The Divine Fire Part 92

"_Can_ they? You don't mean to say they can?"

He shook his head and struggled with his monstrous mirth.

"Keith! What 'ave you done? You surely haven't been backing any bills?"

He laughed outright this time, for the sheer misery of the thing.

"No, oh dear me, no. Not in your sense at least."

"There _isn't_ any other sense. Either you did or you didn't; and I think you might tell me which."

"It's not quite so simple, dear. I didn't back his bills, d'you see, but I backed _him_.'

"Can they make you responsible? Have they got it down in black and white?"

"n.o.body can make me responsible, except myself. It's what they call a debt of honour, Flossie. Those debts are not always down in black and white."

"Why can't you speak plain? I really can't think what you mean by that."

"Can't you? I'll endeavour to explain. A debt of honour, Beaver dear, is a debt that's got to be paid whoever else goes unpaid."

"A fine lot of honour about that," said she.

Was it possible to make the Beaver understand? He, gave her a slight outline of the situation; and he really could not complain of any fault in the Beaver's intelligence. For, by dint of a masterly cross examination, she possessed herself of all the details, even of those which he most desired to keep from her. After their last great explanation there had been more than a tacit agreement between them that the name of Lucia Harden was never to come up again in any future discussion; and that name he would not give. She, however, readily inferred it from his silence.

"You needn't tell me the lady's name," said she.

"I certainly needn't. The name has nothing whatever to do with it.'"

"Oh, hasn't it? You'll not make me believe that you'd 'ave taken it up this way for any one but her."

"Whether I would or wouldn't doesn't affect the point of honour."

"I don't see where it comes in there."

"If you don't I can't make you see it."

"I said I didn't see where it comes in--_there_. I know what's honourable as well as you, though I daresay my notions wouldn't agree with yours."

"Upon my soul, I shouldn't wonder if they didn't!"

"Look here, Keith. Did you ever make Miss Harden any promise to pay her that money when your father died?"

"Of course I didn't--How could I? Do you suppose she'd have let me do anything of the sort?"

"I don't know what she wouldn't have let you do. Anyhow you didn't make her any promise. Think of the promises and promises you've made to me."

"I do think of them. Have I broken one of them?"

"I don't say you have yet; but you want to."

"I don't wa--I won't break them, I'll keep every one of the blessed lot, if you'll only give me time."

"Give you time? I know what that means. It means that I'm to go back and earn my living. I can slave till I drop for all you care--while you go and throw away all that money on another woman. And I'm to give you time to do it in!"

"I won't ask you to wait for me. I'm perfectly willing to release you from your engagement if you like. It seems only fair to you."

"You care a lot, don't you, about what's fair to me? I believe you'd take the bread out of my mouth to give it to her."

"I would, Flossie, if it was her bread. That money doesn't belong to you or me; it belongs to Miss Harden."

"It seems to me," said Flossie, "that everything belongs to her. I'm sure you've as good as told me so."

"I've certainly given you some right to think so. But that has nothing to do with it; and we agreed that we were going to let it alone, didn't we?"

"It wasn't me that brought it up again, it was you; and it's got everything to do with it. You wouldn't have behaved like this, and you wouldn't be sitting there talking about what's honourable, if it hadn't been for Miss Harden."

"That may very well be. But it doesn't mean what you think it does. It means that before I knew Miss Harden I didn't know or care very much about what's honourable. She taught me to care. I wasn't fit to speak to a decent woman before I knew her. She made me decent."

"Did she sit up half the night with you to do it?".

He made a gesture of miserable impatience.

"You needn't tell me. I can see her."

"You can't. She did it by simply being what she is. If I ever manage to do anything right it will be because of her, as you say. But it doesn't follow that it'll be for her. There's a great difference."

"I don't see it."

"You must try to see it. There's one thing I haven't told you about that confounded money. It was I who let her in for losing it. Isn't that enough to make me keen?"

"You always were keen where she was concerned."

"Look here, Flossie, I thought you were going to give up this sort of thing?"

"So I was when I thought you were going to give her up. It doesn't look like it."

"My dear child, how can I give up what I never had or could have?"

"Well then--are you going to give up your idea?"

"No, I am not. But you can either give me up or wait for me, as I said. But if you marry me, you must marry me and my idea too. You don't like my idea; but that's no reason why you shouldn't like me."

"You're not taking much pains to make me like you."

"I'm taking all the pains I know. But your liking or not liking me won't alter me a little bit. You'll have to take me as I am."

As she looked up at him she realized at last the indomitable nature of the man she had to deal with. And yet he was not unalterable, even on his own showing. She knew some one who had altered him out of all knowledge.