There came an afternoon early in July when Hilliard, tired with a long ramble in search of old City churches—his architectural interests never failed—sought rest and coolness in a Fleet Street tavern of time-honoured name. It was long since he had yielded to any extravagance; to-day his palate demanded wine, and with wine he solaced it. When he went forth again into the roaring highway things glowed before him in a mellow light: the sounds of Fleet Street made music to his ears; he looked with joyous benignity into the faces of men and women, and nowhere discovered a countenance inharmonious with his gallant mood.
No longer weary, he strolled westward, content with the satisfactions of each passing moment. "This," he said to himself, "is the joy of life. Past and future are alike powerless over me; I live in the glorious sunlight of this summer day, under the benediction of a greathearted wine. Noble wine! Friend of the friendless, companion of the solitary, lifter-up of hearts that are oppressed, inspirer of brave thoughts in them that fail beneath the burden of being. Thanks to thee, O priceless wine!"
A bookseller's window arrested him. There, open to the gaze of every pedestrian, stood a volume of which the sight made him thrill with rapture; a finely illustrated folio, a treatise on the Cathedrals of France. Five guineas was the price it bore. A moment's lingering, restrained by some ignoble spirit of thrift which the wine had not utterly overcome, and he entered the shop. He purchased the volume. It would have pleased him to carry it away, but in mere good-nature he allowed the shopman's suggestion to prevail, and gave his address that the great tome might be sent to him.
How cheap it was—five guineas for so much instant delight and such boundless joy of anticipation!
On one of the benches in Trafalgar Square he sat for a long time watching the fountains, and ever and anon letting them lead his eyes upwards to the great snowy clouds that gleamed upon the profound blue. Some ragged children were at play near him; he searched his pocket, collected coppers and small silver, and with a friendly cry of "Holloa, you ragamuffins!" scattered amazement and delight.
St. Martin's Church told him that the hour was turned of six. Then a purpose that had hung vaguely in his mind like a golden mist took form and substance. He set off to walk northward, came out into Holborn, and loitered in the neighbourhood of a certain place of business, which of late he had many times observed. It was not long that he had to wait. Presently there came forth someone whom he knew, and with quick steps he gained her side.
Eve Madeley perceived him without surprise.
"Yes," he said, "I am here again. If it's disagreeable to you, tell me, and I will go my own way at once."
"I have no wish to send you away," she answered, with a smile of self-possession. "But all the same, I think it would be wiser if you did go."
"Ah, then, if you leave me to judge for myself——! You look tired this evening. I have something to say to you; let us turn for a moment up this byway."
"No, let us walk straight on."
"I beg of you!—Now you are kind. I am going to dine at a restaurant. Usually, I eat my dinner at home—a bad dinner and a cheerless room. On such an evening as this I can't go back and appease hunger in that animal way. But when I sit down in the restaurant I shall be alone. It's miserable to see the groups of people enjoying themselves all round and to sit lonely. I can't tell you how long it is since I had a meal in company. Will you come and dine with me?"
"I can't do that."
"Where's the impossibility?"
"I shouldn't like to do it."
"But would it be so very disagreeable to sit and talk? Or, I won't ask you to talk; only to let me talk to you. Give me an hour or two of your time—that's what I ask. It means so much to me, and to you, what does it matter?"
Eve walked on in silence; his entreaties kept pace with her. At length she stopped.
"It's all the same to me—if you wish it——"
"Thank you a thousand times!"
They walked back into Holborn, and Hilliard, talking merely of trifles, led the way to a great hall, where some scores of people were already dining. He selected a nook which gave assurance of privacy, sketched to the waiter a modest but carefully chosen repast, and from his seat on the opposite side of the table laughed silently at Eve as she leaned back on the plush cushions. In no way disconcerted by the show of luxury about her, Eve seemed to be reflecting, not without enjoyment.
"You would rather be here than going home in the Camden Town 'bus?"
"Of course."
"That's what I like in you. You have courage to tell the truth. When you said that you couldn't come, it was what you really thought Now that you have learnt your mistake, you confess it."
"I couldn't have done it if I hadn't made up my mind that it was all the same, whether I came or refused."
