ten minutes to walk home, perhaps twenty in the fog; (he was frightened
by the thought of her being alone). By then she might have found
something to suggest. . . . The telephone could not be more silent if
she were in very truth dead. He sat down at his writing-table and
addressed an envelope to her, but he had nothing to put inside it.
"_As if I'd murdered her._" It made it no easier that Barbara had begged
him not to cast her off; wives sometimes begged men to run away with
them. Until she drove the burning cigarette-end into her hand, crying
out that she was fighting for her life, he had not understood her
passionate need of him; yet, when her need was most passionate, there
was something in her life to which she would subordinate him. . . . The
proposal had been checked on his lips.
The telephone was poignantly silent. She would never ring him up again
to tell him her plans for the day, never ramble again through shops and
exhibitions, never again ring him up to bid him good-night. The Thursday
dinner, the Friday luncheon, their notes at the week-end, the sweet
pride of possession, her glorious companionship in his cloistered life
were over. For no one else had he ever taken trouble; now he was thrown
back on an insufficient self. To-morrow or the next day she might have a
headache; never again would she give him a tired smile and say, "Won't
you charm the pain away?"
"_As if I'd murdered her._" Eric crossed the hall to his bedroom. The
front door was still open, and on the mat lay Barbara's scarf. He was
glad of an excuse to postpone undressing and spent five minutes lovingly
packing it in tissue paper for his secretary to carry round. It would be
savagery not to write a note. . . .
"_Dearest, you left this behind. I hope you didn't take cold without
it. It seems ironical for me to say I'll do anything I can for you.
But it's true. Eric._"
He rose after four hours' sleepless tossing and distracted himself by
drawing cheques until the post was delivered. There were many letters,
but none from Barbara. He read the _Times_, dictated to his secretary,
handed her the parcel for Berkeley Square and climbed uneasily out of
bed. Though he dawdled over his dressing, there was no telephone call to
reward him; and, as the Crawleighs were spending Christmas in London, he
would not meet her in the train.
Half-way to Winchester he grew drowsy and fancied himself in his dreams
once more kneeling on the floor beside the sofa, with his arms round
Barbara's shoulders. "_As if I'd murdered her._" His lips were moving,
as he awoke, and he wondered whether the haunting refrain had escaped
him.
His sister was waiting for him at Winchester, and he greeted her with a
confused affection that struggled to compensate for the pain which he
had brought to Barbara.
"We were afraid you might be too much in request to come down here,"
said Sybil. "Eric, I've been invited to go to a dance in London next
week; I suppose you wouldn't like to chaperon me? Mother does so hate
leaving the country even for one night."
"Will it be very late? I can't do any work next day, if I don't get a
little sleep. As a matter of fact, haven't chaperons ceased to exist?"
"I don't know. I was invited by a man I met at the Warings. He's quite a
nice creature, but I can't dine and go even to a charity ball and dance
with him all night absolutely on my own. Mother wouldn't let me, even if
I wanted to."
Eric shrank from the prospect of sleepless hours in an overheated room.
"It's surprising what things _are_ done nowadays," he said without
committing himself.
"Surprising, yes. But we're rather behind the times in Lashmar. _You_
wouldn't like me to go alone, would you?"
"Certainly not!" If people began gossiping about Sybil and her nameless
admirer as they gossiped about Barbara and himself, he would very soon
drop the young man a plain hint. And he could never make Barbara see
that she wanted him to behave as he would allow no one to behave to his
own sister. . . . "I'll come if I'm not already booked up."
As he entered the Mill-House, Eric tried to lose himself in the
atmosphere of a place where he had spent Christmas for a quarter of a
century. His last night in London haunted him, and it was only by trying
to console his mother for the absence of her two younger boys that he
could avoid thinking of Barbara. There was a busy exchange of presents
after dinner, and next day he accompanied his parents to church, as he
had done for five and twenty years, finding peace and a welcome in the
worm-eaten pew, the cobwebbed window, the top-heavy decorations and the
familiar musty books. The state prayers were invoked therein on behalf
of "Victoria, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the Princess of Wales and
all the Royal Family." And there was an old hymnal with a loose binding;
for years Eric had slipped one of the Waverley Novels into its cover to
read during the sermon. . . . To-day he listened no more to the sermon
than in other years; he wondered what Barbara was doing. . . .
