ward off a blow. It was then that Jack stared at her, through her, into
her soul; and his eyes had followed her ever since. At first she braced
herself to meet his attack, but it was not the occasion for conventional
recriminations. If a man's soul could be imperilled, she had handed
Jack's over to damnation. God . . . Hell . . . Immortal souls. . . . She
had not believed in them till that moment, but there was always that
eerie hundredth chance that they existed.
Eerie. . . .
Her attention was captured by the word and wandered away in search of a
missing line.
"_It's like those eerie stories nurses tell,
Of how some actor on a stage played Death,
With pasteboard crown, sham orb and tinselled dart,
And called himself the monarch of the world;
Then, going in the tire-room afterward,
Because the play was done, to shift himself,
Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly,
The moment he had shut the closet door,
By Death himself._"
Jack had sat silent and motionless, too much dazed even to rise and
leave her. There was a sound of more voices in the hall, and Charlie
Framlingham waltzed into the room with Jack Summertown and subsided at a
table by the door. They had hardly begun supper when George Oakleigh
entered to say that war had changed from speculation to probability and
that officers were being mobilized. Then at last Jack roused, and she
had only a moment for making amends.
"Jack was talking about applying for a commission," she went on. "I went
out on to the terrace, I wanted to _think_. . . . It was no good
_apologizing_. . . . They got into the car, one after another. I was
still trying to think. Jack came down the steps. . . . And then I saw
that there was only one reparation I _could_ make; I had to offer myself
to him, even if he hit me in the mouth. . . . I didn't care about my
vanity now; I called out to him, but the others were making such a
noise. . . . The car started, I was blinded by the head-lights. When I
could see again, there was only a little pin-point of red light. I
shouted, ran. . . . Then I came back. When every one else had gone to
bed, I told Jim. And I thought he'd have killed me. . . . And then I
swore solemnly that Jack should have me if he wanted me. I wrote to him,
and he never answered my letter. I tried to see him. And now . . ."
Eric rose and stood by the fire, resting his head on his hand.
"You offered the only reparation in your power," he said at length.
"What am I to do?" she asked dizzily. "I want peace! . . . I told him
that, whatever happened, however long the war went on, I should always
be here, always ready to keep my promise, always prepared to make what
amends I could. . . . I've dedicated myself. If he's alive, until he
tells me that he rejects me . . ."
With a sigh of exhaustion, she slipped forward, turning as she fell and
burying her arms and face. The rose in her hair trembled to the heaving
of her shoulders and scattered a shower of petals over the cushions of
the sofa.
4
"And I meant to be so sweet, I meant to make you enjoy yourself until
you thought me quite irresistible," Barbara laughed through her tears,
kneeling upright on the sofa and dabbing at her eyes. "And then I was
going to tell you that I have to come up to my dentist once a week for
about two months; and I shall be all alone and I wanted you to promise
to make me happy--like to-night."
Her recovery was as sudden as her collapse. Still kneeling with her
hands clasped behind her head, she leaned forward until he had to catch
her in his arms.
"I don't feel I've made you particularly happy to-night," said Eric,
bending one arm into an angle for her head and throwing the other round
her waist to hold her on to the sofa.
"I feel as if my spirit were almost clean again. . . . Will you come and
see me sometimes, Eric?"
"If you'll go to bed _instantly_, after leaving a note on the mat to say
that you're not to be called till you ring."
There was a touch of frost in the air, as Eric walked home; yet he went
slowly, because he wanted to think. Jack was his best friend, and
Barbara had behaved. . . . He could not abuse the girl even in thought,
after trying to comfort her and saying that she started with a clean
slate. But if any other girl had behaved like that . . . any girl who
meant nothing to him. Even with Barbara he ought not to be so suavely
forgiving at Jack's expense. . . . It was impossible to reconcile
loyalty to both of them.
Before going to bed he wrote her a note, inviting her to lunch with him
next day at Claridge's before she went back to Crawleigh Abbey; and, as
soon as she was sure of his mood, Barbara released her invitations; the
quietest possible party with Amy Loring (who was so anxious to meet him
because he had known Jim), two days afterwards a dinner for two in
Berkeley Square, followed by Mrs. O'Rane's house-warming, later still a
decorous and rather dull dinner with Colonel Grayle.