"All the same to you. Yes; I'm quite willing that you should think it so. It puts me at my ease. I have nothing to reproach myself with. Ah, but how good it is to sit here and talk!"
"Don't you know anyone else who would come with you? Haven't you made any friends?"
"Not one. You and Miss Ringrose are the only persons I know in London."
"I can't understand why you live in that way."
"How should I make friends—among men? Why, it's harder than making money—which I have never done yet, and never shall, I'm afraid."
Eve averted her eyes, and again seemed to meditate.
"I'll tell you," pursued the young man "how the money came to me that I am living on now. It'll fill up the few moments while we are waiting."
He made of it an entertaining narrative, which he concluded just as the soup was laid before them. Eve listened with frank curiosity, with an amused smile. Then came a lull in the conversation. Hilliard began his dinner with appetite and gusto; the girl, after a few sips, neglected her soup and glanced about the neighboring tables.
"In my position," said Hilliard at length, "what would you have done?"
"It's a difficult thing to put myself in your position."
"Is it, really? Why, then, I will tell you something more of myself. You say that Mrs. Brewer gave me an excellent character?"
"I certainly shouldn't have known you from her description."
Hilliard laughed.
"I seem to you so disreputable?"
"Not exactly that," replied Eve thoughtfully. "But you seem altogether a different person from what you seemed to her."
"Yes, I can understand that. And it gives me an opportunity for saying that you, Miss Madeley, are as different as possible from the idea I formed of you when I heard Mrs. Brewer's description."
"She described me? I should so like to hear what she said."
The changing of plates imposed a brief silence. Hilliard drank a glass of wine and saw that Eve just touched hers with her lips.
"You shall hear that—but not now. I want to enable you to judge me, and if I let you know the facts while dinner goes on it won't be so tiresome as if I began solemnly to tell you my life, as people do in novels."
He erred, if anything, on the side of brevity, but in the succeeding quarter of an hour Eve was able to gather from his careless talk, which sedulously avoided the pathetic note, a fair notion of what his existence had been from boyhood upward. It supplemented the account of himself she had received from him when they met for the first time. As he proceeded she grew more attentive, and occasionally allowed her eyes to encounter his.
"There's only one other person who has heard all this from me," he said at length. "That's a friend of mine at Birmingham—a man called Narramore. When I got Dengate's money I went to Narramore, and I told him what use I was going to make of it."
"That's what you haven't told me," remarked the listener.
"I will, now that you can understand me. I resolved to go right away from all the sights and sounds that I hated, and to live a man's life, for just as long as the money would last."
"What do you mean by a man's life?"
"Why, a life of enjoyment, instead of a life not worthy to be called life at all. This is part of it, this evening. I have had enjoyable hours since I left Dudley, but never yet one like this. And because I owe it to you, I shall remember you with gratitude as long as I remember anything at all."
"That's a mistake," said Eve. "You owe the enjoyment, whatever it is, to your money, not to me."
"You prefer to look at it in that way. Be it so. I had a delightful month in Paris, but I was driven back to England by loneliness. Now, ifyouhad been there! If I could have seen you each evening for an hour or two, had dinner with you at the restaurant, talked with you about what I had seen in the day—but that would have been perfection, and I have never hoped for more than moderate, average pleasure—such as ordinary well-to-do men take as their right."
"What did you do in Paris?"
"Saw things I have longed to see any time the last fifteen years or so. Learned to talk a little French. Got to feel a better educated man than I was before."
"Didn't Dudley seem a long way off when you were there?" asked Eve half absently.
"In another planet.—You thought once of going to Paris; Miss Ringrose told me."
Eve knitted her brows, and made no answer.
When fruit had been set before them—and as he was peeling a banana:
"What a vast difference," said Hilliard, "between the life of people who dine, and of those who don't! It isn't the mere pleasure of eating, the quality of the food—though that must have a great influence on mind and character. But to sit for an hour or two each evening in quiet, orderly enjoyment, with graceful things about one, talking of whatever is pleasant—how it civilises! Until three months ago I never dined in my life, and I know well what a change it has made in me."
"I never dined till this evening," said Eve.
