"Ah," said Gaythorpe. "Perhaps a debtor?"
No reply was returned to his question, which had been hardly audible.
Gaythorpe bit his lower lip. The rims of his glasses caught the light
as he glanced aside. He was not, perhaps, altogether certain; but he
thought he had made a very fair guess at the answers to two questions
which for some time had been troubling him. He wondered whether Monty
had ever asked for Edgar's help, and whether Patricia had ever refused
it....
vi
Although Edgar had so immediately denied the assertion that Patricia
was Harry's mistress, Olivia's words caused him suffering so poignant
that he could hardly maintain composure under the scrutiny of the
party. He had to admit his own jealousy of Harry, and he was also made
to remember Patricia's claim to wickedness, and Claudia's terrible
questions at the breakfast-table. Together they made a hateful
collection of poisonous thoughts. Although he now answered when he was
addressed, he did so with his mind far away. He could not eat; he could
not think. His one impulse was to get away from this table, from these
people, in order that he might be alone. All the anger and all the
laughter which had shaken him earlier in the evening were banished. He
did not believe the suggestions which his mind stealthily insinuated;
but they were all the time sliding into his attention, as though devils
were at work in his tired brain, maddening him. If Patricia were not
pure, of what use her youth, her charm, her cleverness? None, none,
none! He was distraught with suspicions; not with beliefs, not with
doubts; but with these suggestions, which were like secret voices of
temptation. It was essential that he should deal with them seriously,
by direct conflict, and not emotionally, by infatuated refusal to face
possibilities.
And the meal continued, and the chatter--although sobered by the turn
which the talk had taken--was maintained. Edgar could not leave the
others. Gaythorpe was his guest. He must play his part. This he did,
with honest endeavour to preserve his good spirits and his composure.
He followed the others into the drawing-room, and there drank coffee
with them. For a moment it struck him that it was almost better to be
with the whole party than with Gaythorpe alone. If Gaythorpe were in
his study, then a process of inquiry might be applied; until Edgar
could not be sure of his power to avoid such irritability as would be,
to Gaythorpe's probing mind, more betraying than actual proclamation.
But either from tact or from imperceptiveness, Gaythorpe made no
attempt, when at last they withdrew from the others, to introduce a
personal note. His desire to see Edgar that night had been due entirely
to business problems; and it was with these that the two men were
engaged for a further hour. Only as he left, old Gaythorpe, in bidding
farewell to Mrs. Mayne, dropped a hint unheard by Edgar. To Mrs.
Mayne's invitation for another evening he made a significant reply.
"And I hope that the next time I come I shall have the pleasure of
meeting Miss Patricia ... Patricia Quin. You have quite whetted my
appetite to see the young lady."
He bowed, and his hand-pressure was a reassurance to Mrs. Mayne; who
was much comforted by such confirmation of her belief in Patricia's
innocence.
vii
At last Edgar was alone. He had bidden good-bye to Olivia, and had
received her invitation to come at any time, on any day, to visit the
babies. He had said good-night to his mother and father, had received
a light touch of farewell from his sister; and he was in his room, by
the fire, with a pipe; and a tray bearing a decanter, a syphon, and a
glass, together with a slice of Mrs. Mayne's latest private cake, lay
on a small table behind him. He was bending over the fire in the room's
light glow, and the books were shining and the shelves gleaming in the
shadow, when, with a slight rustle, Claudia appeared in a long silk
dressing-gown, her hair plaited for the night.
"My dear," she hurriedly said. "I knew you'd feel a bit sick. You don't
believe it's true, do you?" The remark was not a question. It was a
statement.
Edgar turned, making no pretence of misunderstanding her.
"No," he said. "It's not true. And of course it's the venom of a
miserable woman. But it doesn't make me very cheerful, because ...
well, at any rate, they're friends."
"I was afraid of that," breathed Claudia. "I thought she might be ...
in love with him. I got an idea ... nothing at all ... just the sort of
thing you imagine.... That's really why I came."
"Well, we'll see," answered Edgar, gravely, and without very much
sanguine colour in his tone. "Good-night."
