Winding Paths Part 62

A glad light leapt to Alymer's eyes.

"By gad! You are a trump," he said.

In the meantime Hal waited a little feverishly for Sat.u.r.day. They were to have one of their long outings. Meet at twelve, motor for two hours, lunch at two, then a walk; back to town to dine, without changing, in some grill room.

Sir Edwin had mapped it all out beforehand, sitting at his desk, with an anxious, unhappy expression, unrelieved by the evidences all around him of what he had achieved - of the proud position that was his.

Indeed he almost wished he could will it all away, and be just an independent, moderately successful solicitor, able to please himself in all things; instead of bound by the demands of party and position.

And those demands just now were very exacting. It was not an easy party to serve, and the less so in that its ranks numbered many soldiers of fortune of the swah-buckler type, who meant to hold the power they had attained partly on the exploitation of a lie, by fair means or otherwise; even if necessary by further lies - lies upon lies - but clever, carefully manipulated ones; not bald, childish, outspoken ones.

One of their most prominent office-holders had recently perpetrated a lie of the latter type. Such a barefaced, impudent, obvious lie, that there was no possibility of covering it up, and the whole country talked of it. Music halls laughed at it, comic papers and comic songs rang with it, election platforms bristled with it.

Naturally the party was very annoyed. One could imagine them saying indignantly to the offender: "Lie as much as you like, but for goodness' sake have the common sense to lie cleverly. If you can't do that, better confine yourself to merely distorting facts."

The official in question held a post in the same department as Sir Edwin - which meant that quite enough opprobrium had been recently hurled at the Law without risk of any further scandal.

The party was not sufficiently strong for that. They had fright enough over a paragraph in the _Church Gazette_, hinting at a lady in connection with one of their Ministers - where there should be no lady; but prompt action had steered the ship through those shoals in safety.

But all the same, this business of The Right Honourable Sir Edwin Crathie and the Stock Exchange had got to be attended to at once.

Under no possible consideration must it leak out that a Cabinet Minister had been speculating so heavily, and lost to such an extent, that nothing but an immense sum of money could save him from disgrace, bankruptey, and ruin.

One friend and another had tided him over for some little time, but he had continued to be reckless and incautious, relying with an unpleasant sneer upon his t.i.tle.

"Oh well!" had been his conclusion; "if the worst comes to the worst, I can always sell my name to an heiress."

Finally, that unhappy condition had arrived. It had further choses the worst possible moment - the moment when the music halls and comic papers were waxing hilarious over the badly executed lie.

Sir Edwin had been summoned to a consultation that had been the reverse of pleasant. The only thing was that the way of escape had been thoughtfully planned for him. He had no need to hunt up the heiress for himself. She was considerately provided.

Miss Bootes' father was a wealthy Liberal, who had more than once generously supplied funds to the party, in return for some small favour he craved. Now he wanted a celebrity, with a t.i.tle, for his daughter.

Sir Edwin hardly came up to the required standard, but Mr. Bootes was easily persuaded that there was absolutely no limit to his possibilities, were he once set on his feet as far as money was concerned.

The Prime Ministership, followed by a Peerage, were in his certain grasp, had he but the necessary money to back him.

Papa Bootes said over an over to himself: "My daughter, Lady Elizabeth Crathie" (it was really Eliza, but had been discreetly changed to suit the fashion), and came to the conclusion that a Cabinet Minister for a son-in-law sufficiently banished the odorous flavour patent manures had given to his fortune.

Finally he inquired the amount of Sir Edwin's debts, and promised a cheque if the delicate little matter were settled.

Hence the consultation, and the polite but firm intimation that Sir Edwin must close with the offer - that he had not even the right to choose ruin instead, because of its effect on the party.

And of course, now the crisis had come, Sir Edwin did not want to close with the offer. In his own mind he consigned the party, and all belonging to it, to the very worst h.e.l.l of Dante's Inferno.

But, beyond relieving his mind a little, their imaginary exodus did not help him in the least. He found himself in the very undesirable position of furnishing a telling example of the utter impossibility of serving two masters.