"You might dine with _me_ for a change," Eric suggested, as he drove her
home at the end of the week. "I'll get my sister to come and keep you in
countenance--she's never seen my flat--and I'll think of another man."
"I'd sooner dine with you alone, Eric," pleaded Barbara.
"On first principles I discourage young girls from visiting bachelors in
their rooms. I was born in the 'eighties, and I don't seem to have
caught up."
"There _are_ restaurants," Barbara suggested. "It's quite fairly
respectable to dine without a chaperon--since the war."
Eric turned and looked out of the window with a frown. He had not
troubled to tell her that he had lately received a shock which
threatened to make further meetings impossible. During a lull in the
tumult at Mrs. O'Rane's party he had heard Lady Maitland's rumbling
preparations for an introduction. "Eric Lane? My dear Raymond Stornaway,
you mean to say you haven't heard of him? But he's _the_ coming
playwright. You've not seen that thing of his----? My memory's like a
_sieve_. . . . You must _go_." It was very familiar, but, as the other
voices fortuitously grew hushed, he heard a new pendant. "But you know
_her_? Babs. Babs Neave. Barbara Neave. Now don't pretend you don't know
Lady Barbara Neave! Every one tells me that they're desperately in love
with each other. Of course Crawleigh wouldn't _hear_ of it, but he
doesn't know what to do. You know what the girl is! If you oppose her.
. . . It's an absurd position. You must come along and meet them. And
I'll arrange a little party. I think you'd be amused."
"All the restaurants are so crowded nowadays," said Eric.
"But if you telephone for a table----"
He was grown too fond of Barbara to provide people like Lady Maitland
with an excuse for saying that he was compromising her; and he was not
going to pave the way for an unpleasant altercation with Lord Crawleigh
(when he would have nothing to say for himself).
"I'll dine with you, if you like," he suggested.
5
On the morning of the day when "The Bomb-Shell" was to be produced, Eric
found his diary overflowing into a new volume. Before snapping the lock
for the last time and burying the book in the little steel safe which he
had had built behind one of the panels in the dining-room, he turned the
pages for ten months, starting with the first night of his first play
and ending with the dress rehearsal of the second. The ten months'
record was so engrossing that he lay in bed, smoking and reading,
instead of ringing for his secretary. One day he had been an unknown
journalist; the next--in a phrase of which he could never tire--he awoke
to find himself famous. Half-forgotten acquaintances who had sent him
cards for dances now invited him to dinners at which he was courted and
instantly handed on. At first he had written down, with more pleasure
than cynicism, the complimentary phrases which had tickled his vanity;
that had soon palled, and the compliments were monotonously framed;
after two months he only recorded such triumphs as when old Farquaharson
invited him to call. "_I would give much to have written your play; I
would have given anything to write it at your age._" Some day, when
Barbara was in a disparaging mood, he would shew her that jealously
guarded letter.
An idle whim sent his fingers searching for the Poynter dinner where he
had first met her. Since that night her influence, suspected but never
established, had caused "_Dined with Lady Poynter_" to be a frequent
entry. Every Thursday he went to Berkeley Square, every Friday Barbara
lunched with him in Ryder Street--after sweeping aside his scruples by
appealing in his presence to her mother for leave to come to his flat
unchaperoned. And for an appreciable part of each week Barbara devoted
herself to arranging further meetings in the houses of their friends.
"_Took Lady B. home late and circuitously._"
Eric was mildly surprised to find how lately their tropical intimacy had
begun. Two months. . . . And no one--in court or outside--would believe
the truth. . . . "_Dined with B. in her boudoir, the house being in
curl-papers. She unwontedly communicative, but tired and in need of
rest._" The discreet phrasing gave him all the reminder that he wanted
to construct again the night when she had told him about Jack
Waring--she had indeed been communicative----; and any one who broke
down as she had done presumably stood in need of rest. . . .
On that night she had turned herself from an adventure into a habit;
in place of sentimental tilting there had been born a love without
passion. . . .
He laid aside the diary as the telephone-bell rang.
"Hullo? Good-morning, Eric. Many happy returns of the day!"
"But it isn't my birthday."
"It's our new play, stupid. Are you feeling very nervous?"
"Not in the least. If it's going to be a success, it'll _be_ a success;
if it's going to be a failure, my feeling nervous won't help things."