"Never? This is the first time you have been at a restaurant?"
"For dinner—yes."
Hilliard heard the avowal with surprise and delight. After all, there could not have been much intimacy between her and the man she met at the Exhibition.
"When I go back to slavery," he continued, "I shall bear it more philosophically. It was making me a brute, but I think there'll be no more danger of that. The memory of civilisation will abide with me. I shall remind myself that I was once a free man, and that will support me."
Eve regarded him with curiosity.
"Is there no choice?" she asked. "While you have money, couldn't you find some better way of earning a living?"
"I have given it a thought now and then, but it's very doubtful. There's only one thing at which I might have done well, and that's architecture. From studying it just for my own pleasure, I believe I know more about architecture than most men who are not in the profession; but it would take a long time before I could earn money by it. I could prepare myself to be an architectural draughtsman, no doubt, and might do as well that way as drawing machinery. But——"
"Then why don't you go to work! It would save you from living in hideous places."
"After all, does it matter much? If I had anything else to gain. Suppose I had any hope of marriage, for instance——"
He said it playfully. Eve turned her eyes away, but gave no other sign of self-consciousness.
"I have no such hope. I have seen too much of marriage in poverty."
"So have I," said his companion, with quiet emphasis.
"And when a man's absolutely sure that he will never have an income of more than a hundred and fifty pounds——"
"It's a crime if he asks a woman to share it," Eve added coldly.
"I agree with you. It's well to understand each other on that point.—Talking of architecture, I bought a grand book this afternoon."
He described the purchase, and mentioned what it cost.
"But at that rate," said Eve, "your days of slavery will come again very soon."
"Oh! it's so rarely that I spend a large sum. On most days I satisfy myself with the feeling of freedom, and live as poorly as ever I did. Still, don't suppose that I am bent on making my money last a very long time. I can imagine myself spending it all in a week or two, and feeling I had its worth. The only question is, how can I get most enjoyment? The very best of a lifetime may come within a single day. Indeed, I believe it very often does."
"I doubt that—at least, I know that it couldn't be so with me."
"Well, what do you aim at?" Hilliard asked disinterestedly.
"Safety," was the prompt reply.
"Safety? From what?"
"From years of struggle to keep myself alive, and a miserable old age."
"Then you might have said—a safety-match."
The jest, and its unexpectedness, struck sudden laughter from Eve. Hilliard joined in her mirth.
After that she suggested, "Hadn't we better go?"
"Yes. Let us walk quietly on. The streets are pleasant after sunset."
On rising, after he had paid the bill, Hilliard chanced to see himself in a mirror. He had flushed cheeks, and his hair was somewhat disorderly. In contrast with Eve's colourless composure, his appearance was decidedly bacchanalian; but the thought merely amused him.
They crossed Holborn, and took their way up Southampton Row, neither speaking until they were within sight of Russell Square.
"I like this part of London," said Hilliard at length, pointing before him. "I often walk about the squares late at night. It's quiet, and the trees make the air taste fresh."
"I did the same, sometimes, when I lived in Gower Place."
"Doesn't it strike you that we are rather like each other in some things?"
"Oh, yes!" Eve replied frankly. "I have noticed that."
"You have? Even in the lives we have led there's a sort of resemblance, isn't there?"
"Yes, I see now that there is."
In Russell Square they turned from the pavement, and walked along the edge of the enclosure.
"I wish Patty had been with us," said Eve all at once. "She would have enjoyed it so thoroughly."
"To be sure she would. Well, we can dine again, and have Patty with us. But, after all, dining in London can't be quite what it is in Paris. I wish you hadn't gone back to work again. Do you know what I should have proposed?"
She glanced inquiringly at him.
"Why shouldn't we all have gone to Paris for a holiday? You and Patty could have lived together, and I should have seen you every day."
Eve laughed.
"Why not? Patty and I have both so much more money than we know what to do with," she answered.
"Money? Oh, what of that! I have money."
She laughed again.
Hilliard was startled.
"You are talking rather wildly. Leaving myself out of the question, what would Mr. Dally say to such a proposal?"
"Who's Mr. Dally?"
"Don't you know? Hasn't Patty told you that she is engaged?"