To do his common sense justice he had never had the least intention of attempting to. Without any prevarication as far as his own feelings were concerned, he had quite honestly chosen to serve Mammon. Having decided thus far, he banished the very memory of any other possible master. He did not exist for him. Mammon, in that it meant place, and power, and money, was the only G.o.d he wanted to serve.

And now? -

Well, of course, the Little Girl must go. At first he said it harshly, shrugging his shoulders and pursing his lips. It had only been a pastime all through, and, thanks to her owon pluck and sense, it had been one of those rare, delightful pastimes that, ended suddenly, might leave only a gracious, enjoyable memory behind. He was glad of that.

Somewhere in his heart, that was mostly impressionless india-rubber, there had proved to be a healthy, flesh-and-blood spot after all. She had found it quickly - gone straight to it with the unerring directness of a little child. It existed still - would always exist for her.

But in future the india-rubber would have to close over it, and hide it from all chance of discovery. In future he must not even remember it himself. For that way lay weakness. No serving of Mammon could be achieved, whichever way he turned, with the frank, candid, clever Little Girl.

And so she must go; and since it was inevitable, the sooner the better.

Then had come the afternoon's golf; and, without asking himself why, he had hidden from her that there was any change. Afterwards, because the impending finale made him desire her as he had never desired her before, he went into the pretty little sitting-room and kissed her.

When he hurriedly departed, he remembered only that the kiss had been sweet. Also that evidently no rumour had reached her yet. But of course it would. Any moment of any day her newspaper office might get the news and publish it.

He spent a wretched week, torn mercilessly by his desire to serve two masters. In the end, because he was a man who hated to be thwarted, he swore a violent oath, and said that he would.

Then he sent Hal the urgent little note, and made his plans for the day. They all hinged largely upon his hope to get her to go to his flat in Jermyn Street, after that grill-room dinner. That was why when they met he cleverly took the bull by the horns directly he saw in her eyes that she had heard the news. He appealed, with insight, to her sense of humour.

"If you look at me like that," he said, "I shall punish you by sitting down here, in St. James's Park, on the curbstone, and giving you an explanation before all London that lasts an hour."

"I've a great mind to keep you to it," with her low, musical laugh, "and send Peter to bring a phonograph man with a blank record to take it down."

"And a dozen journalists with snap-shot cameras, and biograph apparatus, to link us in notorious publicity to all eternity."

"No; I couldn't stand that. What is your alternative?"

"A long, perfect day in this heavenly sunshine, pretending anything in the world you like that will make us forget the stale, boresome, old week-day world. Then, at the end of it, the unfolding of a glorious plan that is an explanation in itself."

Hal looked doubtful, and seemed to cogitate. He waited in an anxiety he could scarce conceal, watching her mobile, sensitive face. Finally the sunshine and the light-hearted carelessness made the strongest appeal, and she gave in.

"Very well. If it had been dull and cloudy I would not have agreed.

But one daren't trifle with sunshine. We'll take our fill of it while it lasts."

So it happened that their last long day was one of the best they had known - each being clever enough to carry out the suggested programme and banish the following cloud for the time.

Hal was a little feverish - a little gayer than usual, with some hidden strain; a little pathetically anxious to act an indifference she could not possibly feel, concerning that rumour, and throw herself heart and soul into their compact of forgetting everything for a little while except the sunshine and the exhilarating dash through a spring-decked England.

In some places the hedges were white with hawthorn; and in sheltered nooks they sped past primroses, like pale stars in the gra.s.s. There were plantations of feathery, exquisite larch trees, their lovely green enhanced by tall dark pines, standing among them like sentinels. In gay gardens joyous daffodils nodded and laughed to them as they whirled past. Sir Edwin ventured an appreciative remark.

"Don't talk," Hal said. "Pretend you are in a worldwide cathedral, and it is the great annual festival of spring."

"May I sing?" he asked humorously.

"No; not as you value your life. We have only to listen to the choir.

Hush, don't you hear the birds singing the grand spring 'Te Deum'!"

But after a time she spoke herself.

"Was it all like this on Thursday night - all these delicious scents and sights and sounds cast broadcast, for all who pa.s.sed to enjoy?"

"I expect so. Why?"

The kindliness in the quizzical grey eyes was amazing, as he sat back, watching her with covert insistence, instead of the spring glories.