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?" doubtful y.
"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 sil y 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 sel her mine."
Again Hal's lips curled, and a little spark of fire shone in her eyes.
+-
""Oh, I can understand al 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 al 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 sel 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 tel 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 hel -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 al , 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 fol owed, 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 al 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 wil serve you as wel ."
And al 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 actual y 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 al 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.
Constel ations 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 wistful y. 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 cal ed 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 stil 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 wel enough," she said quietly, "and I shal never see you again if I can help it. Al that you say does not appeal to me in the least. I am not a politician - thank God - and I am stil old-fashioned enough to possess an ideal. I am going now. Good-bye."
But when he saw she was already in the little hal , 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.