"M'yes. I like you better when you're less philosophical and more human.
I suppose you're simply flooded with telegrams and letters of good
wishes. Darling, I'm so excited! If it doesn't go well--of course, it
isn't a _good_ play; I've never said that, have I?"
"I sometimes wonder whether you'll ever say that of any play I write,"
he laughed.
"Oh, you _will_ do good work some day. But I thought, after knowing me
all these weeks--well, if it doesn't make the most tremendous hit, I
shall walk quietly out of the theatre and throw myself into the river."
"I certainly shan't jump in after you."
"Not even for the advertisement? Would you miss me, Eric?"
"I'm almost sure to at first," he answered with a laugh. "Babs, I've got
to get up now----"
"Don't you dare to ring me off, Eric! I want to know about to-night."
"Scott's at seven."
"And what dress would you like me to wear?"
He pondered over the familiar ritual.
"The one I always call the 'fairy queen,' I think."
"Well, say 'please.'"
"'Please.' I must get up now, or I shall be late at the office.
Good-bye, Babs darling."
"Good-bye, sweetheart."
They dined with unnecessary haste. For all his philosophy, Eric's
nervousness shewed itself in over-frequent consultation of his watch,
and they entered their box before the stalls were half-full. Barbara sat
forward, bowing to friends in the familiar, first-night gathering; but
he preferred to stand at her side, hidden by a curtain, while she called
back the names of the new arrivals. This was a greater ordeal than the
evening when his first play was produced, for he was known now, and the
critics would judge him by the success and standard of the earlier play;
instead of a handful of old colleagues, he was now on nodding terms with
a third of the audience; it was a personal trial, and he did not want to
fail under their eyes; most of all he did not want to fail before
Barbara.
As the curtain went up, he sat down beside her and, after a quick glance
at the stage, began to inspect the house. Her hand slipped into his, and
he heard a whispered "Cheer up! It's going to be a tremendous success. I
will it to be!" Then his attention went back to the house. Why the devil
couldn't people take the trouble to arrive in time? Pushing their way in
late, blocking the view. . . . Mrs. Shelley, of all people. He knew her
well enough to speak plainly about it. . . . The house was very quiet,
very cold; expectant, perhaps, but they ought to be warming now. . . . A
slip--and another! It was curious that a woman like Mabel Elstree could
go on rehearsing and being pulled up over the same thing again and again
without ever learning--a moderately intelligent woman too--working at
her own job. . . . The last week had been thrown away. . . .
But in all the rehearsals he had never noticed how this opening dragged.
Manders had never criticized it (one of the few things he _hadn't_ tried
to cut about); and it was dragging. In a moment people would be yawning
and talking to one another; the pit would become noisy with its feet;
already there was a rustle; if they would only look at the stage instead
of trying to learn their programmes by heart! They should have done that
before! And still the house was cold. . . . God in heaven! small blame
to it!
Eric sat back with tightly shut mouth, then grew suddenly rigid. There
was a single quick laugh, the herald for gusty laughter rising
simultaneously from a dozen different parts; instead of stopping, it
swelled and engulfed the house. Ah, thank God! that sea of vacant, stiff
faces had broken! The house was alive and warm. The players, pausing of
necessity, breathed thanksgiving before returning to dialogue which had
become suddenly imbued with new strength and finish.
Eric felt Barbara's lips at his ear.
"Didn't I say I'd will it for you?" she whispered.
"It might go quite well," he answered, unsuccessfully nonchalant. "Every
one's in a good temper now."
"And you can let go my hand for a minute!" She winced and put one
knuckle into her mouth. "I stood it as long as I could, but you've been
_driving_ my rings into my unhappy finger--All right, darling! kiss the
place to make it well. I could _see_ you weren't enjoying yourself, but
you wanted me to feel it, too. So sweet of you!"
In the first interval they stayed in the box and allowed themselves to
be seen; during the whole of the second an army of their friends laid
siege to the door with greetings to Barbara and congratulations to Eric.
He would have liked to smoke a cigarette outside with some of his old
colleagues; he would have liked still better to think it all over in
peace. This was going to be a greater success than the first play! And
Barbara, with tears in her eyes, was saying "Come and congratulate us!"
