Winding Paths Part 70

"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 G.o.d... thank G.o.d," 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 d.i.c.k."

"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 pa.s.sed 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 ident.i.ty 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 a.s.sailed 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."