No caress passed. Claudia was a sister, and Edgar was a brother. They
loved and trusted each other. But neither could have borne to see the
other in acute distress; because both knew that the cause of such
distress would necessarily be external to themselves, and therefore
beyond reach of consolation. Claudia silently withdrew.
Nevertheless, her visit had done Edgar good. He sat on, smoking; and
the fire grew less brilliant, dying on the surface and keeping its red
heart, as it would continue to do long after the grate had seemed to a
casual eye to be filled only with sullen ash. The room was a large one,
and there were many books in bright, warm bindings. A desk stood near
the window, in such a position that in daylight it would catch the sun
upon its left side. The desk was orderly. It bore a stand lamp and a
stationery cabinet, and various bundles of papers, tied or encircled
with bands. To this desk Edgar presently went, standing above it lost
in thought, the finger tips of one hand resting lightly upon its
surface. And at length, when his pipe was burning harshly, he knocked
out the remaining charred fragments of tobacco, and mixed himself a
whisky-and-soda. In a few minutes he would be in bed, thinking still of
Patricia....
And, as he thought that, it seemed to Edgar that he heard the ringing
of the telephone bell. Strange! He opened the door of his room. There
was no mistake. The bell was furiously ringing. It was echoing through
the house. Edgar knew that everybody else was in bed, so he did not
delay. He ran down to the clothes-cupboard, and heard the rattling of
the bell still in the receiver as he put it to his ear.
"Hullo! Hullo!" he cried.
And from far off came a little breathless voice.
"Mr. Mayne's? Is that you? Edgar? This is Patricia. I'm at Monty's ...
yes, Monty's. Look here, I haven't ... changed my mind. No. But I'm
in trouble. Could you come and fetch me in your car? Could you? How
splendid! Don't come to the house. No, _don't_ come. I'll walk along
to Marlborough Road station, and wait for you there. Yes. You're sure
it's all right? Sure? Be quick. Quick...." Her voice died as she said
the last words; showing that she was moving away from the telephone
even as she spoke.
Strangely elated, his heart beating fast, Edgar stood for an instant
ejaculating with surprise.
"Well!" he whispered to himself. "What on earth does _that_ mean?" In
his excitement Edgar gave a little laugh. "Extraordinary!"
No more time was wasted. It was precious. He ran quickly to the
hall, back to get an overcoat, felt in its place for the garage key,
remembered approximately the amount of petrol in the tank of his car,
made sure that he had the key of the front door,--all as if in a single
movement of thought and action; and then, with his coat still open,
left the house at high speed. He was out again in the night, and in
that chilly darkness, racing to the garage; and as he raced he laughed
again, exhilarated by the sense of adventure, by the surprise of such
a call, by quick speculation as to its cause. Above everything else,
exhilarated by the knowledge that he was after all to see Patricia that
night.
CHAPTER TWENTY: BABIES
i
The night was very still and very fresh; but it was not freezing. A
little wind hung and played in the trees, and sometimes swept along the
ground; and it was dark because neither moon nor stars were visible.
All the noises of the day were silenced. Only at times did a solitary
taxicab create a burst of humming as it passed the end of a road, and
the sound faded as suddenly as it had risen. Edgar, running from the
house in his thin shoes, made hardly more than a light pattering upon
the sidewalk. It was a night for adventure.
He could not yield to the quick speculations which darted to his brain;
for the moment was one which demanded a clear head and rapidly applied
thought. So many things might impede his progress: the car might be
difficult to start, a tyre might be down, the thousand unexpected
vagaries with which the motorist may at any moment be hindered were all
present as possibilities to Edgar's mind. He was alert and anxious,
bent upon meeting every emergency before it arose; and as he ran
swiftly he was almost praying that there might on this occasion be no
mishap.
The garage in which Edgar kept his car lay at some distance from his
home. It had been a stable; but was so no longer. Two heavy, painted
doors fastened with a padlock. They were opened very quickly, and
pushed back against the outer wall of the garage. The light showed
his faithful friend standing mutely in its place, as if waiting for
his arrival--a grave little dark blue coupé with a long blue bonnet
to match its body, and an interior of soft grey. Even in his haste,
Edgar looked proudly upon the car. It was so beautiful, so speedy, so
responsive to his touch; its line was so graceful, its lightness so
apparent. Very fit instrument was this car for the deliverance of any
maid in distress. There was no least incongruity between it and the
romantic mission upon which Edgar believed himself to be engaged.