"Ah! No; she hasn't spoken of it. But I think I must have seen him at the music-shop one day. Is she likely to marry him?"
"It isn't the wisest thing she could do, but that may be the end of it. He's in an auctioneer's office, and may have a pretty good income some day."
A long silence followed. They passed out of Russell into Woburn Square. Night was now darkening the latest tints of the sky, and the lamps shone golden against dusty green. At one of the houses in the narrow square festivities were toward; carriages drew up before the entrance, from which a red carpet was laid down across the pavement; within sounded music.
"Does this kind of thing excite any ambition in you?" Hilliard asked, coming to a pause a few yards away from the carriage which was discharging its occupants.
"Yes, I suppose it does. At all events, it makes me feel discontented."
"I have settled all that with myself. I am content to look on as if it were a play. Those people have an idea of life quite different from mine. I shouldn't enjoy myself among them. You, perhaps, would."
"I might," Eve replied absently. And she turned away to the other side of the square.
"By-the-bye, youhavea friend in Paris. Do you ever hear from her?"
"She wrote once or twice after she went back; but it has come to an end."
"Still, you might find her again, if you were there."
Eve delayed her reply a little, then spoke impatiently.
"What is the use of setting my thoughts upon such things? Day after day I try to forget what I most wish for. Talk about yourself, and I will listen with pleasure; but never talk about me."
"It's very hard to lay that rule upon me. I want to hear you speak of yourself. As yet, I hardly know you, and I never shall unless you——"
"Why should you know me?" she interrupted, in a voice of irritation.
"Only because I wish it more than anything else, I have wished it from the day when I first saw your portrait."
"Oh! that wretched portrait! I should be sorry if I thought it was at all like me."
"It is both like and unlike," said Hilliard. "What I see of it in your face is the part of you that most pleases me."
"And that isn't my real self at all."
"Perhaps not. And yet, perhaps, you are mistaken. That is what I want to learn. From the portrait, I formed an idea of you. When I met you, it seemed to me that I was hopelessly astray; yet now I don't feel sure of it."
"You would like to know what has changed me from the kind of girl I was at Dudley?"
"Areyou changed?"
"In some ways, no doubt. You, at all events, seem to think so."
"I can wait. You will tell me all about it some day."
"You mustn't take that for granted. We have made friends in a sort of way just because we happened to come from the same place, and know the same people. But——"
He waited.
"Well, I was going to say that there's no use in our thinking much about each other."
"I don't ask you to think of me. But I shall think a great deal about you for long enough to come."
"That's what I want to prevent."
"Why?"
"Because, in the end, it might be troublesome to me."
Hilliard kept silence awhile, then laughed. When he spoke again, it was of things indifferent natures.
Laziest of men and worst of correspondents, Robert Narramore had as yet sent no reply to the letters in which Hilliard acquainted him with his adventures in London and abroad; but at the end of July he vouchsafed a perfunctory scrawl. "Too bad not to write before, but I've been floored every evening after business in this furious heat. You may like to hear that my uncle's property didn't make a bad show. I have come in for a round five thousand, and am putting it into brass bedsteads. Sha'n't be able to get away until the end of August. May see you then." Hilliard mused enviously on the brass bedstead business.
On looking in at the Camden Town music-shop about this time he found Patty Ringrose flurried and vexed by an event which disturbed her prospects. Her uncle the shopkeeper, a widower of about fifty, had announced his intention of marrying again, and, worse still, of giving up his business.
"It's the landlady of the public-house where he goes to play billiards," said Patty with scornful mirth; "a great fat woman! Oh! And he's going to turn publican. And my aunt and me will have to look out for ourselves."
This aunt was the shopkeeper's maiden sister who had hitherto kept house for him. "She had been promised an allowance," said Patty, "but a very mean one."
"I don't care much for myself," the girl went on; "there's plenty of shops where I can get an engagement, but of course it won't be the same as here, which has been home for me ever since I was a child. There! the things that men will do! I've told him plain to his face that he ought to be ashamed of himself, and so has aunt. And heisashamed, what's more. Don't you call it disgusting, such a marriage as that?"
Hilliard avoided the delicate question.