After the carols they lingered in the churchyard to greet their friends.
If only she would make up her mind that Jack was dead, there would be no
need for this anguished parting; then, though he had never contemplated
it until a week before, he could ask Barbara to marry him. As yet,
though he wanted her, he had still to find whether he could be content
without her; before marrying, she must subordinate obligation, memory
and conscience to her need of him. . . . The Warings were waiting at the
lych-gate, and he asked Agnes whether she had any news of Jack.
"I'll let you know when we have," she answered, shaking her head. "It's
nearly six months now. . . . I'm just keeping my mind a blank."
They turned out of the churchyard and walked in silence towards Lashmar
village. For ten years they had always hurried ahead of their parents
for a moment together; and, before anything else, Agnes always thanked
him for her present. This year Eric had given her nothing; it was unfair
to pretend that there was no change of feeling. . . .
"I suppose you're as busy as ever?" she asked abruptly. "The new play
seems to be a great success."
"I think it's doing quite well," he assented. "I wish I'd seen more of
you that night, Agnes."
"There was such a crowd of people; we only put our heads into the box to
congratulate you. Eric, I'd never seen your friend Lady Barbara at close
quarters before; she's--bewitching."
Without daring to look at her face, Eric tried to discover from Agnes'
tone whether she had chosen or blundered on such a word.
"She varies," he said judicially. "That night--yes, she was looking her
best then. Sometimes . . . she's not very strong, you know. . . ."
He broke off, thinking of their last night together. They walked as far
as Lashmar Common without speaking, though he knew that his silence
betrayed him.
At luncheon Sir Francis proposed the health of his absent sons, and the
afternoon passed in lazy talk round the library fire. The smell of the
pine logs filled Eric with old memories; he slipped on to a foot-stool
and sat with his head resting against his mother's knees, drowsy and a
little wistful. He wished that he could go back to a time when life was
less complicated and he could still confide in her.
"Tired, old boy?" asked Lady Lane, as she stroked his head.
"No. Only thinking. I can just remember our first Christmas here; there
was a party and a Christmas tree, and I retired to the terrace and had a
stand-up fight with some young friend, and our nurses came and separated
us. A long time ago, mother! Before Sybil was born."
The girl roused at sound of her name.
"You're getting frightfully old, Ricky. It's time you married and
settled down."
"I've settled down without marrying. You can't do both, you know."
The drawl in his voice unconsciously irritated the girl.
"Marrying and shaking up is more in your line," she retorted. "You're
too successful, too rich, too selfish, Ricky."
"My dear, I lead my life, and you lead yours. Why should either try to
disturb the other?"
"Because you lead such a rotten life. Honestly, Ricky, don't you get
sick of gadding about night and day with people who only condescend to
know you because you're a fashion?"
He smiled lazily at the uncompromising vigour of her criticism.
"To begin with, I don't do it night and day----"
"Ricky, you simply live in your Lady Barbara's pocket. Lots of people
have told me. If I were you, I wouldn't let her make a fool of me. After
all, you _are_ somebody. Is she going to marry you?"
"I haven't asked her. She's a great friend of mine----"
"H'm. Everybody asks me when you're going to be married. Honestly, they
do, Ricky. Three people this week. That's why I say she's making a fool
of you. I don't think you know how people are talking."
"Perhaps I do, but I didn't know it had spread as far as here," he
sighed.
"Well, you oughtn't to do it; and she oughtn't either," Sybil declared.
Eric gazed long into the fire without answering. How on earth had they
come to discuss Babs? He had been dreaming with wistful contentment of
simpler, less embarrassed times when at this hour a red-faced nurse
would enter and carry him, sleepily protesting, to bed. Sybil had
somehow forced the conversation, they had argued--and his father and
mother had listened without taking part, thereby ranging themselves on
Sybil's side or at least admitting that she was telling them nothing
new. . . . Sybil was a tigress for loyalty! Ever since she had decided
that he was to marry Agnes, she would have mauled and clawed any other
woman who got in the way. And when that woman trifled with the devotion
of a Lane and made a fool of one of the sacred family . . . No sister
ever imagined that a man could take care of himself. After all, who had
suffered by his tragic intimacy with Barbara?