And yet he must not stay to think or feel. For him the detail of
mechanical aids to swiftness was of urgent importance. As if in one
movement, he switched on the lights, front and tail, manipulated
three little knobs, ran quickly to the front of the car, and gave his
engine a swing. His lips were tightly compressed; his expert ear was
strained.... The engine was cold. What if there should be a difficulty
in starting? Ghastly! Again he swung upon the handle, and at the
resulting sound straightened with a breath of inexplicable relief.
Within that little blur of fluttering noise lay reassurance. It was all
right. Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick, said the engine, as happy and regular
as if the car were coasting a hill. One, two, three; Edgar was in his
place. The noise was increased. The car was in motion. He was out upon
the dark road, speeding to Patricia through the deserted streets, now
so fair and open to the questing traveller; the only sound audible
to Edgar that beautiful eagerness which animated his own car. His
eyes were steady and his hand easy upon the wheel. The lights of the
main thoroughfares were clear, unearthly, and the way was free, as if
inviting him to the race.
London at night he knew; but this journey gave Edgar a new vision of
it. So quickly did he pass familiar objects that they swam together in
his recording impression. It was London dignified and purified into
ghostly loveliness by the night, but London so decreased in size that
it became a village. All monuments and buildings of great size or
antiquity were made insignificant; the broad roads of the west as he
sped through them were so many paths. He had his goal, and could not
attend the beauties he so silently and so eagerly left upon his way.
And at last, as he emerged to the appointed meeting-place, Edgar saw
Patricia, a little disconsolate figure, waiting in the shadow of the
railway-station façade. All there was darkness. The last trains had
rumbled their way through the station, and it was as deserted as if it
had been forgotten. Only Patricia's outline was to be discerned, but
she was recognisable, and as he turned the car and ran alongside the
kerb she came immediately forward. Both moved as in a dream. He had
one glimpse of a white face within the radiance of the nearer lamp;
and his nerves thrilled as he opened the door so that she could join
him. It was an almost mute encounter, with midnight long past, in this
silence and darkness, and there was unavoidable constraint upon both
sides, so singular was the relation existing between them. Without a
word, Patricia shut the door and drew back into the farther corner of
the car, away from Edgar. To his inquiry she made no answer, and he
saw that her eyes were closed, as if in complete exhaustion. Puzzled,
Edgar touched her hand once; but there was no response, and after a
single instant in which he tried to gain some knowledge from Patricia's
expression he turned away once more and in silence they began their
journey together.
ii
Now all was changed. Edgar no longer drove at reckless speed. He went
slowly and easily by a longer route, which took them by frequented
streets; and they passed many cabs or cars travelling from the
opposite direction. They were thus not alone, since they were in an
active world. Edgar was still concentrated upon the car and the road;
but he was very conscious of Patricia's ominous and stubborn silence.
Many explanations of it, and speculations as to what had happened, and
what had made her telephone to him at so late an hour entered his head;
but a moving automobile at night, in a city, when one is the driver, is
not a possible situation for agitated enquiry. Edgar therefore waited
for Patricia to explain of her own accord, which apparently she could
not yet do. Therefore, with only occasional slight glances aside at the
face half invisible in the darkness, he concerned himself wholly with
their progress. Only when the road was at last clear, and he could take
the wheel with his right hand, did he stretch out the left to her.
"What is it?" he asked. "What _was_ it?"
Patricia took his hand in both her own, and pressed it, holding it
tightly against her breast. But still she did not speak; and in a
moment, when there was an obstruction in the road, Edgar was forced to
withdraw his hand so that he could use the other to sound the warning
horn. He could feel Patricia's hand extended so that she could touch
him, and the knowledge that she wished this reassuring contact gave him
a faint happiness; and so they sat together in the darkness until they
arrived in Chelsea, and in the road where Patricia lived. Edgar stopped
the car and the engine, turning to her.
"You haven't changed your mind," he said, in a murmur. "What then?"
His arm was moved to embrace her; but she did not permit it. Only she
again took his hand in both of hers.
"I haven't changed my mind at all," said Patricia in a cold voice.