"I shouldn't wonder if it hastens another marriage," he said with a smile.
"I know what you mean, but the chances are that marriage won't come off at all. I'm getting tired of men; they're so selfish and unreasonable. Of course I don't mean you, Mr. Hilliard, but—oh! you know what I mean."
"Mr. Dally has fallen under your displeasure?"
"Please don't talk about him. If he thinks he's going to lay down the law to me he'll find his mistake; and it's better he should find it out before it's too late."
They were interrupted by the entrance of Patty's amorous uncle, who returned from his billiards earlier than usual to-day. He scowled at the stranger, but passed into the house without speaking. Hilliard spoke a hurried word or two about Eve and went his way.
Something less than a week after this he chanced to be away from home throughout the whole day, and on returning he was surprised to see a telegram upon his table. It came from Patty Ringrose, and asked him to call at the shop without fail between one and two that day. The hour was now nearly ten; the despatch had arrived at eleven in the morning.
Without a minute's delay he ran out in search of a cab, and was driven to High Street. Here, of course, he found the shop closed, but it was much too early for the household to have retired to rest; risking an indiscretion, he was about to ring the house bell when the door opened, and Patty showed herself.
"Oh, is ityou, Mr. Hilliard!" she exclaimed, in a flurried voice. "I heard the cab stop, and I thought it might be——You'd better come in—quick!"
He followed her along the passage and into the shop, where one gas-jet was burning low.
"Listen!" she resumed, whispering hurriedly. "If Eve comes—she'll let herself in with the latchkey—you must stand quiet here. I shall turn out the gas, and I'll let you out after she's gone upstairs? Couldn't you come before?"
Hilliard explained, and begged her to tell him what was the matter. But Patty kept him in suspense.
"Uncle won't be in till after twelve, so there's no fear. Aunt has gone to bed—she's upset with quarrelling about this marriage. Mind! You won't stir if Eve comes in. Don't talk loud; I must keep listening for the door."
"But what is it? Where is Eve?"
"I don't know. She didn't come home till very late last night, and I don't know where she was. You remember what you asked me to promise?"
"To let me know if you were anxious about her."
"Yes, and I am. She's in danger I only hope——"
"What?"
"I don't like to tell you all I know. It doesn't seem right. But I'm so afraid for Eve."
"I can only imagine one kind of danger——"
"Yes—of course, it's that—you know what I mean. But there's more than you could fancy."
"Tell me, then, what has alarmed you?"
"When did you see her last?" Patty inquired.
"More than a week ago. Two or three days before I came here."
"Had you noticed anything?"
"Nothing unusual."
"No more did I, till last Monday night. Then I saw that something was wrong. Hush!"
She gripped his arm, and they listened. But no sound could be heard.
"And since then," Patty pursued, with tremulous eagerness, "she's been very queer. I know she doesn't sleep at night, and she's getting ill, and she's had letters from—someone she oughtn't to have anything to do with."
"Having told so much, you had better tell me all," said Hilliard impatiently. There was a cold sweat on his forehead, and his heart beat painfully.
"No. I can't. I can only give you a warning."
"But what's the use of that? What can I do? How can I interfere?"
"I don't know," replied the girl, with a helpless sigh. "She's in danger, that's all I call tell you."
"Patty, don't be a fool! Out with it! Who is the man? Is it some one you know?"
"I don't exactly know him I've seen him."
"Is he—a sort of gentleman?"
"Oh, yes, he's a gentleman. And you'd never think to look at him that he could do anything that wasn't right."
"Very well. What reason have you for supposing that he's doing wrong?"
Patty kept silence. A band of rowdy fellows just then came shouting along the street, and one of them crashed up against the shop door, making Patty jump and scream. Oaths and foul language followed; and then the uproar passed away.
"Look here," said Hilliard. "You'll drive me out of my senses. Eve is in love with this man, is she?"
"I'm afraid so. She was."
"Before she went away, you mean. And, of course, her going away had something to do with it?"
"Yes, it had."
Hilliard laid his hands on the girl's shoulders.