"_As if I'd murdered her._" What was Babs doing now?
He looked at his watch and pulled himself, stretching and yawning, to
his feet.
"I shall go to sleep if I stay here," he said. "Is any one going to
dress?"
Twenty minutes later, when he came out of his bath, Lady Lane was
sitting in his bedroom.
"I didn't shew you Geoff's last letter," she said. "You'll see he says
something about 'The Bomb-Shell'; one of his friends has been to see it
and liked it very much."
Eric propped the letter against his looking-glass, as he began to dress.
"I say, have people down here really been marrying me off?" he asked.
Lady Lane's face, reflected in the mirror, was passive and incurious.
"There was some report in one of the papers, I believe," she explained.
"I didn't see it myself."
He volunteered nothing, and his mother looked indifferently round the
room, now exploring with her foot a shabby place in the carpet, now
rising to hook a sagging length of curtain to its ring. She had come
into his room to receive confidences and to help him; his moodiness did
not invite congratulations and was troubling her.
"I wonder if I shall _ever_ remember to bring some more shirts down
here," he mused. "I've three, four, five that I'll give you for your
bandage-class."
"I'll take them gratefully," she answered. There was a pause in which he
pushed a drawer home, selected a handkerchief and turned off the light
over his dressing-table; in another minute they would be downstairs, and
the opportunity would be gone. She slipped her arm through his and
walked to the door. "There's nothing worrying you, is there, Eric?"
"I'm afraid I've rather a faculty for letting things worry me," he
laughed. "If one didn't always have to work against time, at high
pressure----"
His mother was not deceived into thinking that work had anything to do
with his mood.
"No new worries?" she suggested. "The last month or two . . . You're not
looking well; that's why I asked. If you ever feel there's anything I
can do . . ."
The subject was dismissed as she opened the door. She was glad that she
had given him no opportunity of a denial, for Eric had always told her
the truth, hitherto.
He went to bed early and fell asleep at once after the restlessness of
the last two nights. When he felt his way back to wakefulness in the
morning, there was a subconscious sense that something important had
happened; a moment later he remembered with a pang that he and Barbara
had said good-bye.
He jumped up and rang for his shaving-water, though it was not yet
seven. He must find work to do, he must keep himself continuously
occupied; otherwise his brain would go on grinding out that phrase "_As
if I'd murdered her_." . . .
5
Half-way through the morning a belated postman splashed with expectant
Christmas cheerfulness to the Mill-House and unburdened himself of a
crushed and tattered load. Eric's share included an envelope addressed
in an unknown writing and marked "Urgent," "By hand." His fingers
trembled when he found a pencilled note from Barbara.
"_Christmas Eve._
"_My scarf has just arrived. Thank you for sending it; I'm sorry to
have been so careless. And I'm afraid I DID catch cold without it.
At least I'm in bed, and the doctor says he's going to keep me here.
I want you, in spite of everything, to come and see me. Come this
afternoon, Eric, before you go down to your people. Just for a
moment. I do want to see you so badly. You won't disappoint me, will
you? I'm ill, Eric, and so very lonely. Please, please come.
Barbara._"
He pocketed the letter and went on with the others, reading them
mechanically. As her note had reached his flat after he had left, no one
could blame him for disregarding her summons; for two days he had been
spared the necessity of deciding whether it had to be disregarded; he
had another twenty-four hours at Lashmar, no telegrams were delivered on
Boxing Day, and she had in fact not telephoned. If the servants had not
stamped and forwarded the letter, he would have had no knowledge of it
until his return to Ryder Street the following day.
And then?
The family was still opening parcels and comparing cards and almanacks
in the hall. He filled a pipe and tramped up and down his father's
library, trying to decide this question without losing his head. She was
ill, he had promised to help her, he wanted to help her, he was glad of
any excuse that would spare him a repetition of that waking sense of
loss. So far from having murdered her, he was urged to return; and he
asked nothing better than to go back.
And then?