"So I heard," answered Edgar, smiling, his face close to hers.
"But I wanted to see you," she whispered.
"And then?"
There was a pause.
"Nothing," whispered Patricia again, so low that he could hardly hear
her. She immediately afterwards stiffened, discarding his hand as
though it had been a loathsome temptation. Edgar stared down at his
poor hand. "Nothing--nothing at all."
"It's done you good to see me?" he asked. He could see a quick little
nodding. "Well, that's something, don't you think?"
"You're good," said Patricia. "You're better than me."
"Of course, I'm extraordinarily good," Edgar agreed. "But--"
"Silly!" It was a sort of ashamed mumble that he heard. "Well, I'm
going now."
"Oh, not yet." He had tried to take her hand; but Patricia eluded him,
and bent forward to open the door. The catch was difficult, and she
could not master it. Edgar also bent forward, both arms extended; and
it seemed so much easier to take Patricia in his arms than to undo the
catch of the door that he could not help following the easier course.
"No!" cried Patricia, succeeding with the catch, and almost tumbling
out of the car. She shut the door firmly behind her; and Edgar, inside,
looked out upon Patricia, who stood without. The window upon that
side of the car was raised, and so communication between them was
impossible. Edgar opened the door. "Don't get out," said Patricia,
quickly. "Thank you very much for coming for me. It was awfully good of
you to come."
"Not at all," said Edgar, very politely, stepping to the ground. "But
won't you tell me why you wanted to see me? And there are one or two
other things, by the way--"
Patricia groaned.
"I can't argue with you to-night," she said, as if in a goaded voice of
exhaustion.
"Will you argue with me to-morrow?"
"I'll _never_ argue with you!" vehemently exclaimed Patricia. He did
not believe her. He thought she would always argue with him. "And I'm
not sure that I want to see you to-morrow."
"Very well," said Edgar quietly. He took off his cap, and stepped back
into the car.
"What time?" cried Patricia.
He leaned forward.
"You're a silly little thing!" he said. "But as to-morrow is Saturday,
and I shall not go to the office at all, I'll call for you in this at
ten o-clock, and take you to some thoroughly vulgar and third-rate
hotel for lunch, and then I'll explain--I won't argue; but I'll
explain--what's the matter with you."
And with that he used his mechanical starter, closed the door of the
car, and would have driven off. But Patricia had come round to the open
window of the car.
"Edgar," she said, pleadingly. "_Don't_ be unkind. I've been a horrible
little beast to-night; and I'm very ashamed of myself--and worse. And
I had to see you to ... to...." She stammered. "I can't tell you,"
she continued. "Yes, I can. I must. I wanted to see you to get clean
again after what I've been going through this evening. And while I was
waiting for you I thought I'd see if I was good enough for you. And
I'm _not_. But do come for me to-morrow. It's very necessary. Really.
Good-night, Edgar." She held her hand in at the window. He shook it,
and Patricia, who perhaps had expected another form of farewell,
withdrew the hand as the car moved forward upon its homeward journey.
iii
The next morning Edgar gave Claudia the surprise of her life. They were
sitting at breakfast, and Claudia was being very quiet and tactful in
case Edgar should be feeling badly about what Olivia had said during
dinner on the previous evening. She had taken peeps at him, and was
gradually relaxing her vigilance in face of his apparently normal
cheerfulness. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Mayne was present; and the brother
and sister were eating and drinking with a sedate nonchalance customary
to both.
"You going to the office to-day?" asked Claudia, suddenly.
Edgar awakened from some evidently pleasant preoccupation.
"Er ... no, not to-day," he said, helping himself to another piece of
toast. "By the way, you've got a fur coat, haven't you? Could you lend
it to me? That is, I suppose you wouldn't mind Patricia wearing it? I'm
taking her out to-day in Budge, and she might be cold."
Claudia passed her hand across her forehead.
"Taking Patricia.... My poor boy!" she cried. "Trouble's turned your
brain. No, no. _I'll_ come if you think it would do you good; but
Patricia...."
"I am taking Patricia out in Budge to-day," repeated Edgar. "And
require the loan of your fur coat. Don't ask questions, there's a good
girl; but if you wouldn't mind lending the coat it might be a boon."
