When Hal went to tel Lorraine of her adventure she found her a victim of the prevailing malady, kept indoors two days with influenza. She was not in bed, but lying on a sofa, by a small fire, looking very frail and il . Hal did not say much, as Lorraine disliked fussing, but her heart smote her to think she had been absent two days while her friend was a prisoner.
"Why didn't you tel Jean to 'phone me?" she asked. "I would have got here somehow."
Instead of answering, Lorraine nestled down into her cushions, and said:
"It's dreadful nice to see you, chummy."
Hal drew up a footstool, and sat down with her head against the sofa.
"What does the court physician say, Lorry? Of course he is general y fathering and brothering and mothering you as well as doctoring?"
"Yes; he is taking care of me in a sort of al -round, comprehensive fashion. I don't know what I should do without him."
"Do! ... "with a little laugh. "Why, just have another court physician instead." Hal's eyes strayed round the room. "What loverly flowers, Lorraine! Don't they almost make you feel a corpse?"
"They would if they were white, I dare say."
On a little table by the sofa was a bowl of violets, looking very sweet and homely amoung the beautiful exotics fil ing al the other vases.
Hal buried her nose in them.
"How delicious! Who ventured to send you royal highness anything so homely as violets?"
Lorraine's eyes rested on them with a look of tenderness. "Some one not very wel off," she said, "who had the perspicacity to know I should value them from him more than the choicest blooms."
"It sounds as if it might have been Dick. Was it?"
"No."
Lorraine replied in a careless tone, suggesting there was no special interest attached to the giver, but, for some unknown reason, Hal chose to be inquisitive.
"The Three Graces are your only 'hard-up' friends, and Quin is down east, so he would not know you were il . Surely Baby didn't think it at al out by himself, and actually go into a shop and buy them?"
"You shouldn't call Mr. Hermon Baby, Hal; it isn't quite fair."
"Oh, yes it is, as long as he is so objectless and purposeless.
Besides, his face is to cherubic I can't help it."
"I cal his face very manly."
"Well, so it is - in a way: but it's cherubic also; and then he's so dreadfully placid. If he'd only wake up, and boil over about something."
She was silent a few moments, and then said suddenly;
"Do you know Sir Edwin Crathie, Lorraine?"
"No; why? I now of him."
"What do you know of him?"
"Oh, nothing much. I believe he is a great lady's man."
"I've met him," said Hal; and she proceeded to tell of the motor mishap and subsequent meeting.
Lorraine was interested and amused, but for some strange reason Hal did not tel the tale with her usual gusto, and nothing in her voice or manner suggested it was more than the most casual of meetings.
Lorraine, a little preoccupied with her own feelings, for a wonder did not discern that Hal treated the incident with a lightness not quite natural, considering how exceedingly unlooked-for it was, and before the recital was quite finished Jean looked in to inquire if Lorraine would see Mr. Hermon. Lorraine replied in the affirmative, and a moment later Alymer Hermon entered the room.
"I'm so sorry you are not wel ," he said, in his frank, pleasant way.
"I only heard of it last night."
"And then you sent me violets. It was nice of you. I appreciate them so much."
"I guessed Dick," put in Hal, who had not risen from her stool. "I did not think you would have the energy to think of them."
"I have been feeling rather exhausted since," he told her lightly.
"Take the arm chair," said Lorraine smilingly, "and have a good rest."
"Do," echoed Hal. "I'm sure you are tired out with your day's work."
"Don't be so superior," he retorted. "Just because you can type a certain number of words per minute, you give yourself such airs."
"Well, that's a better reason than the fact of being a few inches longer than most people."
"Now you two," put in Lorraine, "don't start quarrel ing in such a hurry. Try and be nice and polite to each other for a few minutes."
"Baby doesn't like me when I'm polite," said Hal.
"I've never had a chance to judge."
"Liar. What about the first time we met?"
"I thought you were rather nice in those days. Your offensive attitude is only of comparatively recent date."
"Oh, don't sit there like a stodgy old book-worm, reeling off nicely rounded sentences."
"I hope it might impress you with the incongruity of addressing me as an infant."
Hal looked up from her lowly seat with a mischievous, engaging expression.
"You know you real y are rather clever in a useless sort of fashion,"
she informed him.
"Thank you," making a bow.
"Can't you tel him how to be clever in a useful sort of fashion, with all your practical experience?" suggested Lorraine.
"Oh, I _could_; but what's the use? he doesn't want to know. It would mean hard work."