Sybil was right; they ought neither of them to permit such an intimacy,
if nothing were to come of it. Sooner or later there would be
unpleasantness; and, instead of the one painful parting which still
haunted him, there would be two. The position was unchanged from the
time when he invited her to dinner and delivered his ultimatum. He must
leave the letter unanswered; if she appealed again, he must be deaf to
the appeal. There was no need to pretend that he liked his choice. She
might have a chill--or pneumonia; and henceforth he must depend on the
newspapers and on chance-met friends to find how she was and what she
was doing. The friends, too, accepting him as her guardian, would be
more likely to come to him for news; he would have to say that he had
not seen her for a week, a month, six months. . . . And they would
wonder and gossip about the mysterious estrangement as zealously as
about their "engagement"; and the kinder sort, like Lady Poynter,
instead of scheming to bring them together, would arrange their parties
with a tactful eye to secure that they did not meet. . . .
Eric paused to knock out his pipe and to reflect that, as he had made up
his mind, there was nothing to gain by pitying himself or by growing
angry with imaginary disputants. Sir Francis and Sybil came into the
library to begin the day's work; his mother rustled to and fro, giving
her orders. All that he had to do was to find an unoccupied table and
settle down to work. The intimacy was over. In time he might care to
think about it, he might even be able to meet Barbara, but at present he
had to keep his mind absorbed with other thoughts.
He had schooled himself to a semblance of stoicism when he reached his
office. It was temporarily undermined by a letter, also marked "Urgent,"
"By hand," which he found awaiting him.
"_Christmas Day._"
"_I suppose you left London before my note arrived. I sent another
and one to Lashmar, but the posts are so bad nowadays that I'm
writing to your office as well. I don't think you told me how long
you were going to be away, but please, I beg you, come and see me
just for a moment when you're back in London. I must see you again,
Eric. If you're not back to-morrow, you will be next day, I'm sure.
Please ring me up the moment you get this. Barbara._"
So she had lain waiting for him all Christmas Day, all Boxing Day; she
was waiting now, and he had no idea how to tell her that he could not
come.
The telephone rang, and he was surprised to hear Amy Loring's voice
instead of Barbara's.
"Is that Mr. Lane? Oh, forgive me for disturbing you at your work. I
expect you've heard that poor Babs is ill. Can you get to see her? She'd
like it so much."
Eric caught himself resolutely shaking his head at the telephone.
"I'm afraid it's impossible. I've been away for Christmas, and the work
here----"
"But can't you manage a moment? Look in on your way home."
"I'm very sorry; it's out of the question." He paused and repeated
lamely, "I'm very sorry."
Amy sighed and made a last unsuccessful attempt to move him, only
succeeding in reducing him to a state of suppressed irritation which
spoiled his work for the morning. He had meant to call in Ryder Street
before luncheon to collect his letters, but he could not trust himself
to face the appeal which he knew he would find there. It was hard enough
to do the right thing without being incited on all hands _not_ to do
it--and in the name of affection and charity!
In the afternoon an unfamiliar voice enquired for him by telephone.
"Lady Crawleigh speaking. Mr. Lane, I want you to do something for me,
if you'll be so kind. Are you engaged this evening?"
Eric could hardly believe that Barbara had gone the length of appealing
to him through her mother.
"Well, I have a man dining with me," he improvised tentatively.
"Oh, can you possibly put him off? I'll tell you why. My husband and I
have to dine out, and that means leaving Babs alone. I'm afraid she's
not a good patient, and, if you could keep her amused, she'd be less
likely to get up or do anything foolish. That's what she's threatening
at present. I feel it's very unfair to ask you to change all your
plans. . . ."
However unfair, she asked him with an assurance which shewed that she
would not take a refusal lightly. Eric smiled grimly to himself. As if
London was not full of people who would gladly spend half an hour with
Barbara! As if the Crawleighs could not have cancelled their own
engagement! It was transparent, but he smiled less at the artifice than
at the irony of his being dragged to the house against his will and
better judgement. . . .
"I'd come, if I could," he answered hesitatingly. "The trouble is that
I've invited this man for eight and I shan't be able to get away from
here till half-past seven at earliest. I'll do my best----"
"I'm depending on you, Mr. Lane."
Dinner, but no one to share it with him, had been ordered for a quarter
past eight. He telephoned at seven to say that he might be a little late
and set out for Berkeley Square. Barbara was alone when he arrived, and
he entered her room in some embarrassment. He could not imagine Sybil's
receiving male visitors in her bedroom, and he was shy to find himself
alone with Barbara and to see her lying in a blue silk kimono with the
Persian kitten asleep on a chair by her side and two tables submerged by
Madonna lilies. As he hesitated on the threshold, she smiled wistfully
and at the same time with a certain triumphant confidence in her
setting.
