on?"

"Almost at once, I think, but it probably will not last more than two or three days."

When Hal said good-night to him, she remarked shyly:

"I heard from Ethel last night. She loves the Austrian Tyrol. She said she hoped you were better for your trip to Norway."

His forehead contracted a little, and he did not look up from the book he had just opened.

"Is she better herself? Is she any happier?"

Hal looked thoughtfully into the fire.

"I think she is very lonely. I don't think she will be much happier until... until... there is some one to take Basil's place."

"No one can do that." He spoke a little shortly. "Basil was a hero. I do not know how she is ever to love a lesser man."

"If she loved a man, she would easily see heroic qualities in him. She could not love a man who was without them; but that does not mean he need actually be a hero by any means."

She longed to say more, but was diffident of doing greater harm than good. At last she ventured:

"I have sometimes thought she has a warm corner in her heart for you, Dudley."

"For me! ... " He gave a low, harsh laugh for very misery. "No; she despises me. She has done for some time. I'm sorry. I'd change it if I could, but it's too late now."

Hal moved towards the door.

"It is rather a slur on Ethel to suggest that she could possibly despise Basil's best friend. Don't let an idea like that take root, Dudley. 'Lookers on see most of the game," you know, and what I have seen has suggested quite differently. Good-night."

"Good-night. Try to sleep. I'll take you to Charing Cross myself."

The next morning Hal started off alone, to find her way to Lorraine's hiding-place, and give her what comfort of friendship she could.

And all the time she asked herself with harried thoughts, "Who has brought this trouble into Lorraine's life?"

And at the back of her mind was the dread premonition "Was it indeed Alymer Hermon?"



CHAPTER XLII

When Hal first saw her old friend she was almost too shocked for words at the swift change in her. Lorraine tried hard to smile cheerfully, but she could not hide any longer from herself how seriously ill she had grown, and she felt it useless to try and hide it from Hal.

Jean had not told her of the letter, and she knew nothing of Hal's coming until she was actually in the house. When she saw her, she could have cried for gladness.

"How good of you, Hal... how good of you!" she breathed, and Hal, on her knees by the couch, in an unsteady voice replied:

"Oh, why didn't you send for me sooner? Why didn't you let me come here instead of going to Norway?"

An hour later she went out to the little post office, and wired to London to know if she might remain away for a week.

It was evident Lorraine was very ill indeed and needing the utmost care.

During the day she seemed to grow steadily worse, and she could not bear Hal out of her sight.

"I don't know whether you are shocked or not," she said to her once, "but if everything goed all right I shall not regret what I have done for one moment. I wanted something more real for the rest of my life than I have had in its beginning." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted his child to live for."

With a caressing hand on the sick woman's, Hal asked in a low voice:

"Why isn't he here taking care of you now? Where is you child's father?"

A swift surprise passed through Lorraine's eyes, as if it had not occured to her Hal would not know the truth. Then she said, very softly, "Alymer."

"Ah!"

The exclamation seemed wrung from Hal unconsciously, and after it her lips grew strangely rigid.

"Hal," Lorraine said weakly, "I've loved Alymer almost ever since I first saw him. I swore I would not harm his career, and I have not. I will not in future. But the child is his, and I thank God for it. I do not believe an illegitimate child with a devoted mother is any worse off than the legitimate child with a selfish, unloving one. That there is love enough matters the most. What can any child have better than a life's devotion?"

Later on she said:

"This is his great week, Hal. In his last letter he tells me his big chance has come at last through Sir Philip Hall. We always hoped it would. It is the big libel case, and if Sir Philip chooses he can let him take a very prominent part. He will, I am sure of it. He is very interested in him, and he has given him this chance on purpose. Flip thinks it will lead to a great deal; and of course if so it is splendid for him."

Hal said very little. She was overcome at the revelation Lorraine had made, and seemed quite unable to grasp it.

Meanwhile she waited fearfully for the crisis the doctor had told her was impending. She was expecting him to call again, and was relieved when at last he arrived bringing a pleasant-faced French nurse with him.

She relinquished her post then, and waited for him anxiously downstairs. When he came he told her he must have another opinion at once, and Hal knew that something serious was wrong, and that he feared the worst.

The next morning, when she saw Lorraine again, she understood that they had saved her life, but probably only for a few days at the most.

Lorraine was almost too weak to speak, but she looked into Hal's eyes, and in her own there was a dumb imploring. Hal leant down and murmured:

"What is it, Lorry?... Do you want Alymer?"

"Yes," was the faint whisper. "I feel it is the end. I want so much to see him once more."

"I will go to London myself, and fetch him," Hal said, and a look of rest crept into the dying woman's eyes.

So it happened that the day before the great libel case Hal stood in Hermon's chambers, and delivered her message.

It was a tense moment - a moment of warring instincts, warring inclinations, conflicting fates. It was surely the very irony of ironies, that within sight of his goal, with all this woman had manoeuvred to give him almost in his hands, she should be the one to step suddenly between him and the realisation of everything his life had striven for.

