Part 94 (2/2)

He was standing anxiously near the door when she returned to the room.

”Please, sir, it's a Mrs Cannon, and it's you she wants.”

”Show her in,” he said, and to himself: ”My G.o.d!”

In the ten seconds that elapsed before Hilda appeared he glanced at himself in the mantel mirror, fidgeted with his necktie, and walked to the window and back again to his chair. She had actually called to see him! ... His agitation was extreme... But how like her it was to call thus boldly! ... Maggie's absence was providential.

Hilda entered, to give him a lesson in blandness. She wore a veil, and carried a m.u.f.f--outworks of her self-protective, impa.s.sive demeanour.

She was pale, and as calm as pale. She would not take the easy chair which he offered her. Useless to insist--she would not take it. He brushed away letters and doc.u.ments from the small chair to his right, and she took that chair... Having taken it, she insisted that he should resume the easy chair.

”I called just to say good-bye,” she said. ”I knew you couldn't come out, and I'm going to-night.”

”But surely he isn't fit to travel?” Edwin exclaimed.

”George? Not yet. I'm leaving him behind. You see I mustn't stay away longer than's necessary.”

She smiled, and lifted her veil as far as her nose. She had not smiled before.

”Charlie's gone back?”

”Oh yes. Two days ago. He left a message for you.”

”Yes. Maggie gave it me. By the way, I'm sorry she's not in.”

”I've just seen her,” said Hilda.

”Oh!”

”She came in to see Janet. They're having a cup of tea in George's bedroom. So I put my things on and walked round here at once.”

As Hilda made this surprising speech she gazed full at Edwin.

THREE.

A blush slowly covered his face. They both sat silent. Only the fire crackled l.u.s.tily. Edwin thought, as his agitation increased and entirely confused him, ”No other woman was ever like this woman!” He wanted to rise masterfully, to accomplish some gesture splendid and decisive, but he was held in the hollow of the easy chair as though by paralysis. He looked at Hilda; he might have been looking at a stranger. He tried to read her face, and he could not read it. He could only see in it vague trouble. He was afraid of her. The idea even occurred to him that, could he be frank with himself, he would admit that he hated her. The moments were intensely painful; the suspense exasperating and excruciating. Ever since their last encounter he had antic.i.p.ated this scene; his fancy had been almost continuously busy in fas.h.i.+oning this scene. And now the reality had swept down upon him with no warning, and he was overwhelmed.

She would not speak. She had withdrawn her gaze, but she would not speak. She would force him to speak.

”I say,” he began gruffly, in a resentful tone, careless as to what he was saying, ”you might have told me earlier what you told me on Wednesday night. Why didn't you tell me when I was at Brighton?”

”I wanted to,” she said meekly. ”But I couldn't. I really couldn't bring myself to do it.”

”Instead of telling me a lie,” he went on. ”I think you might have trusted me more than that.”

”A lie?” she muttered. ”I told you the truth. I told you he was in prison.”

<script>