Eric had little idea who flooded the box during that tempestuous ten
minutes. Lady Maitland was there with an air of having written the play
or at least of having discovered the author. And Gerald Deganway, who
never missed a first night, simpering falsetto congratulations. And
Colonel Waring and Agnes: he remembered them, because he was so much
surprised to see them . . . and he had wanted to introduce Agnes to
Babs, and there had been no opportunity. . . . And Colonel Grayle and
Sonia O'Rane, who invited them to come back for supper. . . . There was
violent reaction after his early nervousness, and he found himself
within an inch of giggling. When the lights were lowered and he had
hurried the last visitors from the box, he sat down and buried his face
in his hands. How long it was he never knew, before Barbara leaned over
him, pulling gently at his arm.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
"Come outside," she whispered.
They walked to a flight of four steps leading through a fire-proof door
to the wings.
"Where are you going to?" he asked.
"Sit down; it's quiet here. Now listen carefully: there's only about
another twenty minutes, and then they'll want a speech from you. Now, I
won't say a word! Just think out a few sentences; don't try to be
original or clever; just thank them--the usual thing--as conventional as
you can make it." Her solicitous voice trembled and broke. "My own
darling, I am so happy to see you happy! I'm so proud of you! _Our_
play! Oh, Eric, thank God for you and all your sweetness to me!"
He looked up with startled eyes, suddenly tired.
"You're an angel, Babs! But you always give me a guilty conscience, when
you're like this. I think of the things I might have done and haven't;
and I think of the things I have said and done, which I might have
spared you."
"Well, go on giving me your love! Why _you_ should talk as if you owed
_me_ anything . . ."
A moment later he was alone, with the memory of her lips still trembling
on his. He lighted a cigarette and paced up and down the passage,
thinking out his speech. She had left the box-door open, and, as the
curtain fell, he took up his position where he could see the house
applauding. Loud and continuous, gloriously continuous, came the
clapping. The curtain was drawn aside, and the players came forward,
one by one. A crescendo of cheers greeted Manders, dying down until he
could utter his smiling six sentences of acknowledgement. Then there was
a pause. The lights were still lowered. Simultaneously in rasping barks
came the call of "Author! Author!"
Barbara turned her head and blew him a kiss with the finger-tips of both
hands.
"I suppose I'd better put in an appearance," he drawled, stamping on his
cigarette-end. "Don't be offended if I don't look at you, Babs; you'd
make me forget all I was going to say."
* * * * *
"_Affection is the most insidious form of self-indulgence._"--From
the Diary of Eric Lane.
CHAPTER FIVE
MORTMAIN
"Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain--
I only feel--Farewell!--Farewell!"
LORD BYRON: "FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER."
1
"I don't ask you to say it's a good play," Eric observed to Barbara, as
they rumbled slowly home from the O'Ranes' supper-party, "but is it less
bad than the other?"
Any natural diffidence had evaporated before the memory of the darkened
theatre, the insistent calls of "Author," his effort--while waiting for
the applause to die down--to distinguish faces in the stalls, the
renewed clapping at his speech's end, the _levee_ in their box and the
triumphant supper.
"I'm too happy to be teased, Eric," she answered, nestling to his side.
"It isn't the great play that you're going to write some day, when
you've learned . . . and suffered; you still get your women out of
rag-books and toy-shops; but it's very clever, it's a great success and
it's made you happy. That's what matters. Who was the man in the box
that you called 'sir'?"
"I call most men 'sir,' if they're older than I am."
"He was with a girl in a grey dress and some rather good pearls."
Eric thought for a moment and looked at her in some surprise.
"That was Colonel Waring--Jack's father. The girl was Jack's sister
Agnes."
Barbara did not answer for a moment.
"I thought it was _him_ at first," she whispered.
Since the night of Barbara's confession, Jack's name had never been
mentioned. If he were indeed killed, her memory of him would gradually
wither and die; and it was almost impossible to discuss him without
taking sides and indulging in moral judgements. The Warings had
exhausted every means of getting news and would soon be forced to
presume his death; perhaps they had already done so, but Eric was
avoiding Red Roofs since his discovery that he did not want to marry
Agnes. Amid the turmoil of greetings and congratulations, he had found
time to feel embarrassed by her presence in the box; until Barbara took
the light and colour out of all other women, Agnes had satisfied every
demand. He was embarrassed, too, by seeing the two girls face to face,
watching, measuring and unobtrusively speculating about each other, as
women always did; if there were room for moral judgements, Barbara had
no defence against Jack Waring's sister.
"She gave me that glass horse-shoe for luck the night my first play was
produced," said Eric irrelevantly.
"And Jack gave me the counterpart," Barbara sighed. "That's why I wanted
yours to replace it. Instead of which I only broke yours."
"Well, you haven't broken my luck, as you feared."
Her shoulder, pressing against his, communicated a shudder. Though three
months had passed without news of Jack, Barbara could not feel secure
even when she was alone with Eric.
"Don't boast. You may yet come to curse the day when we met, you may
find I've spoiled your life and broken your luck."
"Luck?" Eric laughed a little scornfully. The success of the
"Bomb-Shell" ensured that, if he never wrote another line, he would at
least not starve. "When are we going to meet again, Babs?"
Looking out of the window, she saw that their cab was opposite the Ritz
and that she had three hundred yards more of him.
"Does it matter?" she asked. "If you're so independent of me?"
"I can live without peach-brandy, but I like it. If you'll dine with me,
I'll give you some--and all the food you most like. I owe the O'Ranes a
dinner----"
"Oh, we won't have any one else!" she interrupted. Her use of the plural
lost none of its charm by familiarity. "I'll come on Friday, if you
like."
"On Friday old Ettrick is giving a dinner in my honour at the club. What
about Monday? But I shan't let you come alone; as a matter of fact, I've
invited the O'Ranes for that night."
"You don't like being alone with me?"
"I'm thinking solely of what would be said."
Barbara pouted and sat silent until she could launch an ultimatum as the
cab stopped at her door. The success of his first night was making Eric
masterful; and she wanted to test her power.
"If I can't dine with you in the way I like . . ." she began fretfully.
"You only want to shew me off to the O'Ranes. . . ."
Eric forgave the petulance because he could see that she was tired. But
he was tired too. . . .
"If you don't care about the O'Ranes, I'll see if I can get some one
else some other time," he said. "It wouldn't do for you to _dine_ with
me alone."
"I believe you're in love with Sonia," she rejoined ill-humouredly.
"What nonsense! . . . Good-night, Babs. Thanks so much for coming."
On reaching home, he wrote to invite Mrs. Shelley for Monday. If Barbara
rang him up in the morning, her repentance would be too late; he had
only four arm-chairs in the dining-room.
There was no call from Barbara in the morning, neither note nor meeting
throughout the day and no call at night. Such a thing had never happened
before; there might be some occult cause of offence; his experience of
Barbara taught Eric that she would cease to sulk when she wanted him; it
was his experience of all women that none repaid a man the trouble of
trying to understand her moods. Thursday was like Wednesday (and he knew
that she was not returning to Crawleigh until Saturday); Friday was like
Thursday--until the evening, when he nervously entered the Thespian Club
as guest of honour. The hall-porter projected himself through the window
of his box and handed Eric a note.
"_All success, dear Eric_," he read. "_I wish I could be there to hear
you. I shall ring you up to-night, and you must tell me all about it.
Imagine I'm sitting by you, darling, and don't let the speech disappoint
me. B._"
He thrust the note into his pocket, as Lord Ettrick came forward to
greet him. Congratulations and badinage broke out on all sides; he shook
hands until his arm ached and he gave up trying to count the numbers; it
was enough that he could recognize one face out of three. . . .
"You seem to have mobilized half the club," Eric commented, looking
with gratification at the growing half-circle by the fire.
"You're between Gaisford and me," said Ettrick, detaching him for a
cocktail and cigarette at the far end of the room. "I'm proposing your
health, you'll have to reply; and that'll be all the speeches, unless we
sit late. Manders has promised to come as soon as he can get away from
the theatre, and that may start the ball again. By the way, is it
official yet? I haven't seen any announcement."
"Is _what_ official?"
"I heard that you were engaged."
Eric's composure poured out of him, and he felt his mouth growing loose.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked with an effort.
"Oh, scores of people have told me. I came to your box rather late the
other night, but I was told that the lady in question had been inviting
every one to congratulate you both."
For a moment Eric frowned in perplexity; then his face lightened.