"You've got to tell me the plain truth, and be quick about it. I suppose you haven't any idea of the torments I'm suffering. I shall begin to think you're making a fool of me, and that there's nothing but—though that's bad enough for me."
"Very well, I'll tell you. She went away because it came out that the man was married."
"Oh, that's it?" He spoke from a dry throat. "She told you herself?"
"Yes, not long after she came back. She said, of course, she could have no more to do with him. She used to meet him pretty often——"
"Stay, how did she get to know him first?"
"Just by chance—somewhere."
"I understand," said Hilliard grimly. "Go on."
"And his wife got someone to spy on him, and they found out he was meeting Eve, and she jumped out on them when they were walking somewhere together, and told Eve everything. He wasn't living with his wife, and hasn't been for a long time."
"What's his position?"
"He's in business, and seems to have lots of money; but I don't exactly know what it is he does."
"You are afraid, then, that Eve is being drawn back to him?"
"I feel sure she is—and it's dreadful."
"What I should like to know," said Hilliard, harshly, "is whether she really cares for him, or only for his money."
"Oh! How horrid you are! I never thought you could say such a thing!"
"Perhaps you didn't. All the same, it's a question. I don't pretend to understand Eve Madeley, and I'm afraid you are just as far from knowing her."
"I don't know her? Why, what are you talking about, Mr. Hilliard?"
"What do you think of her, then? Is she a good-hearted girl or——"
"Or what? Of course she's good-hearted. The things that men do say! They seem to be all alike."
"Women are so far from being all alike that one may think she understands another, and be utterly deceived. Eve has shown her best side to you, no doubt. With me, she hasn't taken any trouble to do so. And if——"
"Hush!"
This time the alarm was justified. A latchkey rattled at the house-door, the door opened, and in the same moment Patty turned out the light.
"It's my uncle," she whispered, terror-stricken. "Don't stir."
A heavy footstep sounded in the passage, and Hilliard, to whose emotions was now added a sense of ludicrous indignity, heard talk between Patty and her uncle.
"You mustn't lock up yet," said the girl, "Eve is out."
"What's she doing?"
"I don't know. At the theatre with friends, I dare say."
"If we'd been staying on here, that young woman would have had to look out for another lodging. There's something I don't like about her, and if you take my advice, Patty, you'll shake her off. She'll do you no good, my girl."
They passed together into the room behind the shop, and though their voices were still audible, Hilliard could no longer follow the conversation. He stood motionless, just where Patty had left him, with a hand resting on the top of the piano, and it seemed to him that at least half an hour went by. Then a sound close by made him start; it was the snapping of a violin string; the note reverberated through the silent shop. But by this time the murmur of conversation had ceased, and Hilliard hoped that Patty's uncle had gone upstairs to bed.
As proved to be the case. Presently the door opened, and a voice called to him in a whisper. He obeyed the summons, and, not without stumbling, followed Patty into the open air.
"She hasn't come yet."
"What's the time?"
"Half-past eleven. I shall sit up for her. Did you hear what my uncle said? You mustn't think anything of that; he's always finding fault with people."
"Do you think she will come at all?" asked Hilliard.
"Oh, of course she will!"
"I shall wait about. Don't stand here. Good-night."
"You won't let her know what I've told you?" said Patty, retaining his hand.
"No, I won't. If she doesn't come back at all, I'll see you to-morrow."
He moved away, and the door closed.
Many people were still passing along the street. In his uncertainty as to the direction by which Eve would return—if return she did—Hilliard ventured only a few yards away. He had waited for about a quarter of an hour, when his eye distinguished a well-known figure quickly approaching. He hurried forward, and Eve stopped before he had quite come up to her.
"Where have you been to-night?" were his first words, sounding more roughly than he in tended.
"I wanted to see you, I passed your lodgings and saw there was no light in the windows, else I should have asked for you."
She spoke in so strange a voice, with such show of agitation, that Hilliard stood gazing at her till she again broke silence,
"Have you been waiting here for me?"
"Yes. Patty told me you weren't back."
"Why did you come?"
"Why do I ever come to meet you?"
"We can't talk here," said Eve, turning away. "Come into a quieter place."