To fail Sir Philip Hall at the eleventh hour, under such circumstance, could only mean an irreparable disaster. He would lose, as far as his profession was concerned, in every single way. It would strike a blow at his progress, from which it might never wholly recover.

No wonder, confronted with the sudden demand life had flung at him, he stood stock still, with rigid face, almost overcome by the swift sword-thrust of fate, and made no reply.

Since Hal told him, in a few, rather abrupt words, her story, he had scarcely looked at her. When she first entered his room so unexpectedly, his eyes had searched her face as if he would read instantly what she had come for?... what she had learnt?... Before hers, his gaze fell.

"I have come from Lorraine," she said, and he understood that she knew all.

A dull red crept over his face and neck, and then died away, leaving him of an ashy paleness. He was standing by his desk, and he reached out one hand and rested it on some books, gripping the backs of them with a grip that made his knuckles stand out like white knots. He did not ask Hal to sit down. Commonplace amenities died in the stress of the moment.

She stood in the middle of the room, very straight and very still. In a close-fitting travelling-dress she looked unusually slim, almost boyish, and something about her attitude rather suggested a youthful knight, sword in hand, come with vengeance to the Transgressor. Yet, even in his shame and stunned perplexity, Hermon lost no shred of dignity.

He towered above her, with bend head, rigid, white face, grave, downcast eyes, and in spite of every reproach her attitude seemed to hurl at him, het yet wore the look of nobility that was his birtright.

"When do you think I should go?" he asked at last, with difficulty.

"We ought to cross to-night."

"To-night! - I - I - have a very important case to-morrow. It will not last long. It matters a great deal."

"I know," was the short, uncompromising answer.

He looked up with a swift glance of inquiry. Then he said quietly:

"Do you know that it may wreck my future to leave London to-night?"

"Yes," said Hal. "I know."

"And after all Lorraine did not help me to this hour of success, am I to throw away my chance?"

"Lorraine is dying. Her dying wish is to see you once more. Is it necessary to discuss anything else?"

Again there was silence between them - silence so intense, so poignant, it was like a live thing present in the room. Through the double windows came a far-off, muffled sound of the traffic in the Strand, but it seemed to have nothing whatever to do with the life of that quiet room. It dit not disturb the silence, in which one could almost hear pulse-beats. It belonged to another world.

Once Alymer raised his head and looked hard into her face. In his eyes there was an expression of utter hopelessness. She had not spoken any word of reproach or scorn, yet everything about her as she stood there erect and passionless, and without one grain of sympathy for his struggle, told him that, just as far as her natural broadness allowed her to condemn any one, she condemned him.

For a moment a sort of savage recklessness seized him. He felt suddenly he was stranded high-and-dry on a barren rock, with nothing at all any more in his world but his profession. He had lost all hope of ever winning Hal, which seemed to be all hope of anything worth having. Nothing remained but the hollow interest of a great name, and the lust of power. He had it in his mind for those brief, passionate moments, because he had lost all else, to insist upon taking his chance.

Even one day's grace might save him. The trial would perhaps last not more than two, but in any case, a wire reaching him in the middle, which he could show to Sir Philip, might mean all the difference between success and failure. The wire could be worded to hide what was truly involved, and the plea of a life-and-death urgency would set him free without any awkward questioning.

He glanced up to speak, and once again Hal's attitude arrested him. She looked so young, so fresh, so true, so vaguely splendid, in spite of the rigid lips that seemed to have closed down tightly upon all she must have suffered in the last fort-eight hours.

She was not looking at him now, but, with her head thrown back a little, she gazed silently and fatefully at the clock on his mantelpiece.

And something about her called to him, with the calling of the great, mysterious things, a calling that shamed and scorned that spirit of savage recklessness; that swift, relentless lust of power.

"What is anything in the world,' it seemed to cry, "compared to being true to one's friend; true to one's word; true to one's love?"

He saw suddenly that in any case success and triumph would bring him little enough to gladden his heart; that whichever way he turned was gloom and darkness; that in that gloom a possible ray of light still linger, if he could keep always the consciousness that, at the most critical hour of his life, he had rung true.

He raised his eyes suddenly, and straightened himself.

"What time does the next train leave?" he said. "I am coming."



CHAPTER XLIII

After Hal had left, Lorraine sank into a stupor from weakness, and remained thus until towards evening. Then she revived, and seemed to comprehend better all that had happened; all that was happening still.

She knew that the child she had dreamed of would never lie in her amrs and look up at her with Alymer's eyes. She knew that in the first awful moments of realisation, and deathly weakness, her whole soul had so craved to see Alymer again that she had asked for him.

A few moments later the stupor had come down upon her exhausted senses, and without any further word or thought from her, Hal had gone on her errand.