"I was--very sorry to hear you were ill, Babs," he said.
"I've waited for you so long! Won't you kiss me, Eric?"
He picked up the kitten, affecting not to have heard her.
"What is it? A chill? Your mother said---- No, I don't think she told me
what it was."
Restraint faltered with every hesitating word, and Barbara pushed the
kitten's cushion on to the floor.
"Sit down, darling," she begged.
"I must go in a minute," said Eric, gravely consulting his watch.
"Who have you got dining with you?" He hesitated. "Any one?"
"As a matter of fact, I've not. I lied to your mother. You see I didn't
want to meet you, Babs. I didn't want to go through that other night
again."
He was still standing; but, without noticing, he had drawn nearer to the
bed, and she pulled him gently into the chair.
"Haven't you missed me, Eric?" she whispered.
"Damnably!" His laugh was bitter. "I don't see how it's to be avoided,
though. And we only make things worse by prolonging the agony. The
infernal story's spread to Lashmar now."
Barbara's lips curled assertively.
"I'm sorry you should suffer so much by association with me. . . . If
you aren't expecting any one, will you dine with me, Eric?"
He tried to review his position in the moment allowed him before his
answer would begin to seem hesitating. Once in the house, it mattered
little whether he stayed one hour or three; but they were fools, both of
them, to contrive or assent to his being there. Firmly, if indistinctly,
he felt that she was trying to slip behind the decision of their last
meeting.
"I'll stay if you like," he said and watched her ring the bell for her
maid. "Babs, are you well enough to talk seriously? I don't want to say
good-bye, but nothing's changed. We've the choice between a public
contradiction----"
"Or a public engagement? Is that what you're afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid of it."
She sank lower in the bed, covering her eyes with her hand.
"You've never asked me to marry you," she said quietly, this time
without a taunt.
"You expressly asked me not to."
"You always--boasted that you weren't in love with me."
A hint of triumph in her voice made him wonder in fear and disgust
whether this was the way in which she had played with Jack Waring. She
was sweeping him faster than he wanted to go; but, for all his
misgivings, he could not stop.
"D'you think either of us knew what we meant to the other until these
last three days?" he asked gently. "Everything was too easy before," he
added, remembering Amy's warning.
Barbara uncovered her eyes and held her arms open to him.
"I've always loved you, Eric."
"I've been--very fond of you."
"And now you want to marry me?" she whispered, and her eyes shone with
expectation.
"D'you want me to ask you to?"
For a moment she had seemed to speak with passion, but, before he could
notice the transition, he found her only trying on passion's garments.
"No, I don't," she answered slowly. "I couldn't bear it. You _know_ I'm
not free! But do you want to give me up? You've had a good deal of me
since August and now you've had three days without me. D'you _want_ to
marry me?"
Eric felt indistinctly that he was no longer the man who had come
reluctantly to the house to do her a favour; yet he had always been able
to bring her to her knees by refusing to meet or write to her; if he put
her need of him to the test, with separation as an alternative, she must
surrender.
"Yes, I do," he answered.
Her hand went up and covered her eyes again. While he waited for her to
speak, his memory flung up, one after another, the moods of loss and
loneliness that he had undergone since the telephone grew silent and no
letter came from her. A warm wave of tenderness swept over him, as he
imagined the glory of having her youth and wit and beauty entrusted to
him.
"For God's sake, don't ask me that, Eric!" she whispered.
He looked at her in astonishment, wondering dully what she aimed to
achieve. If he insisted on asking her, she would certainly consent; but
he could not ask her against her will. Suddenly he realized that he knew
nothing of women; some, he had been told, liked to be bullied and
compelled, others were only to be won by yielding and deference.
"You don't want me to ask you that?"
"No! For God's sake, no! If anything happens, Eric--you know what I
mean--if I _can_, then ask me, please ask me! But not now! I should be
miserable and I should make you miserable! Eric, be generous!"
Her fingers were pressed deep into her cheeks, and he could see her
bosom rising and falling.