"Give him the benefit of a suggestion, anyhow."
"Well, other briefless barristers peg away at journalism, and political agency work, and coaching, and studying. Baby just sits down and looks nice, as if he thought the briefs would come fluttering round him like all the sil y, pink-cheeked, wide-eyed girls. You ought to have seen our little maid the night he dined with us. When she first saw him she seemed to mutter 'O my' in a breathless fashion, and when she handed him his plate, she spilt all the gravy on to his knee, gazing into his face."
Hermon looked a little annoyed. "Very few people can talk absolute rot in a clever way," he aimed at her.
Hal laughed.
"Why, that drew you, Baby! You look quite ruffled. I was only pulling your leg: the pink-cheeked girls don't real y flutter round, they run away in terror at your scowl. You know he can scowl, Lorraine. At least it isn't exactly a scowl; it'smore a cast-iron solemnity of such degree that it has a Medusa-like effect and freezes the poor little peach-blossom girls into putty images."
"I'm sure Mr. Hermon never gives his personal appearance a thought,"
Lorraine replied, "except when you insist upon harping on it."
"I can't help it. I feel he's hemmed in with such a sticky, treacly, simpering amount of youthful adoration generally, that I simply have to rag him for his good!"
"It's very kind of you to be so interested in my welfare" - a twinkle gleamed suddenly in his blue eyes - "I certainly like your way of adoring the best."
"Ah" - with an answering twinkle - "I didn't think you had guessed my secret. How embarrassing of you! You have positively driven me away."
She rose to her feet. "I must go, Lorry. I can't sit out any more.
He has discovered that I adore him."
"You both seem rather imbecile to-night," Lorraine commented; "but surely it needn't drive you away, Hal."
"I must go al the same. We have visitors coming. I shal run in again to-morrow. Be sure and 'phone me if there is anything I can do for you." She kissed Lorraine, and turned to Hermon. "Good-bye.
Don't display all your best al urements to Lorraine this evening, because she isn't strong enough for it. Remember my unhappy plight, and let one victim satisfy you for the present."
"What about your victims?" he asked. "Dick is kicking the toes of his boots thin because he saw you yesterday with Sir Edwin Crathie."
Hal coloured up, much to her own disgust, and greatly to Hermon's enjoyment, who immediately fol owed up his advantage with:
"I suppose we shall al have to cry smal now, because of the right honourable gentleman."
"It wil be a puzzler for you to cry smal ," was her rather feeble retort, as she passed out.
Hermon came back and reseated himself in the big arm chair.
"May I stay?" he asked, and Lorraine answered:
"Yes, do," in the frank spirit she had told herself must be her attitude towards him.
So he sat on with an air of content, seeming to fil some place in the pretty room by right of an old comradeship, or some blood-tie, or a mutual understanding - an intangible, indefinable attitude that had sprung into being between them of itself.
Lorraine did not talk much, because she was tired, but she let the goodly sight of him, and the quiet rest of him, lul and soothe her senses for the passing moment without any disturbing questioning.
Hermon likewise did not question. He liked being there, and she seemed wil ing for him to stay, and it seemed enough.
Once or twice lately he was conscious that he had been rather foolish with different admiring friends of the fair sex; and though he was no prig, and knew most men took kisses and caressess when offered, and would have thought it a needless throwing away of good things to refuse, he yet felt a little irritated with himself and the givers without quite knowing why.
And there was another trying incident over a girl he had met at various country-houses the previous summer, and greatly enjoyed a flirtation with. Unfortunately, she appeared not to have understood it in the light of a flirtation; and now she was writing him miserable, reproachful love-letters which had at any rate succeeded in making him wish he had been more circumspect. It soothed his ruffled feelings to be with Lorraine; and it flattered his vanity to feel that she liked him there.
They had been sitting quietly some little time when the front-door bell announced another cal er, and Jean came to inquire if her mistress would see Lord Denton. Lorraine half unconsciously glanced at Hermon, and seeing an expression of disappointment on his face, said quietly.
"Ask him to come to-morrow, Jean. I am very tired to-night."
Jean went away, and presently returned with a loverly bouquet of malmaisons, and three or four new books. "His lordship will cal about twelve," she said: "and he hopes, if you feel able to go out, you wil let him take you in his motor." Then she went out, leaving them alone again.