At first, in the darkened room where she had suffered so much, she remembered only that very soon Alymer might be with her. And the thought, while it quickened her pulses, yet made her feel almost faint with the longing for him to come quickly. What if they were delayed, and this terrible weakness took her away from him without a last meeting.

The thought that death was approaching did not frighten her. She rather welcomed it. When she left London in the summer, she had felt that she could never go back. She had already fixed in her mind the picture of the quiet haven, where she would live restfully with Alymer's child - far away from the turmoil that had marked her life almost from its earliest beginning, and safe from slander.

She dit not mind for herself. The things that most women valued, no longer held much meaning for her. She had experienced more than most; learned more than most how empty success and triumph may become; sounded for herself the shallowness of many things that society regards as prizes.

She had been tired for a long time. Now the tiredness had reached a climax. If the quiet haven might not bless her life, it was, on the whole, better that she should die.

This quiet fatalism only increased her longing to see Alymer once more. It was the one thing in all existence left to long for. It merged every remaining faculty into one desire. And Hal would bring him. Hal never failed any one.

Then came the night, and instead of a quiet sleep, restlessness seized her. The recollection of the lawsuit which was to make Alymer's name once for all, came back again and again with merciless insistence, fighting like some desperate thing that last, one, great desire. Try as she would to smother it, after a little period of rest it came back stronger than ever.

In vain she told herself that when he knew she was dying he would have no wish but to hasten to her. In vain, she said also, that success would no longer mean all it had done; that with love crying to him from a death-bed, he would understand its emptiness and scorn it.

Another voice, the voice of her truest self, answered: "Ah! but he is young. Remember he is young - young - young - and you, when you were his age, cared terribly to succeed. You say now that success is empty, but at least you had the satisfaction of learning the fact for yourself. You did not have to take another's word for it, and let your chance pass you by, just at the moment of grasping it. If he is to be left without you, what will he have then to make up for the great moment lost?

"Nay, worse - what will he have left to spur him to try and regain his proud position, and go on up the heights of fame? And for you, of all people, to deal this blow to his future - the ambitious future which you yourself have fostered and nourished with such care."

The hours wore on, and still, in spite of the awful physical exhaustion, the mental battle raged, draining away strength that should have been carefully nursed for each bad hour of many days ahead. The nurse watched beside her with growing alarm, seeing the feverishness and restlessness, where absolute quiet was imperative.

At last she went to her softly, and said, in a sweet, low voice:

"Madame is in trouble. Madame is fretting. It is not good. Madame must try to rest."

Lorraine turned her feverish, pain-driven eyes to the kindly face, with a lookf of beseeching, but she made no reply.

The nurse laid her cool hand on the burning forehead.

"Madame is not a Catholic, but the priest brings healing to all. Shall I ask him to come and pray, that peace may be given to the sick mind?"

"I cannot confess," Lorraine breathed a little gaspingly. "I could not bring myself to it."

"It is not necessary. The priest will come to pray if madame wishes."

"Yes," was the low response; "please ask him."

The little old man who took care of the souls of the little old-world village, and had done for three parts of a century, came to her at once, with a womanly tenderness in his face. In a low voice he blessed her, and then knelt down and prayed quietly.

After a time, som of the anguish died out of Lorraine's eyes. She turned to him weakly and said:

"I am not a Catholic. I do not know if I am anything, but I want to ask you something. If one has sinned, and led another astray, might an act of renunciation perhaps save that other from the consequences of the sin that was not his?"

"Self-sacrifice and renunciation are ever pleasing to God," he told her simply. "He knows that whatever else there is in a heart, with self-sacrifice there is also purity and nobility."

"If I thought I alone need bear the consequences, I think I could do anything," she whispered - "bear anything, renounce anything."

Again the quiet soothing of a prayer fell on her ears. She listened, and heard the old priest praying God an the Holy Virgin to help her to find the courage for the sacrifice her heart called for, that if she were about to enter the presence of the Most High, she might take with her the cleansing of repentance and a self-sacrificing spirit.

She lay still for some little time listening to the soft cadence of his voice, and then she opened her eyes and looked at him with a full, sweet look.

"I will do it, Father," she said to him. "Perhaps, if God understands everything, He will let my anguish of renunciation absolve that other from all sin. It is the most I have to ask of all the powers in heaven and earth."

"The Holy Mother comfort you, my child," he said; and with an earnest benediction left her.

Then Lorraine motioned to the French nurse that she wanted her, and gathering all her remaining strength asked for a telegraph form and pencil. The nurse supported her in her arms, while with a trembling hand she traced faintly the words of her message. It ran:

"Marked change for the better. No need for haste. Come in a few days. - Lorraine."

It was addressed to Alymer Hermon, at The Middle Temple.

"Please take it now at once," she said. She knew that the Frenchwoman could not read English, and that Jean was not yet awake.



CHAPTER XLIV

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 wat 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 to-morrow 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 an great a friend as Lord Denton."

"Of course she would," he said decidedly - and to Hal:

"What time do we leave Charing Cross?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .