towards two armchairs and a table with cigars, coffee and liqueurs.
"Aren't you dancing either?" Jack asked, as he sat down.
"These young women may be less energetic in three, four hours' time. One
is waiting for the requisite mood of abandonment. One rejoices to meet
you again after this long time, even at the cost of losing Lady
Lilith's companionship at supper."
"Well, I think I deserve it," Jack answered. "I haven't seen her for
months."
"She is a little _difficile_ to-night. 'Out of temper' would be too
strong a phrase. But, you may observe, even the urbane Summertown is out
of favour."
Barbara swept by them, as he spoke, and both heard her exclaiming
petulantly, "You're very tiresome to-night! I shan't dance with you any
more." Both saw them parting at the door; Summertown laughed
imperturbably, Barbara ran away and did not appear again until the
beginning of the next dance.
She had found time to quarrel with four of her partners by eleven
o'clock and was prepared for a fifth and all-atoning quarrel with Jack
as soon as he claimed her for supper. The party at Loring Castle had
been delightful, until he came; for the last two months in London she
had felt like a released prisoner. Now the shock of meeting him again
had spoiled her evening; and, when she wanted to enjoy herself, she
could only worry her brain to find out why he had come. In the Ross
House encounter she liked to think that, by all public tests, she had
beaten him; but her victory brought her little satisfaction. When she
reconstructed the scene, something that was suspiciously like conscience
disturbed her. To pretend that she could not marry him because he was
not a Catholic was more serviceable than true. And to pretend that
religion meant anything to her was almost blasphemous, the sort of thing
that might bring her months of ill-luck. Any other excuse would have
been better, safer; at least she would not be inviting a judgement on
herself. Some things did undoubtedly make Providence angry; and she had
thought seriously of writing to Jack and saying that religion was not
the stumbling-block, that she had been flustered until she did not know
what she was saying. But then he would start again from the
beginning....
He had frightened her at Ross House with a simple and massive resolve to
get his own way; and it was fear rather than curiosity or annoyance
which was spoiling her evening for her. First he would arrange a
meeting, then discharge a proposal, then retire for more ammunition,
then arrange another meeting, and then.... She felt sure that he was
going to propose to her again.... It was so characteristic of his
methods that he should come early, engage her for supper--and then
disappear. If she "forgot" her promise and supped with some one else, if
she went to her room and locked the door, he would only wait until she
reappeared or else engineer a meeting in Scotland or the Isle of Wight;
he could not be avoided indefinitely.
Loring found her standing by herself at an open window and told her that
she was looking tired.
"Supper's just starting," he added, and she felt herself wincing. "I
needn't ask whether you've got a partner for it."
"I don't know that I want any supper," she answered, looking round over
her shoulder. There was no sign of Jack, but punctually at the first
note of the next dance he appeared from space and claimed her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AN ERROR OF JUDGEMENT
"And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see:
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess.
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own...."
ROBERT BROWNING: "A LIGHT WOMAN."
"Shall we go down before the crowd?" Jack asked.
"Oh, don't let's miss this!" Barbara begged. "'Dixie, all abo-o-ard for
Dixie! Dixie! Take your tickets here for Dixie.'"
"I've found rather a good table in the musicians' gallery," he confided.
"If we go now, we shall get it to ourselves."
"Let's go downstairs like everybody else," Barbara proposed hastily. As
he revealed each new stage of careful preparation, she dreaded being
left alone with him. "Are you very greedy, Jack, or only hungry? I love
that one-step. Why did you drag me away in the middle?"
They entered the banqueting-hall to the jig and stamp of rag-time
overhead; Barbara was still humming, as she drew off her gloves and sat
down opposite him at a corner-table.
"You ought to be grateful to me for getting you a table before the rush
starts. I can't stand rag-time, myself. It's killed decent dancing. What
are you going to eat, Babs?"
"Oh, anything." She wished that the tables were nearer together and that
the room were fuller. They were remote enough for Jack to become very
confidential, if he wished; and it was impossible to talk him down, if
he formally asked for five minutes of her undivided attention and
forbade interruption. She sought inspiration in vain from the vaulted
roof and high-placed gallery, the tattered standards hanging in double
row into the middle of the room, the rough stone walls half-covered with
panelling and the stained-glass windows at either end. To discuss
architecture with Jack was unprofitable at any time. "I _never_ expected
to see you here," she told him again. "What have you been doing since
last we met?"
"When did we meet last?" he asked her once more, with a nonchalance that
made her look at him in amazement.
"It was at Ross House, soon after Easter," she answered with rare
precision. "Don't you remember?"
"Oh, perfectly. I wanted to be sure that you did. It was hardly an
evening that I should forget in a _hurry_."
Barbara was frightened and relieved at the same time. His deliberation
and absence of embarrassment disconcerted her, but, in so far as his
manner was vaguely threatening, she was vaguely comforted. If he wanted
to punish her, she was well able to take care of herself; and she would
far sooner hear reproaches than pleadings, though for once she would
soonest of all be spared any kind of altercation.
"And what have you been doing ever since?" she asked again.
"I've just been received into your Church," he answered.
Overhead the music stopped to the accompaniment of a double stamp; it
was as though the very orchestra were dumbfounded. After a moment's
clapping, it started again, and Barbara sat through the encore with
averted eyes and a frown of preoccupation, putting crumbs of bread into
her mouth and eating salmon which nauseated her. She was conscious of
mental cramp--and of nothing else, save perhaps that Jack was probably
looking at her to mark how she received the news. When the music stopped
a second time, there came a sound of voices from the stairs; and he
glanced apprehensively over his shoulder as the first couples entered
with flushed faces, pulling off their gloves and fanning themselves.
"Will you marry me now, Babs?" he whispered.
"I--_can't_!"
It was something to find that she could speak at all; but, if he began
arguing, she was helpless. Rallying in desperation, she beckoned to
Arden and Phyllis Knightrider.
"There's a table here," she pointed out. "Come and sit near me, Val, to
shew that I'm forgiven for breaking my promise."
"One thought for a moment of starving oneself to death on your doorstep
in alleged Oriental fashion," drawled Arden. "It would have entailed
distressing privations, however, and one was persuaded by Miss
Knightrider against one's more romantic judgement."
If Barbara could create a diversion, Jack determined not to be thrown
out of his stride by it. He began to eat his supper with a show of
relish which he felt to be incongruous after Barbara's emphatic and
unqualified refusal. There was nothing else to do, and it made the
absence of conversation less marked. Barbara had sent her salmon away
unfinished and, refusing everything else, was beginning to fidget with
her gloves; but, if he remained there all night, Jack was resolved to
outstay Arden and to keep Barbara there until she had explained herself.
In time she allowed him to give her some fruit. With every new couple
the high babble of conversation and laughter swelled in volume until
they were isolated in their corner. Behind the screen of voices Jack
leaned forward and touched her wrist until she looked up.
"You say you can't. Why not?" he asked.
The words and tone were as she remembered them more than two months
earlier, but this time there was no escape.
"Because I'm not in love with you."
She nerved herself to look him in the eyes so that he must be convinced
in spite of himself. For a moment there was no change of expression;
then, though the grouping of the features remained unaltered, the face
seemed to stiffen; lines discovered themselves from nose to mouth, and
the lips grew set and thin. Barbara gripped the seat of her chair with
both hands. Greater even than fear was respect for a man who could
control himself; for the first time she wished that she loved him,
because he was "bigger"--to use his pet word--than she had thought; she
would not mind telling him so, if it would do any good; she would not
mind telling him that he was bigger than she was, but nothing could do
any good now.
Jack tried to speak, and she saw that he had to sip champagne before the
words would come.
"That was not the reason you gave," he said at length.
"It's the true reason."
"Then the other was a lie? Jim thought it might be, but I said I knew
you too well for that. Then you've been lying to me all along? You never
intended to marry me?"
"No."
The hateful charge was used as a dispassionate definition. Jack refused
to grow angry, and Barbara felt her resistance wearing itself out
against him.
"Jack----"
He enjoined silence with the slightest movement of one hand and
reflected unhurriedly.
"You always said that money didn't weigh with you.... I gave you every
chance of slipping in a friendly warning.... Why did you do this,
Barbara? If you never meant to marry me, why did you _deliberately_----"
While he continued to speak with frozen self-restraint, she felt that
she could not bear the end of his sentence.
"How was I to know?" she interrupted; and there was a note of sincerity
in her voice, for she had never imagined that he loved her to the point
of perjuring himself. "You say you gave me a chance of warning you....
How was I to know? Up to the end--that night at Ross House--you were
abusing me and finding fault with me. You dared to tell me you'd said
nothing that my father hadn't said a hundred times! If you thought you'd
changed me.... You must have been mad; I let you abuse me because it
wasn't worth arguing about, I knew I was right, I've proved I was
right.... I know I haven't changed you and I never shall. You always
despised me so much, you said I was vulgar, shallow, vain, heartless....
Did you expect me to understand that that was your way of shewing that
you were in love with me?"
Jack touched his lips with one finger.
"We needn't take the _whole_ room into our confidence," he whispered.
"So this was your revenge? I congratulate you, Lady Barbara.... Or were
you convincing me of my mistake? Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't see you
hadn't finished eating."
He laid his cigarette beside his plate and turned half round. Every one
else seemed to be enjoying himself prodigiously. Twenty shrill-voiced
conversations met and struggled; laughter swelled and died away. Some
one proposed Jim's health and tried to coerce him into replying. Lady
Loring appeared for a moment in the musicians' gallery, smiled
contentedly on her handiwork and withdrew. Their lightness of heart was
hard to bear, and the ecstasy in Violet's eyes was insupportable. Jack
turned back to his own table. He was not going to marry Barbara; if he
repeated it often enough, he might come to believe it; he was
desperately tired and could not think what to do next.
A sudden hush, followed by a scrape of feet and the creak of moving
chairs, greeted the opening bars of a waltz. Plaintive voices enquired
for lost gloves, and in another minute Jack and Barbara had the room to
themselves. She gripped the chair harder, bracing herself to receive her
punishment; and, as he sat half asleep, she could have complimented him
on his refined cruelty in making her wait for it. Gradually he seemed to
see that the room had emptied, to guess that she expected him to speak;
his expression changed, and, with it, her own dumb readiness to take
whatever he might choose to mete out. There was still no anger, hardly
even resentment; but his mouth was pursed in disgust, as though a toad
had leaped on to his plate. Barbara felt herself aflame with desire to
justify herself.
"I've finished now, if you want to smoke," she said. "Jack, I don't want
to reopen this, you _must_ see that it would be hopeless! You disapprove
of everything I do. You may be right: we won't discuss that. I'm a
gipsy, and you're--I don't know what you are."
Jack reminded himself again that he was not going to marry Barbara. For
three months and more he had never doubted it; when Jim Loring frowned
and hesitated and let fall apprehensive uncertainties, he had answered
with easy confidence, as though challenged to declare his belief in the
solar system. Three minutes, or less, was a short time for readjustment,
but he was beginning to repeat the sentence with his brain as well as
with his lips. And so far he had not publicly disgraced himself in any
way....
"I don't think we'll discuss anything," he said.
Barbara moved her chair, but he did not seem to notice it: he noticed
nothing, and the silence was unendurable. She asked for a cigarette, and
he gave her one, silently lighting a match.
"I'm--sorry, Jack," she said at last.
"You're losing nothing," he answered.
"I'm sorry for your sake."
"Ah, you can't afford the luxury of a conscience, Lady Barbara."
"I thought you must have seen--after that night at Ross House...." she
began hurriedly, but her voice and courage died away. "Lady" Barbara
choked her.
"You took pains that I shouldn't see. We needn't go through this again?
I took you at your word. You suggested one obstacle--one only,--and I
removed it."
As he stood up, she saw him sway and for the first time understood the
size of what she had done. She and Jack did not believe that immortal
souls existed or could be imperilled, but if there _were_ a jealous God
who refused to have His name taken in vain....
"Jack----"
"Shall we go up-stairs?" he asked.
"I haven't finished my cigarette."
She tried to speak again, but stopped at an outburst of singing in the
hall. "Geor-gie, what did you buy, what did you buy for Maud-ee?"
Summertown and Framlingham waltzed into the room and swung recklessly
between the tables to an accompaniment of falsetto small-talk. "Jolly
floor, what? Have you been to many floors this season?" "Oh, hardly any,
Miss Framlingham. I'm _quite_ a little country mouse. Here, I say,
what's the matter with this table?" Summertown subsided by the door, and
Framlingham scoured the neighbourhood for food and drink. Their noise
and high spirits were disturbing, but after one impatient glance over
his shoulder Jack turned round and looked at Barbara. She was sitting
lost in thought, with her chin on her hand, staring at the bubbles as
they rose in her glass--puzzled but at ease. The long, exacting season
had made her more haggard than ever, but Jack had learned to love and
yearn for this wan, fragile beauty; her eyes were bigger and darker than
usual, and a faint languor gave her added dignity. If he went on looking
at her, Jack felt that he might strangle her in a passionate gust of
jealousy and self-pity.
The horn of a car sounded through the open windows, and he looked at his
watch.
"Lady Knightrider wants to leave early," he said. "We've got rather a
long drive to Raglan."
"Don't go for a minute, Jack. I've got something to say to you."
It was that imperilling of soul--if there were souls and if they could
be imperilled. Reparation was needed, but, unless she promised to marry
him.... He would hardly want to marry her now....
"Can you spare me another cigarette?" she asked.
He handed her his case and sat down, waiting without a change of
expression. Since he was not going to marry Barbara, everything else
seemed wonderfully trivial. He rather hoped that she was not going to
explain or apologize, because he was too tired for a scene, too tired to
argue, too tired even to nod or say "yes" and "no" in the right
place.... There was no point in sitting there, if she had nothing to
say. And three hours earlier he had decided that, all things considered,
it would be more proper not to announce their engagement until he had
Lord Crawleigh's formal assent....
There was a sound of other voices in the hall, and George Oakleigh
appeared in the doorway. He looked anxiously round the room and pounced
upon the bachelor supper-party at his elbow. After a moment's earnest
whispering, Summertown banged his fist on the table until the glasses
rang.
"Not to put too fine a point on it, Hell," he cried. "One good
thing--you're in this, too, Charles, my lad."
Framlingham emptied his glass and refilled it unhurriedly.
"To declare war in the middle of supper is not the act of a gentleman,"
he pronounced.
The phrase drove away Jack's mental drowsiness; Barbara forgot that she
was even trying to think of anything to say; both sat upright. The
possibility of war had long faded from their minds, and they welcomed it
as a distraction.
"Is it declared?" Jack asked.
"Not yet," answered Oakleigh. "And we'll hope it won't be. But things
are looking pretty serious, and Summertown's uncle has called with a car
to fetch him back to barracks. I'm going to mobilize all of our
soldiers, but I don't want any fuss, or we shall spoil Jim's party. Help
to keep things going."
He hurried away, and Barbara looked blankly at Jack. "War!" she
murmured. He said nothing; but his eyes, dull a moment before, were
shining with excitement. He looked at his watch and rose quickly to his
feet.
"Good-bye, Lady Barbara."
"But you're not a soldier!"
"I must get back to London. I'm going to ask Summertown for a seat in
his car and then I must have a word with Lady Knightrider."
He hurried away with scant ceremony, leaving Barbara standing by the
table. She began to collect her gloves and handkerchief, then sat down
and tried to think dispassionately. It did not matter that she was
beaten and that he could add "liar" and "coquette" to his other charges.
He would never tell any one how she had behaved.... But he had run away
without punishing her, and she wanted to be punished. Punished by _him_;
she could not hand herself over to Providence. For a moment she tried to
persuade herself that he was lying. But Jack was incapable of lying. Yet
for weeks he must have lied with a grim and sanctimonious face. The
world was standing on its head! She pictured his methodical, deliberate
conversion--the first interview and first lie, the elaborate instruction
in ritual and doctrine until he had told enough lies to convince the
priest, the final reception into the Church with a final lie that would
infallibly imperil a man's soul, if there were such things....