In the pause that followed, Lorraine lay silently watching him for some minutes, wondering what was passing in his mind. Although it was only September still, the evenings were drawing in quickly, and there was little light in the room except the flickering glow of cheerful flames on the hearth. They caught the glint of his hair and shone on his face, throwing the delicate, aristocratic features with cameo-like dinstinctness on the black shadow beyond.
Lorraine looked again, with the eyes of a connoisseur, and she knew that in very truth no merely handsome face and form were here, but a nature and character corresponding to the outward beauty of line and lineament. She wondered once more as she lay there what it must be to have borne such a son; and a surging, aching, tearing pain fil ed her heart for the longing to have known from experience. She felt she could have been a saint among women for very joy, and an ideal companion, as wel as a mother to such as he.
And instead? -
Well, there were murky corners in the background for her as wel as her mother, but never from actual seeking. When necessity had not driven her, loneliness had, and the gnawing ache of a fine, fearless soul to grasp some satisfaction from the sorry scheme of things. And always the satisfaction had passed so quickly... so quickly, driving the starved soul back on itself again, with a little extra weight added to its burden of bitter knowledge.
Was there then no counterpart for her - no twin soul - no strong, true comrade, to say "You and I" when sorrow and disillusion came, and so rob pain of its deepest sting?
Then, as if he felt her scrutiny, he turned his face to her slowly, and looked into her eyes.
"You know you are looking rather bad," he said a little awkwardly and shyly. "I'm awful y sorry. I hope you are taking care of yourself."
"I don't suppose I should worry much if left to myself," she told him, with a touch of lightness; "but a very stern physician, and a most resolute maid, insist upon giving me every possible attention."
"It doesn't tire you... my being here?..."
"No; I like it."
"I wonder why?"
"Do you always want to know the why of things?"
"I'm afraid I don't as a rule bother much, but this is a little amazing, isn't it?"
"I don't see why you should think so."
He studied the fire again.
"Only that you are at the top of the ladder, and I am at the bottom."
"I was once there too."
"And did it seem as if it would be impossible ever to reach the top?"
"Yes, often. I don't think anything but resolute, iron determination ever takes any one up. Influence helps a good many up the lower rungs, and saves them a lot of the drudgery, but it cannot do much else, and unless one is ful of grit and purpose at heart, one sticks there."
"Stil , it must be a great help to be pul ed through the drudgery."
"It may mean a good deal of loss also."
"How?"
"I don't suppose success that is won through favour means half so much to the winner as success that is wrenched from Fate by one's own resolute hands. The only thing is, one wonders so often afterwards if it has been worth while.""
"Do you wonder that?"
"Ah!... don't I?"
He said nothing, and she went on:
"Al the same, I imagine I had to succeed or die. I was built that way. Nothing less than success would have satisfied me. I often crave for quiet, restful happiness now, but if it had been offered then I should have passed it by and struggled blindly for fame. Stil , it is hard to think how easily one can take a false step, and suffer for it till the end."
"Did you do that?"
He turned his eyes to her again, and she saw as sympathy in them that was deeper than any feeling he had shown her yet.
"Yes. I was in a very tight corner, and I took a short cut out. I married for money and influence. The step brought me al I anticipated, but it brought other things as wel , that I had chosen not to remember: nausea, ennui, self-disgust, loneliness, emptiness. I think I should never have won through without Hal."
"And is your husband living?"
"Yes. In America. We have not troubled each other for a long time. I suppose I am fortunate in being left alone." She was silent a few minutes, and then she told him kindly: "Hal says they always chaff you about marrying an heiress, for the sake of being rich without any need to work; but take my advice, and don't force the hand of Fate before she has had time to give you good things in her own time."
He turned to her with a very engaging smile as he answered:
"They chaff me about a good many things, but most of them are a little wide of the mark. I haven't any leaning at present towards a paid post as husband."
"I'm glad; but I didn't for a moment suppose you had seriously. I wonder what you have a leaning towards?" she added.
"I should like to succeed." He sat forward suddenly and leaned his chin on his hands, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared hard at the flames. "I care a great deal more about succeeding really than any one believes; but I'm afraid I'm not cut out for it."
"I should like to help you," she said simply.
"You are very good," he answered, still looking hard into the fire.
Lorraine got up and moved slowly about the room, touching a flower here, and a flower there, and rearranging them with deft fingers. She turned on an electric light with a soft shade, and glanced at the books Flip Denton had brought her.
Hermon sat back in his chair and watched her. He thought he had never seen her lovelier than she looked in the homely simplicity of a graceful tea-gown, and her thick black hair coiled in a large loose knot low on her neck. It gave her an absurdly youthful air, that somehow seemed far removed from the bril iant star as he knew her on the stage.
