Bye-Ways Part 31

He took up his hat, which lay on a chair, and smoothed it mechanically with his coat-sleeve.

The action seemed to pierce her like a knife, for she started, and half-extended her hand. "Don't!" she exclaimed. "At least, wait one moment. So you belong to the second cla.s.s of men."

"What do you mean?"

"Men are divided into two cla.s.ses--those who refuse to be refused, and those who accept. But don't be too--too swift in your acceptance. After all, a refusal is not exactly a bank-note."

She tried to smile.

"But I am exactly a beggar," he answered, still keeping the hat in his hand. "And if you have nothing to give me, I may as well go."

"And spend the rest of your life in sweeping the old crossing?"

"And spend the rest of my life as I can," he said. "That need not concern you."

"A woman must be all to a man, or nothing?"

"You must be all to me, or nothing."

She sat down in an arm-chair in that part of the room that was in shadow. She always sat instinctively in shadow when she wanted to think.

"Well?" Sir Hugh said. "What are you thinking?"

She glanced up at him. "That you don't look much like a beggar," she said.

"It is possible to feel tattered in a frock-coat and patent-leather boots," he answered. "Good-bye. I am going back to my crossing." And he moved towards the door.

"No, stop!" she exclaimed. "Before you go, tell me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Will you ever ask me to marry you again?"

He looked hard into her eyes. "I shall always want to, but I shall never do it," he said slowly.

"I am glad you have told me that. We women depend so much on a repet.i.tion of the offence, when we blame a man for saying he loves us, and ask him not to do it again. If you really mean only to propose once, I must reconsider my position."

She was laughing, but the tears stood in her eyes.

"Why do you want to make this moment a farcical one?" he asked rather bitterly.

"Oh, Hugh!" she answered, "don't you see? Because it is really--really so tragic. I only try to do for this moment what we all try to do for life."

"Then you love me?" he said, moving a step forward.

"I never denied that," she replied. "I might as well deny that I am a woman."

He held out his arms. "Eve--then I shall never go back to the crossing."

But she drew back. "Go--go there till to-morrow! To-morrow afternoon I will see you; and if you love me after that--"

"Yes?"

She turned away and pressed the bell. "Good-bye," she said. Her voice sounded strange to him.

He came nearer, and touched her hand; but she drew it away.

"You may kiss me," she said.

"Eve!"

"After to-morrow."

The footman came in answer to the bell. Mrs Glinn did not turn round. "I only rang for you to open the door for Sir Hugh," she said. "Good-bye then, Sir Hugh. Come at five."

"I will," he answered, wondering.

When he had gone, Mrs Glinn sat down in a chair and took up a French novel. It was by Gyp. She tried to read it, with tears running over her cheeks. But at last she laid it down.

"After to-morrow," she murmured. "Ah, why--why does a woman ever love twice?" And then she sobbed.

But the canary sang, and the motes danced merrily in the sunbeams. And on the table where she had put it down lay "_Le Mariage de Chiffon_."

II

That evening, when Sir Hugh Maine came back to his rooms in Jermyn Street after dining out, he found a large man sprawling in one of his saddle-back chairs, puffing vigorously at a pipe that looked worn with long and faithful service. The man took the pipe out of his mouth and sprang up.

"Hullo, Maine!" he cried. "D'you recognise the tobacco and me?"

Hugh grasped his hand warmly. "Rather," he said. "Neither is changed. At least--h'm--I think you both seem a bit stronger even than usual. Who would have thought of seeing you, Manning? I did not know you were in Europe."

"I came from Asia. I thought I should like to hear Melba before the end of the season. And it was getting sultry out there. So here I am."

"And were those your only reasons?"

"Give me a brandy-and-soda," said the other.

Maine did as he was bid, lit a cigar, and sat down, stretching out his long legs. The other man took a pull at his gla.s.s, and spoke again.

"I am very fond of music," he said; "and Melba sings very well."

"Ah!"

"Look here, Maine," Manning broke out suddenly, "you are right--I had another reason. Kipling says that those who have heard the East a-calling never heed any other voice. He's wrong though. The West has been calling me, or, at least, a voice in the West, and I have resisted it for a deuce of a time. But at last it became imperative."

"A woman's voice, I suppose?"

"Yes."