One sentimental idiot had shot big game in Uganda, when she would not
marry him. Another had kept his bed for a week, pretending a broken
heart. Jack said little; but, as she squandered his devotion, she felt
that it would never come again. Perhaps her fear of him was the shell of
love; certainly she would not have wasted ten minutes on a man who meant
nothing to her. "Di'monds an' pearls.... Di'monds an' pearl I have
thrown away wid both hands--and fwhat have I left? Oh, fwhat have I
left?" The words came in one of Kipling's stories, surely.... But she
could not remember.
The hall filled again with the sound of voices, and she hurried out
rather than let herself be seen sitting alone and unexplained. Six young
officers were hastily wrapping themselves in overcoats and golf-cloaks
under the patronizing direction of Val Arden.
"They cast lots for one's raiment," he observed to Barbara, "and
Summertown had the good fortune to draw one's violet-silk _surtout_. One
could not wish it a worthier occupant. There used to be an inside
pocket, and one recalls putting into it a trifle of _cognac_. They also
serve who only stand the drinks."
Summertown was being dressed by his sister, who looked frightened in
spite of his easy flow of facetious reassurance.
"Bless you, _I'm_ all right!" he cried. "They wouldn't hurt a little
thing like me, I should run away between their feet and get taken
prisoner. You'll hear of me next as the regimental pet of the Death's
Head Hussars. By the way, does anybody know who we're supposed to be
fighting? My jolly old uncle never let that out--sly old dog! Good-bye,
Babs! See you again soon."
As they shook hands, she suddenly remembered the scene in Webster's
rooms when Jack, under the spell of Madame Hilary, talked of a war,
which was hanging over their heads, and of his own instant death.
"Oh, my _dear_, I wish you weren't going!" she cried with such emotion
that Sally Farwell stared at her.
"So do I. 'Haven't finished supper yet. Charles, my lad, d'you think
that, if we went back for just a _little_ one, we could manage to get
left behind?"
Barbara turned quickly and walked towards the door. She knew that
Summertown would be killed.... Her scepticism was a schoolgirl's; she
refused to believe things because she was too ignorant to understand
them. For aught she knew, there might be a Soul of Man, for which Man
could be held to account....
Jack was talking earnestly by the steps, an overcoat and rug over one
arm.
"I know nothing about the army," she heard Oakleigh say. "But any one of
these fellows would tell you. Or you can try O'Rane. He was saying after
dinner--in all seriousness--that, if Austria declared war, he'd raise a
Foreign Legion and go and fight for Servia. He was through one of the
Balkan wars, you know. But I can't believe there _will_ be any fighting;
it's on too big a scale, you'll have the whole world in flames. In your
place I should do nothing for the present."
"But, if we _are_ brought in, we shall have to raise every man we can
lay hands on. I _am_ partly trained; I was in the corps at Eton."
"I shall believe in war when I see it."
Barbara walked past them down the steps. She had not tried to catch
Jack's eye; but he had seen her, and she hoped that he would follow her.
The broad terrace was littered with chairs, as the deck of a steamer
might be; but the night was turning cold, and she walked to the stone
steps at the end without seeing any one. Then she heard the sound of an
engine starting, and a muffled procession marched to the car. The murmur
of subdued altercation reached her. "Charles, my lad, you're taking up
too much room...." "I'm all right, I'll sit on the floor."... "That's a
goodish hat Phil's wearing! Phil, if you perch on the radiator, you'll
lend tone to the party...."
She watched Jack coming slowly down the steps. An apology would be
merely insulting. There was only one possible reparation, and, though he
might not accept it, she must at least offer it; if he flung it back at
her, she would feel less guilty. Another hour, and she could think this
to rights. But George was already calling the roll.
"Come along, Jack! You're keeping the whole show waiting," cried
Summertown. "'The stars are setting, and the caravan starts for the Dawn
of Nothing. Oh, make haste!' Or words to that effect."
Barbara took a step forward, as Jack shook hands with Oakleigh and ran
across the terrace to the car. He might wound her vanity again, if she
could solace her soul with the knowledge that she had promised him all
that she had to give.
"Jack!"
Her voice was a timid whisper; the audience of jostling, laughing young
officers daunted her. What would they think of her, standing alone on
the terrace, running up to the car and insisting that she must speak to
Jack?