Then she came towards him, and stood beside him, resting one foot on the fender and one hand on the mantelpiece; and he saw, with swift seeing, the shapeliness of the long, thin fingers and the graceful, rounded arm.
"You are thoughtful, _mon ami_," she said, with a soft lightness.
"Tel me what you are thinking of."
"I don't know. I don't think I am thinking at all. I feel rather as if I were sunning myself in your smiles, like a cat."
"You like being here, like this?"
"I love it."
"Then come often. Why not?"
"I shal bore you."
"I think not. It is pleasant to me also to have some one keeping me company in such a natural, homely way. You see, I am very much alone.
I have no women friends except Hal, who is nearly always engaged; and there are not many men one can invite to come and sit by one's fireside. You seem to come so naturally and simply. It is clever of you. Very few men could. It is difficult to believe you are only twenty-four."
"I fancy years often do not go for very much. I have travelled about alone a great deal. Anyhow, you are just as young for thirty-two as I am old for twenty-four."
"Hal has helped to keep me young. She restores me like some patent elixir. I suppose I love her more than any one in the world."
"I'm not surprised," he answered. "A good many people love Hal. Dick and Quin just dote on her."
She looked at him keenly a moment.
"I am spared wasting my affection," he added, "by her obvious contempt for me."
"She doesn't mean any of it. She only wants to rouse you."
"Stil , she succeeds in making me feel rather a worm."
Lorraine made no comment, but she could not resist a little inward smile at the thought of any one making such a man feel a worm. She realised there might be no harm in the leavening influence.
The clock struck seven, and he gave a start, rising quickly to his feet beside her. Lorraine was a little under medium height if anything, and as they stood together he seemed to tower above her like some splendid prehistoric human, while she appeared as some exquisite miniature, or frail and perfect piece of Dresden china.
And again it seemed as if his physical beauty acted upon her with some irresistible magnetism, flowing round her and over her and through her, till she was enveloped and obsessed by him.
His age was nothing, years are mere detail; she felt only that he was a splendid creature, and everything in her gloried in it. She rested her hand lightly on his arm.
"How big you are. You almost overpower me."
He smiled down at her, but it was just a quiet, friendly smile, and she could not tel if her touch stirred him.
"I'm afraid I am rather a monster. It is sometimes a nuisance."
"Ah, don't say that. I am quite sure the first Adam was as big as you, and Eve was frightened and ran away, but she wouldn't for the world have had him an inch smal er. And every true Eve since has gloried in the man who towered above her, and was a little terrifying in his strenght. Don't let them spoil you," she added with a note of wistfulness, "al the Eves who must needs fol ow with or without your bidding."
"I imagine Hal wil counteract much of that; and the feeling, when I am with you, that I am just a great, brainless, useless animal."
"No; you are not that; and you are quite extraordinarily unspoilt as yet. Come and see me again soon, when you've nothing better to do."
"How soon?"
He was looking hard into her face now, almost as if he were only just ful y realising her beauty, and she flushed a little as she met his ardent eyes and answered:
"As soon as you like."
"Friday is my first free evening."
"The come and dine here quietly. I shal not act this week at all. I shal run down to the sea from Saturday to Monday."
She had intended to go on Friday afternoon, but with his nearness al Flip Denton's sage advice vanished from her mind, and instead of running away as he urged, she went a step nearer to the temptation.
When he had gone she sat down in the arm chair he had used, and stared hard at the fire. Jean came in to urge her to go to bed, but she only said:
"No; I like this room and the fire. Bring me the fish, or whatever it is, here. I wil go to bed about half-past eight if you like, but not before."
So she sat on, and in her heart she saw still the fine face, with its unspoiled freshness, and felt his presence still fil ing the room.
It would seem Fate had brought her and Hal together into the arena of new happenings and new feelings, for amont the crowded houses of Bloomsbury, in a little high-up bedroo near the sky, Hal sat on the edge of her bed leisurely brushing her long, bright hair, and pondering a telephone message that had asked her to go for a motor ride the fol owing Saturday.
"It means putting Amy off," was her final cogitation, "but I think I'll go. It wil be such fun, and I'm rather sick of work."
So, in spite of strong wills and common-sense warning, we still, as ever, let our footsteps follow the al uring paths, and go boldly forth to meet a joy, ever careless of the fol owing sorrow that may accompany it, until the hour of shunning is past.