Claudia collapsed.
"The world ends," she said, as if stupefied. "Of course, have my fur
coat. Take anything. But for Goodness' sake, Edgar, don't leave this
thing unexplained. I couldn't bear it."
"I may bring Patricia here to dinner to-night," answered Edgar,
briefly. "On the other hand, I may not."
"Quite probably not, I should say," observed Claudia, with detachment.
"Does she _know_ you're taking her out in Budge?" He nodded. Claudia
rushed wildly to the door, and returned presently bearing a fur coat.
"There!" she cried. "And if you won't tell me what communication you've
had with Patricia since I went to bed last night you're a pig, and I'll
throw you over."
He explained, tactfully, that Patricia had telephoned. He said no more.
He was not now quite sure what _had_ happened on the previous night. He
could not disentangle from each other the speeches actually made and
those which had occurred to him since as possible to have been made in
such circumstances. He was sure of only one thing; and he was not, as
yet, ready to tell Claudia the whole truth. Therefore he took her fur
coat and swung easily out of the house bearing it upon his arm.
Claudia, left by herself at the breakfast-table, was bereft of
self-confidence.
"Well!" she exclaimed. "What does it all mean? I'm flabbergasted!"
She knew there had been no telephone call this morning. She knew that
Patricia had no telephone in her rooms. It was a mystery. For the first
time she wondered whether it might not be the case that Patricia loved
Edgar. She had not believed that hitherto. It was a testimony to her
insight as well as to her sisterly tact that she had not believed it
and had not pretended to believe it, while at the same time she had
resolved that it should become credible to both Edgar and herself.
Perhaps, also, to Patricia. She went about her work during the morning
with a lighter heart than she had known for several days.
iv
Edgar was punctual in his arrival at Patricia's door. As he left the
car and lowered its hood, a church clock near by struck the hour. He
advanced to the front door, and knocked. And as he did so Patricia
appeared at the door, dressed for going out. She had feverishly been
ready for ten minutes, and had watched for him. She greeted him, but
their eyes did not meet, and he could see that she was still pale,
possibly from want of sleep; possibly even, it might have been, from
inability to eat her breakfast.
"I brought a coat of Claudia's," he said, with a good deal of
carelessness which covered a temporary lack of assurance. "You'd better
wear it, because it may be very cold driving. Would you like to leave
your own coat? No, better bring it."
Patricia was mystified as to his reasoning; but she allowed herself
to be packed into the fur coat, and then sat quite still while Edgar
re-started the car and drove down the road and round a corner into
the King's Road and so through Putney to Kingston and out on to the
Guildford road. She had tried to equal his casualness with her own;
but she was feeling very shaky, and was glad of the silence. Patricia
did not know where they were going; but the car's smooth motion
was delightful, and the morning was crisply cold; and as they drew
free of traffic and tramcars the opening country began to surround
her with beauties which sprang freshly upon every hand and awakened
self-forgetful rapture in her heart. Although the year was dying, there
were trees which still clung to their leaves, and strange attractive
byeways which caught the eye and roused the impulse to explore; and,
as they sped farther, charming little towns and villages which she had
never before seen. When once they were through Guildford and upon the
Hog's Back the views--thinned and obscured though they were by autumnal
mists--were entrancing, and Patricia lay back with colour coming again
into her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. She was cosily warm in the
borrowed fur coat; the car, although small, had the movement of one
considerably larger; and as Patricia had almost complete ignorance
of motoring the experience was new and fine. Everything passed
swiftly--everything was glimpsed, half-seen, and immediately succeeded
by some other object of beauty or interest, until it seemed as though
she must be surfeited, since the greedy mind could not hold so many
fleeting images of loveliness. Patricia thought that this must be the
way in which children saw the whole of life--as a great swift progress
of joys to which they had only to stretch their hands. But those who
grew up knew that the joys passed before ever they were gathered.
The joys alone? Perhaps the sorrows also. Everything ... everything
passed.... That was the thought in her mind. She remembered the French
saying.... Everything passes. Would this journey end? Would she always
travel unsatisfied, wonder-struck and unresting? Was that her lot? The
fear of it made her shiver.
"Cold?" asked Edgar, aside.