They walked in silence to the foot of High Street, and there turned aside into the shadowed solitude of Mornington Crescent. Eve checked her steps and said abruptly—
"I want to ask you for something."
"What is it?"
"Now that it comes to saying it, I—I'm afraid. And yet if I had asked you that evening when we were at the restaurant——"
"What is it?" Hilliard repeated gruffly.
"That isn't your usual way of speaking to me."
"Will you tell me where you have been tonight?"
"Nowhere—walking about——"
"Do you often walk about the streets till midnight?"
"Indeed I don't."
The reply surprised him by its humility. Her voice all but broke on the words. As well as the dim light would allow, he searched her face, and it seemed to him that her eyes had a redness, as if from shedding tears.
"You haven't been alone?"
"No—I've been with a friend."
"Well, I have no claim upon you. It's nothing to me what friends you go about with. What were you going to ask of me?"
"You have changed so all at once. I thought you would never talk in this way."
"I didn't mean to," said Hilliard. "I have lost control of myself, that's all. But you can say whatever you meant to say—just as you would have done at the restaurant. I'm the same man I was then."
Eve moved a few steps, but he did not follow her, and she returned. A policeman passing threw a glance at them.
"It's no use asking what I meant to ask," she said, with her eyes on the ground. "You won't grant it me."
"How can I say till I know what it is? There are not many things in my power that I wouldn't do for you."
"I was going to ask for money."
"Money? Why, it depends what you are going to do with it. If it will do you any good, all the money I have is yours, as you know well enough. But I must understand why you want it."
"I can't tell you that. I don't want you to give me money—only to lend it. You shall have it back again, though I can't promise the exact time. If you hadn't changed so, I should have found it easy enough to ask. Hut I don't know you to-night; it's like talking to a stranger. What has happened to make you so different?"
"I have been waiting a long time for you, that's all," Hilliard replied, endeavouring to use the tone of frank friendliness in which he had been wont to address her. "I got nervous and irritable. I felt uneasy about you. It's all right now: Let us walk on a little. You want money. Well, I have three hundred pounds and more. Call it mine, call it yours. But I must know that you're not going to do anything foolish. Of course, you don't tell me everything; I have no right to expect it. You haven't misled me; I knew from the first that—well, a girl of your age, and with your face, doesn't live alone in London without adventures. I shouldn't think of telling you all mine, and I don't ask to know yours—unless I begin to have a part in them. There's something wrong: of course, I can see that. I think you've been crying, and you don't shed tears for a trifle. Now you come and ask me for money. If it will do you good, take all you want. But I've an uncomfortable suspicion that harm may come of it."
"Why not treat me just like a man-friend? I'm old enough to take care of myself."
"You think so, but I know better. Wait a moment. How much money do you want?"
"Thirty-five pounds."
"Exactly thirty-five? And it isn't for your own use?"
"I can't tell you any more. I am in very great need of the money, and if you will lend it me I shall feel very grateful."
"I want no gratitude, I want nothing from you, Eve, except what you can't give me. I can imagine a man in my position giving you money in the hope that it might be your ruin just to see you brought down, humiliated. There's so much of the brute in us all. But I don't feel that desire."
"Why should you?" she asked, with a change to coldness. "What harm have I done you?"
"No harm at all, and perhaps a great deal of good. I say that I wish you nothing but well. Suppose a gift of all the money I have would smooth your whole life before you, and make you the happy wife of some other man. I would give it you gladly. That kind of thing has often been said, when it meant nothing: it isn't so with me. It has always been more pleasure to me to give than to receive. No merit of mine; I have it from my father. Make clear to me that you are to benefit by this money, and you shall have the cheque as soon as you please."
"I shall benefit by it, because it will relieve me from a dreadful anxiety."
"Or, in other words, will relieve someone else?"
"I can speak only of myself. The kindness will be done to me."
"I must know more than that. Come now, we assume that there's someone in the background. A friend of yours, let us say. I can't Imagine why this friend of yours wants money, but so it is. You don't contradict me?"
Eve remained mute, her head bent.
"What about your friend and you in the future? Are you bound to this friend in any irredeemable way?"
"No—I am not," she answered, with emotion.
"There's nothing between you but—let us call it mere friendship."
"Nothing—nothing!"
"So far, so good." He looked keenly into her face. "But how about the future?"
"There will never be anything more—there can't be."
"Let us say that you think so at present. Perhaps I don't feel quite so sure of it. I say again, it's nothing to me, unless I get drawn into it by you yourself. I am not your guardian. If I tell you to be careful, it's an impertinence. But the money; that's another affair. I won't help you to misery."
"You will be helping meoutof misery!" Eve exclaimed.
"Yes, for the present. I will make a bargain with you."
She looked at him with startled eyes.
"You shall have your thirty-five pounds on condition that you go to live, for as long as I choose, in Paris. You are to leave London in a day or two. Patty shall go with you; her uncle doesn't want her, and she seems to have quarrelled with the man she was engaged to. The expenses are my affair. I shall go to Paris myself, and be there while you are, but you need see no more of me than you like. Those are the terms."
"I can't think you are serious," said Eve.
"Then I'll explain why I wish you to do this. I've thought about you a great deal; in fact, since we first met, my chief occupation has been thinking about you. And I have come to the conclusion that you are suffering from an illness, the result of years of hardship and misery. We have agreed, you remember, that there are a good many points of resemblance between your life and mine, and perhaps between your character and mine. Now I myself, when I escaped from Dudley, was thoroughly ill—body and soul. The only hope for me was a complete change of circumstances—to throw off the weight of my past life, and learn the meaning of repose, satisfaction, enjoyment. I prescribe the same for you. I am your physician; I undertake your cure. If you refuse to let me, there's an end of everything between us; I shall say good-bye to you tonight, and to-morrow set off for some foreign country."
"How can I leave my work at a moment's notice?"
"The devil take your work—for he alone is the originator of such accursed toil!"
"How can I live at your expense?"
"That's a paltry obstacle. Oh, if you are too proud, say so, and there's an end of it. You know me well enough to feel the absolute truth of what I say, when I assure you that you will remain just as independent of me as you ever were. I shall be spending my money in a way that gives me pleasure; the matter will never appear to me in any other light. Why, call it an additional loan, if it will give any satisfaction to you. You are to pay me back some time. Here in London you perish; across the Channel there, health of body and mind is awaiting you; and are we to talk about money? I shall begin to swear like a trooper; the thing is too preposterous."
Eve said nothing: she stood half turned from him.
"Of course," he pursued, "you may object to leave London. Perhaps the sacrifice is too great. In that case, I should only do right if I carried you off by main force; but I'm afraid it can't be; I must leave you to perish."
"I am quite willing to go away," said Eve in a low voice. "But the shame of it—to be supported by you."
"Why, you don't hate me?"
"You know I do not."
"You even have a certain liking for me. I amuse you; you think me an odd sort of fellow, perhaps with more good than bad in me. At all events, you can trust me?"
"I can trust you perfectly."
"And it ain't as if I wished you to go alone. Patty will be off her head with delight when the thing is proposed to her."
"But how can I explain to her?"
"Don't attempt to. Leave her curiosity a good hard nut to crack. Simply say you are off to Paris, and that if she'll go with you, you will bear all her expenses."
"It's so difficult to believe that you are in earnest."
"You must somehow bring yourself to believe it. There will be a cheque ready for you to-morrow morning, to take or refuse. If you take it, you are bound in honour to leave England not later than—we'll say Thursday. That you are to be trusted, I believe, just as firmly as you believe it of me."
"I can't decide to-night."
"I can give you only till to-morrow morning. If I don't hear from you by midday, I am gone."
"You shall hear from me—one way or the other."
"Then don't wait here any longer. It's after midnight, and Patty will be alarmed about you. No, we won't shake hands; not that till we strike a bargain."
Eve seemed about to walk away, but she hesitated and turned again.
"I will do as you wish—I will go."
"Excellent! Then speak of it to Patty as soon as possible, and tell me what she says when we meet to-morrow—where and when you like."
"In this same place, at nine o'clock."
"So be it. I will bring the cheque."
"But I must be able to cash it at once."
"So you can. It will be on a London bank. I'll get the cash myself if you like."
Then they shook hands and went in opposite directions.